“It’s not you that she sees, you ninny,” Thirteen hisses at Percy. “She’s been staring at her reflection in the glass. This peacock is insufferable.”
“I’d like to think I’m regal,” Percy corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“You’re a pompous feather duster.”
“And you’re a reanimated hairball!” Percy squawks and flaps, causing his feathers to go flying every which way.
Carlotta belts out a laugh. “The dead are so much fun. No wonder Lottie keeps collecting them like trading cards.”
Each and every one of them breaks out into a howl of laughter, and I shoot Carlotta a death glare because of it.
“Lottie!” I turn to see Suze, Lily, and Effie approaching, all three of them in full 1950s regalia and looking like they’re competing for the same very specific pageant title.
“We’re still bringing in the rest of the sweets,” Suze says, already heading for the door. “Your mom said there are five more platters?”
“Six,” I correct. “Thanks. You guys are lifesavers.”
They disappear, and Carlotta and I make our way out to the garden where my mother has transformed the already gorgeous grounds into a full-blown 1950s spectacle. Rolling green lawns stretch toward the woods, perfectly manicured and impossibly green against the crisp blue sky. White lattice arches wrapped in pastel ribbons frame the pathways. Bistro tables with checkered cloths dot the grass. A fountain in the center is surrounded bytulips and daffodils in every shade of spring. And strung across the back, near the edge of the woods, a massive banner readsHAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO ALL THE WONDERFUL DAUGHTERS OF HONEY HOLLOW!
Throngs of women are already here, decked out in full vintage regalia—poodle skirts, pearls, victory rolls, cat-eye glasses. It’s a lot.
The crowd parts just enough, and I spot my sisters immediately.
Meg stands by the fountain in her signature all black ensemble, holding baby Piper and looking like the Goth fairy godmother of vintage garden parties. Charlie is next to her in a yellow sundress, laughing at something Lainey just said. And Lainey is in pink gingham with her caramel hair curled to perfection, and they all look so happy and relaxed that I can’t help but feel a pang of pure love for them. I really do have the very best family.
“Where are all the hot men?” Carlotta barks. “I’ve got a hankering to be heavily restrained with a silk tie.”
Mostly the best family.
But my mother—Miranda Lemon— is in her element with her powder blue dress, shimmering pearls, and a sun hat that could double as a small umbrella as she flits between guests like a social butterfly who’s had three espressos and one serious vision of yesteryear.
She spots me and rushes over with her arms outstretched.
“Lottie! Carlotta! Happy Mother’s Day!” She hugs us both, and her floral perfume wraps around us like a cloud.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom,” I say, landing a kiss on her cheek.
“Happy Mama’s Day, Mirandy.” Carlotta laughs as she says it. “Though I’ll be skipping that particular title, thank you very much. Being a Cray Cray is where it’s at.”
I nod her way. “Yousaid it. Not me.”
Mom laughs. “Where are my grandbabies, anyway?” She cranes her neck past me because we all know that’s who she’s really waiting for. And my heart warms because of it.
“Everett is bringing them,” I say. “He has to wrangle three children into vintage-appropriate outfits, so he’s running a few minutes behind.”
“Oh, that man is a saint.” Mom glances around. “Well, make yourselves comfortable! There’s lemonade, iced tea, and enough banana pudding to sink a battleship!”
She’s off in a flash, already descending on another cluster of arrivals with the energy of someone who loves hosting a little too much.
“Your mother could run this town with a casserole dish and a clipboard,” Carlotta points out. “And if that woman ever decides to start a cult, I’m joining early so I can get a good seat.Front row. Right next to the Kool-Aid.”
“And I’ll be right there next to you.”
“Lottie Lemon?” I turn to see Midge Thornbury approaching, all sunshine and dimples in a butter yellow dress that makes her look like she’s been dipped in optimism and perhaps a smidge of denial.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” she chirps, holding a tray of her infamous banana pudding cups. Okay, fine. Technically mine would be the infamous variety, considering it made its way next to a corpse, but still. “I brought my famous recipe. It’s the best, of course. Eighteen-time county fair champion doesn’t lie.”
“Of course,” I say through a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Congratulations on all of your wins.”
