I haven’t asked Heath about it yet, but I kind of like the idea of it being a surprise. It feels fitting given how this whole pregnancy started.
Charlie: We haven’t decided yet.
Briar: We’ll just have to get two of everything until you do.
Briar: We’re hosting a baby shower at the ranch. Mama Julie won’t take no for an answer.
Charlie: Only if Wren can make it.
She hasn’t been back to Bluebell since Lottie was born, and that was almost seven years ago.
Briar: Yes, and bring Lottie!
Birdie: We’ll have a slumber party out in the pasture like old times.
Wren: I wish we could, but Colton’s busy with a big project at work, and I don’t want to add to his stress.
I furrow my brow, wanting to argue, but I think better of it. She’s gone radio silent on us in the past when we’ve tried to make plans for her to visit, and I don’t want to risk that again. She’s built a life in Florida with Colton, and as much as I dislike him, I have to respect her choice.
Charlie: That’s okay! We’ll FaceTime.
Wren: Lottie would love that.
I try to shake off the growing suspicion that there’s more going on with Wren than she’s willing to let on.
When I walk into Meadowbrook, Florence and Grams are in the lobby with a bucket of popcorn.
I go over to Grams and give her a hug. “Hey, Grams.”
She kisses my cheek. “Hi, sweet girl.”
“Hey, old bat,” I say, greeting Florence. “You two hosting a movie night I wasn’t invited to?”
She waves me off. “Shh, my favorite show is on.”
I glance at the TV above the fireplace, frowning at the blank black screen.
Grams taps my shoulder and points down the hall where June is standing in front of Fern’s room, rapping on it sharply with her cane.
“Open up, you backstabbing crow!” June shouts. “You’re not fooling anyone—I know he’s in there.”
I drop onto the armrest of Grams’ chair beside Florence. “Let me guess… Gary?”
Florence holds out her hand, making a grabby motion with her fingers. “You know I don’t give out gossip for free.”
I roll my eyes, rifling through my purse until I find the teardrop-shaped mother-of-pearl pin.
Grams chuckles. “You really should stop encouraging her, Charlie. Her vanity’s about to collapse under the weight of all her trinkets.”
“Nonsense. I can’t possibly have enough shiny things,” Florence counters, casually inspecting the pin by lifting it to thelight before fastening it to her blouse. “Although, if you insist on switching it up, a Birkin will do nicely.”
I let out a long breath. “You’re never going to stop obsessing over those bags, are you?”
“Not until I have got my hands on one,” she declares, patting her new pin with satisfaction.
My mind immediately begins spinning through every possible way to make that happen. Unfortunately, there’s almost no chance anyone will ever bring an Hermès bag into a vintage shop in Bluebell, Montana. Even if they did, I could never afford to keep it.
Still, I have a few contacts who handle high-end estate sales in California with access to exclusive handbags. They’re always up for trading one rare heirloom for another, so it’s worth asking around to see if I can track one down. I’d love nothing more than to make one of Florence’s dreams come true.
