She’s dressed in a charcoal pencil skirt and white blouse, sensible heels, and an expression that says she’s already regretting letting us through the door.
Naomi used to be my self-proclaimed nemesis in high school, mostly because she wanted to sleep with myboyfriend, Bear—along with a whole gaggle of other girls he cheated on me with. But for reasons I don’t care to ponder, Bear wouldn’t have her. And good thing, too, because all these years later, Bear ended up marrying Keelie. It would have been more than a little weird for Keelie to even think of dating Bear, knowing he’d slept with her sister, let alone marrying him.
So in a way, Bear’s rejection of Naomi saved everyone a lot of awkward family dinners.
“Lottie. Aunt Carlotta.” Naomi’s voice is flat. Her face isn’t all that warm and inviting either. “I was hoping you wouldn’t show up.”
“And yet here we are,” Carlotta chirps. “Like a rash that just won’t quit.”
Naomi’s eye twitches. “As the manager here at the manor, I’m responsible for making sure nothing gets destroyed, stolen, or set on fire.” She looks directly at Carlotta. “Last time you were here, you cost us a chandelier.”
“That was an accident,” Carlotta protests.
“You were dancing on a table,” Naomi says flatly.
“The table was very sturdy,” Carlotta insists.
“Until you used the chandelier for support,” Naomi counters.
“The chandelier was decorative!”
“The chandelier was a thousand dollars.”
I nod because not only do I remember it, I footed the bill.
“We’re just here to deliver cookies and enjoy the sock hop,” I’m quick to interject. “No table dancing. No chandelier incidents. Scout’s honor.” You can bet your bottom dollar I’m crossing my fingers behind the stroller.
Naomi looks at me like I’ve just promised to sprout wings and fly. “You were never a scout.”
“I wanted to be.” I tip my head, never taking my eyes off the woman.
She sighs, steps aside, and gestures us into the lounge with theenthusiasm of someone directing traffic at a funeral. “Behave. Both of you. Or I’m calling security.”
“You have security?” Carlotta asks.
“For you? I’ll hire some.”
We push the stroller past her into the grand ballroom, and honestly, the Daughters of Honey Hollow have really outdone themselves.
The room is massive—high ceilings with exposed wooden beams, a polished parquet floor that gleams under the lights, and floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall that overlook the manor’s manicured gardens. Normally, this space hosts fancy weddings and Christmas galas with ice sculptures and string quartets, but today it’s been transformed into a 1950s party that looks like someone raided every vintage store in Vermont.
A banner stretches across the back wall in looping pastel letters—DAUGHTERS OF HONEY HOLLOW SOCK HOP SOCIAL—LET’S TWIST AGAIN!
Streamers in pink, mint green, and pale yellow drape from the ceiling like ribbons of cotton candy. Balloons cluster in the corners in shades of pink, mint green, and baby blue.Small café tables are scattered around the perimeter, each one covered with a checkered tablecloth and topped with a glass bottle holding a single pink carnation.
And in the center of the room? A vintage soda fountain.
An actual, bona fide soda fountain, complete with chrome stools, a marble counter, and a woman in a paper hat dispensing ice cream floats like it’s 1955 and the world hasn’t invented lactose intolerance yet.
The music is loud, upbeat, and aggressively nostalgic. “Rock Around the Clock” fades into “Great Balls of Fire,” and the dance floor is already packed with women in poodle skirts and saddle shoes, spinning and laughing and moving with an energy that suggests they’ve had way too much sugar. Thatwould be my fault.
“I don’t know, Lot,” Carlotta grunts, taking it all in. “Something about this many smiling women feels dangerous.”
“Give it five minutes. You’ll fix that.”
Mom appears out of nowhere, resplendent in a lavender circle skirt and matching cardigan, pearls gleaming at her throat. She’s got her hair teased into a bouffant that defies physics and gravity in equal measure.
“Lottie! Carlotta! You made it!” She swoops in and hijacks the stroller before I can protest. “Oh, let me take these precious angels and parade them around. Lucy’s been pestering me for baby content all week, and Margaret’s convinced Corbin is her dead husband reincarnated.”
