Even if living with it sometimes means nodding like everything is perfectly normal and refusing to elaborate on the human remains in your possession.
Happy Mother’s Day to me.
And for the record, since someone is bound to ask eventually—Midge Thornbury’s legendary banana pudding secret turned out to be exactly what she whispered to me in the woods.
Banana extract.
One tiny teaspoon.
And for the golden glow? Two teaspoons of pumpkin purée.
Eighteen county fair ribbons over a bottle of flavoring and a gourd.
Honestly? I respect the audacity.
LOTTIE
Peace at last!
It’s just a few hours later—Mother’s Day is winding down in that soft, golden way where the sun has finally set, and the sky is doing that deep twilight thing that makes everything look lavender and pink and most of all peaceful—even when it’s not.
I’m curled up on the couch in our living room, surrounded by the kind of domestic chaos that somehow feels like home. The twins are upstairs asleep—finally,mercifully, blessedly asleep after a day of being passed around like adorable footballs at the garden party. Lyla Nell is down here with Evie, and I can hear them giggling in the playroom, probably making some craft project that will involve glitter I’ll be finding in my hair for the next three weeks. Here’s hoping human remains aren’t inadvertently involved this time.
The house smells like the leftover pizza we ordered for dinner, pepperoni and extra cheese, because after the day I’ve had, I deserve all the carbs, and there’s a faint hint of the garlic sauce from the ten boxes of Wicked Wok Everett picked up for us as well.
I stretch out as Pancake and Waffles curl up on either side of me, and they feel like white cotton candy clouds of heaven.
“Come here, my cute, fluffy boys,” I say, scooping them both up and landing a kiss on their tiny pink noses.
“Hear that?” Carlotta quips. “She’s calling you, Foxy and Sexy. Lot Lot is ready to dole out the smooches with her favorite pooches.”
I shoot her a look.
“And if you whine enough, she’ll whip out a boob for each of you just to keep you quiet. I’ve seen her do it all week.”
Noah and Everett are on the other side of the room, heads together, whispering like they’re planning a heist or possibly just trying to decide who has to change the next diaper. And if my boobs have lost their superpowers to entice them, then something is most certainly going on.
I narrow my eyes. “What’s happening over there?”
They both look up with identical expressions of manufactured innocence that immediately make me suspicious.
“Nothing,” Noah says.
“Absolutely nothing,” Everett agrees.
“You are both terrible liars.”
Noah sighs. “We want to take a walk down to the Pickens’ block. Ask a few more neighbors if we can look at their security cameras. See if we can get anything else on that limp.”
“The tall kid with the distinctive gait,” Everett adds. “If we can get more footage, we can make a stronger case.”
I look at them—my two so-called husbands, still dressed in their Sunday best, determined to solve the Case of the Teenage Vandals even though we literally just solved a double homicide this afternoon.
Truly, justice waits for no one.
“I think it’s a perfect night for a walk,” I say.
They both offer amicable smiles my way—even Everett, which makes me twiceas suspicious.
