I look up at Noah. “Evie’s coming home on Mother’s Day. She wants it to be a surprise for Lemon.”
“Lottie is going to lose it,” Noah says. “In the best way.”
“Completely.” I stand and give Toby another quick scratch. “Let me know what you find out about the limp. I’ve got court at eleven, but I’ll check in this afternoon.”
“Will do.” Noah waves as he begins speaking to someone on the other line.
I head for the door, feeling like, for the first time in days, we’re actually getting somewhere.
Those punks made a mistake.
And we’re about to make them pay for it.
LOTTIE
Sunday finally arrives with the kind of perfect spring weather that makes you believe in fresh starts and new beginnings—clear blue skies, birds singing their hearts out, sunshine warming every corner of Honey Hollow as if the world just woke up from a long winter’s nap.
Mother’s Day is finally here.
We finished church an hour ago—Lyla Nell only attempted a hostile takeover of Sunday school twice, which I’m calling a victory—and now I’m home doing another quick change into yet another vintage outfit Mom dropped off with detailed instructions and a passive-aggressive note about honoring the era.
This time it’s a red and white polka-dotted dress with a full skirt, cinched waist, and matching red kitten heels that are already making my feet wonder if they’ll live to see tomorrow. And the pièce de résistance? A red pillbox hat perched on my head like a tiny UFO that’s decided to make my skull its landing pad.
I look like I stepped out of a vintage airline ad. Or possibly a soap commercial. Hard to say.
But it’s Mother’s Day, and if my mother wants me dressed likeJune Cleaver’s fun cousin, then that’s what she’s getting. And speaking of my mother, it’s her big day to host the grand finale event for the Daughters of Honey Hollow’s weeklong celebration right there at her happily haunted B&B.
Which is why Carlotta and I are currently in the bakery van, freshly vandalized and rather poorly repaired, heading to my mother’s happily haunted bed and breakfast with enough banana pudding cups, lemon bars, and pastries to feed half of Vermont.
Or, more accurately, the Daughters of Honey Hollow.
Everett and Noah will be heading to the B&B with the kids in about an hour, and I would have gone with them if I didn’t have a delivery to make as well.
“I still can’t believe Foxy thought he could just paint over it,” Carlotta says, leaning forward to examine the side of the van through the passenger window. “You can still seeSNITCHES GET STITCHESclear as day under that spray paint.”
“Noah did his best,” I say defensively. “It’s not his fault those kids used industrial-grade paint.”
“Industrial-grade spite, more like.” She settles back in her seat, tugging at her turquoise dress. It’s so tight and fitted, I’m not sure how she’s breathing, let alone sitting. It’s pretty much vacuum-sealed to her body.“Sexy made an appointment with the body shop, right?”
“Next week. Until then, we’re rolling around Honey Hollow advertising our status as narcs.”
“Snitches,” she corrects.
“Same difference.”
My mother’s B&B looms ahead, and even after all these years, the sight of it still takes my breath away.
The enormous white structure was once a colonial-era mansion that belonged to a wealthy earl who decided he’d rather be a Yankee than deal with British taxes. It’s got serious haunted mansion vibes with its white pillars stretching toward the sky like they’re trying to escape themiles of ornate ironwork scrolling around endless balconies, and there is enough architectural drama to qualify for a period film.
It’s beautiful. It’s haunted. It’s home to at least four ghosts I know of and maybe a dozen I don’t.
My mother wouldn’t have it any other way.
I park the van near the side entrance, and Carlotta and I haul out the first load of pastry boxes.
“You know,” Carlotta says as we navigate the walkway, “if those Pickens brats wanted to really get under your skin, they should’ve spray-painted something more creative. LikeLOTTIE LEMON MAKES MEDIOCRE SCONES.”
“My scones are not mediocre.”
