Suze and Francine elbow their way to the front, both of them looking like they’re about to compete in gladiatorial combat instead of waiting for an award announcement.
“As you all know,” Mom continues as her eyes glitter out at the crowd, “we’ve spent this week celebrating our heritage, our traditions, and our commitment to this wonderful organization. And while it’s been a difficult week, losing our dear Vivienne, we’ve also seen the very best of what the Daughters represent. Community. Resilience. And truly exceptional homemaking skills.”
A ripple of laughter and light applause moves through the crowd.
“The Golden Whisk Award,” Mom says, pausing for effect because my mother understands drama, “goes to the Daughter who has shown the most dedication to our mission this week. Someone who has embraced the spirit of the 1950s with grace, creativity, and unwavering commitment. Someone who has demonstrated that the values we cherish—hospitality, craftsmanship, and service—are alive and well in Honey Hollow.”
Suze is wound tighter than a kitchen timer. I’m pretty sure if someone touched her right now, she’d detonate.
Francine looks like she’s holding her breath. Her face is red. Her hands are clenched. Her massive bun is wobbling precariously.And she looks like a teakettle that’s been left on the burner too long.
“And the winner is...” Mom draws it out like she’s announcing the winner of a beauty pageant. “Suze Fox!”
The garden erupts in applause and cheers.
Suze gasps so loud I hear it from twenty feet away. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Yes! Finally, all that time I spent at the thrift store has paid off!”
She rushes forward to accept the Golden Whisk from Mom, along with the gift certificate to the Country Pantry, and then the tears start. Not the polite kind either—full-onboo-hooing, and I’m pretty sure they’re happy tears. She clutches that whisk to her chest like someone just handed her the key to the kingdom.
Francine, however, looks absolutely crestfallen.
Her face crumples, her shoulders sag, and then her hands fly to her massive bun, yanking out bobby pins with increasing desperation like the hairdo itself is personally responsible for her loss.
The bun unravels, and well, so does Francine.
Gray-streaked hair tumbles down in a long, wild cascade that reaches nearly to her waist, unfurling like a silver waterfall that just escaped from captivity.
It’s actually kind of beautiful in a Rapunzel-meets-prairie-woman way—or a silver slithering snake ready to unleash its fury on the general public.
“Seventeen children,” someone mutters nearby. “And she still has time to grow hair to her knees. How does she even manage getting anything done?”
“She doesn’t,” someone else snickers. “That’s why her hair hasn’t been cut in the last three decades.”
Suze stands at the podium, holding the Golden Whisk with that goofy grin still plastered to her face. She looks out at the crowd, then at the whisk, then at Francine, who’s standing there with her hair everywhere and her face doing that thing where you’re trying not to cry in public but failing miserably.
Suze gives a heavy sigh.
And I know that sigh. It’s the sigh of a woman who’s about to do something kind even though it’s going to cost her everything.
“You know what?” Suze says into the microphone. “I’d like to give this award to a real winner. Francine Dundee!”
The crowd gasps. So do I. So does basically everyone except Carlotta, who just frowns as if she saw this coming.
Francine’s head snaps up, her hair still half-pinned, half-wild, looking as if she can’t decide if she’s a 1950s housewife or a woodland witch.
“Francine has seventeen children,” Suze continues, her voice steady and warm. “And thirty-two grandchildren.”
“That’s a lot of little yippers,” Carlotta adds, and I shush her.
“And,” Suze continues, “she makes the old woman who lived in a shoe look like an amateur with a studio apartment.” The crowd breaks out into gentle laughter. “She cooks, she cleans, she homeschools, she runs a business with her husband, and she still found time to compete in every single event this week.” She walks over to Francine and holds out the Golden Whisk. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Francine stares at it for a moment with awe and wonder before tearing up as she looks at Suze.
Francine Dundee bursts into tears and hugs Suze so hard they both nearly topple over in a tangle of vintage dresses and emotions.
The crowd erupts in applause again, louder this time, and I’m pretty sure half of them are crying, too.
Carlotta nudges me. “Well, that was unexpectedly wholesome and boring. I didn’t see that coming.”
