But Nora went from outcast to urban legend with the slamming of a jail cell door. And now, the country club moms, who were once her harshest critics, practically genuflect when she enters a room. She has everything they admire: youth, beauty, money, and a sensational backstory.
Tippy had to stow her grievances, knowing better than to punch above her weight class.
As if she is keeping her eyes out for me, too, Nora’s gaze sweeps the room, and when she spots me, she pantomimes to Tippy that her champagne flute is empty before maneuvering through the crowd to join me, relieved.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Nora says.
I give her a quick hug and say, “I was in the back placing my bets.”
“You maintain, like, an hourly scheme rate. You know this, right?” Nora snickers.
Before I can respond, someone passes by, flattering us both with compliments. We smile—Nora more earnestly than I—and then turn back to each other.
“I’m trying to see how far I have to go before they realize I don’twantthe pedestal they’ve put us on,” I tell her. “I’m very ready to abdicate and return to being an outcast.”
“Oh fuck off.” She smiles. “Isn’t it nice to be off everyone’s hit list for once?”
“I don’t know. It’s a lot of smiling and waving. What if we get carpal tunnel?” I lift her wrist dramatically. “Don’t you need these things to be in working order to paint?”
Nora giggles.
“Speaking of which, how was your thing?” I ask, remembering that the reason I went to yoga alone last night was because Nora attended a visiting artist’s lecture at Rollins.
“It was good. And the twelve texts you sent gossiping about our yoga class were not at all distracting,” she jokes.
“Sorry. But the Stanley cup at the mat next to mine definitely smelled like vodka.”
Nora laughs. “Did you try it to confirm?”
“Ew. Germs. No.” I wince. “But it’s probably for the best that you weren’t there. I definitely would have made you try it.”
“Oh, darn,” she says with a flat intonation that makes it clear she’s not at all sad to learn she missed out on blind taste-testing someone else’s spiked sports drink. “I’m going to grab another glass of champagne. Come with?”
I nod, but I hang back a second longer, watching the way the room seems to shift in response to Nora as she heads toward the bar. A year ago, her biggest fear was that everyone assumed she was an interloper among them. Now, she has an air of untouchable confidence, drawing looks of admiration as she floats through the crowd. I’m on strict orders not to wolf-whistle when she pulls this off, but I’m so proud of her I want to.
As I’m about to catch up to Nora, Carol Parker steps into view.
Her eyes find mine. Her nostrils flare. That puff of smoke I wanted? It’s coming out of her ears.
Oh, Christ. She knows it was me.
Chapter 3
Carol beelines for me, jaw tight, eyes locked in like a heat-seeking missile. It’s hard to take her seriously, though, when she’s got a canapé and a glass of chardonnay balanced in one hand like she’s storming the beaches of some cocktail party.
Honestly, this would have been my idea of fun, before that 310 number left me feeling slightly anemic.
“I need to speak with you,” Carol says and bites into her appetizer.
I tilt my head, widening my eyes to feign innocence.
Me? Whatever about?
But Carol isn’t buying it. The heat in her cheeks is radiating righteous fury.
I start looking for a misdirect—a bit of cat and mouse to tug a little more at the seams of her composure. Not to mention give myself a second to pull my defenses together.
The bathroom will do nicely.
