over the phone. “Stop right there, sister,” she said hastily. “You start crying now, your eyes are going to be all puffy tonight! Count back from ten and picture Liam Neeson with his shirt off.”
It was a trick Stella had learned long ago, when Ollie had belittled or threatened or otherwise disheartened her in a public place, back when it was a secret that he was beating the shit out of her for nearly all three decades of their marriage. Whenever she didn’t want to cry, she conjured up some far more pleasant image—the Hawaiian Islands she hoped to visit someday, a basket of her mother’s pumpkin muffins—and focused on that instead of the hurt.
In general, Stella was no longer a fan of keeping up appearances, especially when it was for the benefit of someone other than the one whose feelings were being hurt, but exceptions could be made on the eve of the happiest day of her best friend’s life.
Dotty counted backward, and by the time she got to zero, the wobble had left her voice. “Thanks, Stella. You always know the right thing to say.”
“Now just hold tight, and before you know it you’ll be sipping a champagne toast with the handsomest man in Kansas City.”
That earned Stella a giggle. “Aw, Stella, can you believe it? Before you know it, I’m going to be Mrs. Kamran Rangarajan!”
“Atta girl,” Stella said softly before hanging up, because even though her own marriage had ended in a spectacular and bloody fashion, and her own romantic affairs were tangled up like fishing line in the bottom of a wicker creel, she still, deep in her heart of hearts, believed in happy ever after.
----
When they pulled back into the resort parking lot, Stella’s pulse had stopped racing and her nerves had settled. Chrissy had resolved to ask Noelle to redo her pedicure in the morning, so she, too, was mollified.
“It’s barely five—I think we might have time for a little nip before the rehearsal dinner,” Chrissy said. “I’ll just shower and change and come on down to your suite, okay?”
“Sure, you can help me deal with Dotty.”
Stella had barely slid her key card into the slot and opened the door to her room when a burst of squawking nearly gave her a heart attack.
“It’s about time you got back here!” Novella Glazer said, from her perch at the portable banquet table that was serving as Stella’s makeshift sewing table. Her green cap rested on the end of the table next to what appeared to be the dress Stella had brought for the rehearsal dinner, lying in a mound with pins protruding from the fabric.
“What’s in these, anyway?” Shirlette Castro demanded, holding a coffee cup aloft. It was smeared with the same fuchsia lipstick that was centered more or less on Shirlette’s wrinkled lips.
“It’s nice to see you ladies, too,” Stella said, fanning herself. Lately she’d noticed that a sudden startle could tip her directly into a hot flash, which could be useful when it added to the adrenaline rush in situations that required her to react quickly. But generally that was when she was dealing with fugitive woman-smackers, not octogenarian housewives. “How on earth did y’all get in here, anyway?”
Irene Dorsey came out of the bathroom. “That was me,” she said proudly. “All my years in the sheriff’s department’s taught me how to work the system.”
“What did you do?” Stella asked. As much as she’d looked forward to coming back to a nice, quiet, empty room, and not a trio of what looked to be fairly tipsy old ladies, her professional curiosity was piqued.
Irene chortled. “I just told the fella down there I saw smoke coming out the door. He was so all-fired quick to get in here and look around, he wasn’t keeping an eye on me. And you left your extra key right out on the TV stand, Stella.” She held it up between red-lacquered fingertips.
“Imagine that,” Stella said drily. “I suppose I won’t have you arrested, just this once.”
“Well, I
It was a trick Stella had learned long ago, when Ollie had belittled or threatened or otherwise disheartened her in a public place, back when it was a secret that he was beating the shit out of her for nearly all three decades of their marriage. Whenever she didn’t want to cry, she conjured up some far more pleasant image—the Hawaiian Islands she hoped to visit someday, a basket of her mother’s pumpkin muffins—and focused on that instead of the hurt.
In general, Stella was no longer a fan of keeping up appearances, especially when it was for the benefit of someone other than the one whose feelings were being hurt, but exceptions could be made on the eve of the happiest day of her best friend’s life.
Dotty counted backward, and by the time she got to zero, the wobble had left her voice. “Thanks, Stella. You always know the right thing to say.”
“Now just hold tight, and before you know it you’ll be sipping a champagne toast with the handsomest man in Kansas City.”
That earned Stella a giggle. “Aw, Stella, can you believe it? Before you know it, I’m going to be Mrs. Kamran Rangarajan!”
“Atta girl,” Stella said softly before hanging up, because even though her own marriage had ended in a spectacular and bloody fashion, and her own romantic affairs were tangled up like fishing line in the bottom of a wicker creel, she still, deep in her heart of hearts, believed in happy ever after.
----
When they pulled back into the resort parking lot, Stella’s pulse had stopped racing and her nerves had settled. Chrissy had resolved to ask Noelle to redo her pedicure in the morning, so she, too, was mollified.
“It’s barely five—I think we might have time for a little nip before the rehearsal dinner,” Chrissy said. “I’ll just shower and change and come on down to your suite, okay?”
“Sure, you can help me deal with Dotty.”
Stella had barely slid her key card into the slot and opened the door to her room when a burst of squawking nearly gave her a heart attack.
“It’s about time you got back here!” Novella Glazer said, from her perch at the portable banquet table that was serving as Stella’s makeshift sewing table. Her green cap rested on the end of the table next to what appeared to be the dress Stella had brought for the rehearsal dinner, lying in a mound with pins protruding from the fabric.
“What’s in these, anyway?” Shirlette Castro demanded, holding a coffee cup aloft. It was smeared with the same fuchsia lipstick that was centered more or less on Shirlette’s wrinkled lips.
“It’s nice to see you ladies, too,” Stella said, fanning herself. Lately she’d noticed that a sudden startle could tip her directly into a hot flash, which could be useful when it added to the adrenaline rush in situations that required her to react quickly. But generally that was when she was dealing with fugitive woman-smackers, not octogenarian housewives. “How on earth did y’all get in here, anyway?”
Irene Dorsey came out of the bathroom. “That was me,” she said proudly. “All my years in the sheriff’s department’s taught me how to work the system.”
“What did you do?” Stella asked. As much as she’d looked forward to coming back to a nice, quiet, empty room, and not a trio of what looked to be fairly tipsy old ladies, her professional curiosity was piqued.
Irene chortled. “I just told the fella down there I saw smoke coming out the door. He was so all-fired quick to get in here and look around, he wasn’t keeping an eye on me. And you left your extra key right out on the TV stand, Stella.” She held it up between red-lacquered fingertips.
“Imagine that,” Stella said drily. “I suppose I won’t have you arrested, just this once.”
“Well, I
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