The chatter from the women grows in volume as we make our way to the party.
“Remember, Carlotta, we’re supposed to pretend our cell phones don’t exist this week.” Or at least while we’re at these shindigs. There’s no way anyone is going to pry Candy Blitz from my hands. I’m a mother now and I’ll take my me time where I can get it. Besides, I have both a score and a level to maintain. Not to mention my sanity.
Carlotta chuffs at the thought. “Do you know how many dating app matches I’m missing right now?”
“You’re exclusive with Mayor Nash,” I’m quick to remind her. Not that she seems capable of remembering. Much to my surprise, a few years back, I learned that Mayor Nash was my biological father. Honestly, it still surprises me to this day.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she grouses. “Scary Harry is my main man. Rub it in, why don’t you?”
“Very funny.” I avert my eyes at the thought. “You turned your phone off, right? Mom said no breaking character.”
“Defineoff.”
“Carlotta.”
“Fine, fine. It’s on silent in my bra. Which technically counts as off since no one can hear it but me and the girls.”
“Well, have the girls take your calls while we’re here. I’d like to not get kicked out of an event for once, simply because I brought you along.”
“And ruinmy track record?”
She’s not wrong. It sort of would.
“You know,” I say, navigating around a decorative peacock-shaped paving stone, “Mom’s been planning this week for months. If anything goes wrong?—”
“Nothing’s going wrong. Look at this crowd. Your mom is a genius.” Carlotta stops short and gasps. “Check it out, Lot. That hot Adonis over there is giving me the eye.” She nods in earnest at a statue of some Greek god positioned near the reflecting pool.
“Carlotta, that’s a statue.”
“And, what’s your point?” She squints at him approvingly. “He’s got excellent bone structure. I’ve dated worse.”
I don’t doubt it.
We start up the path toward the party, and I’m so busy marveling at the sheer audacity of wealth on display that I don’t notice the peacock-shaped paving stone where one tail feather is sticking up higher than the rest—right up until my saddle shoe snags on it.
I lurch forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on roller skates, and my banana pudding tilts dangerously toward catastrophe.
Carlotta grabs my elbow, which somehow makes everything worse, and for one heart-stopping moment, I envision my entire contribution to this event splattered across Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke’s immaculate stonework.
But thankfully, my maternal reflexes are bordering on a superpower. I overcorrect with a twist that my chiropractor will hear about later, and the pudding survives.
Barely.
“Nice save, Lot.” Carlotta grins. “You’ve got impressive grip strength. I’d make a joke, but your husbands are probably within earshot.”
I shoot her a look for implying I have two. “They’re not here yet.”
Okay, fine. I sort of do.
Carlotta shrugs. “Then I’ll save that joke for when theyarewithin earshot. It’s more fun that way.”
We continue up the path, and that’s when I see it—the buffet table.
It stretches across the garden like a monument to 1950s culinary ambition, laden with towering Jell-O molds in colors that don’t exist in nature, casseroles labeled in perfect cursive, cheese balls in various sizes and shades of orange, and an ambrosia salad so aggressively pastel I feel personally challenged as a baker.
And there, dead center, surrounded by fresh flowers like a religious artifact awaiting worship, is Midge Thornbury’s legendary banana pudding.
It’s glowing. I swear it’s actually glowing.
