The Pemberton-Clarke garden smells like fresh cut grass, competing perfumes, and enough hairspray to qualify as a fire hazard.
Spring sunshine pours over the Daughters of Honey Hollow’s 1950s Reenactment Extravaganza like warm butter, and somewhere nearby, Frank Sinatra croons from hidden speakers while dozens of women in poodle skirts gossip behind punch glasses and questionable-looking Jell-O molds.
It’s picturesque, it’s nostalgic, and it’s about to become a crime scene—if the ghost of that peacock is any indication.
“Backup denied.” Noah shoves his phone into his pocket as his jaw tightens. “Apparently, I can’t get officers dispatched for a bunch of women pretending they time-traveled to a better decade.”
His dark hair catches the light with the tips glinting red like they always do in the sun, and even when he’s frustrated, those dimples of his are deep enough to dive into. Noah’s lawn green eyes scan the crowd as only a detective can.
Noah and I are complicated. We were serious until it took a turn for the worse, but that didn’t change the fact we have LylaNell, our sweet two-year-old baby girl. Both Noah and I still have a lot of love for one another. Some might say he has a tad bit more for me, perhaps bordering on obsessive, but I find it endearing. Everett, however, has been moved to draft a restraining order once or twice.
“Lemon.” Everett’s voice is low and serious with all that protective alpha-male energy radiating off him in waves. His dark hair is perfectly in place, his cobalt blue eyes glow with something that borders on rage, and he happens to have a body that could stop a bulletandany woman’s beating heart at the same time. He moves with the authority of a man who sentences criminals for a living and looks unfairly good doing it. Everett, as in Judge Essex Everett Baxter, just so happens to be my sexy husband extraordinaire. “I don’t like this—” he growls. “The kids are here. If there’s a killer?—”
“The kids are fine,” I assure him, pointing toward the refreshment area. “Look. The twins are in their stroller with Mom, and Lyla Nell is with her cousins.”
Sure enough, our sweet baby boys, Essex Everett Baxter and Corbin Noah Baxter, are tucked into their double stroller like two cherubic loaves of bread. Bread that rises at all hours and refuses to sleep.
I then gesture to where my sisters, Lainey and Meg, are standing, both of them wrangling a small army of children while my best friend, Keelie, attempts to prevent her own offspring from scaling a peacock topiary.
Everett’s expression doesn’t soften. “I still don’t like children being present with a potential killer on the loose.”
“Relax, Sexy.” Carlotta pats his arm with the confidence of a woman who has never relaxed a day in her life. “If there’s a killer here, at least they’ve got their wardrobe choices working against them. It’s very hard to commit murder in a girdle—trust me, I’ve tried.”
Everett growls, but before I can intervene, a sharp tap on a microphone cuts through the garden chatter.
“Attention, everyone! Attention, please!”
Mom stands on the small platform near the pergola, beaming at the crowd like she’s about to announce the second coming of casseroles. Her vanilla-colored curls bounce around her shoulders in perfectly set waves that likely required two cans of hairspray and a firm belief in mid-century beauty standards.
She’s in full makeup with ruby lips, winged eyeliner, rosy cheeks, and a mint-green fit-and-flare dress dotted with tiny white daisies. An elegant strand of pearls circles her neck. And she looks like she stepped straight off the cover ofGood Housekeeping, circa 1955.
Come to think of it, there’s not a woman here who’s not wearing a strand of glorious pearls. Somewhere, an entire coastline of oysters is shuddering.
“Welcome, welcome to the Daughters of Honey Hollow Spring Soirée and Mother’s Day Kickoff Celebration!” She spreads her arms wide, and her dress swishes with the gesture. “I am so thrilled to see all of you here today, dressed to the nines and ready to honor the traditions our founding mothers established over seventy years ago.”
Polite applause ripples through the crowd.
“And a very special thank-you to our gracious hostess, Vivi—Vivienne Cordelia Pemberton-Clarke, for opening her stunning home and gardens to us today!”
The applause swells as all eyes turn to Vivienne,Vivi, who waves a diamond-encrusted hand with the modesty of someone who absolutely expects to be celebrated.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Vivi says, her voice carrying effortlessly across the lawn. “As long as all this foot traffic doesn’t wear out my Persian rugs, I don’t mind in the slightest.”
The crowd titters with laughter—the polite,obligatory kind you give to the woman whose home you’re currently occupying and whose Persian rugs you might be decimating.
Mom continues, undeterred, “As you all know, this week marks a very special celebration. Each day, we’ll be honoring the spirit of the 1950s with themed events—the Casserole Competition, the Pin-Curl Pageant, the Sock Hop Social, the Jell-O Jubilee, culminating in our grand Mother’s Day Founders’ Tribute Brunch, which I will have the honor of hosting at my own establishment, the Honey Hollow Bed and Breakfast!”
Another wave of applause, louder this time. Mom is practically glowing.
She pauses dramatically. “And now, I'm thrilled to introduce our very special guests for this week’s festivities!”
On cue, real live peacocks suddenly strut onto the grounds—males and females, some of which have fanned out their plumage in an elaborate effort to show off. The iridescent blues and greens shimmer in the sunlight, and the crowd erupts in more than a handful ofoohsandahhs.
For a second, I think maybe—just maybe—the peacock I saw earlier wasn’t a ghost at all.
But I know better.
Because in Honey Hollow, if I see an animal that looks vaguely transparent and slightly judgmental, it’s never just a peacock.
