going to make that jerk Blaine see that I’m just fine without him.
And now, from the way he’s checking me out from the pavilion, I can tell I have accomplished that goal. Thank you, Natalie, thank you, pink shorts .
* * *
“Testing, testing, one—two—three, can y’all hear me?” Mona Owens taps the microphone with her ridiculously long nails.
“What do you know about her?” Ivy asks, eyeing Mona’s outfit that is way too tight, but does match our theme. Have to give her credit for that.
“Not much, other than that she works at Chuck’s on Friday nights.” Oh, and her daughter hates me. Can’t forget that part, especially with Sabrina glaring at me. What is her problem? Blaine dumped me and then gave me that oh so sweet birthday present by starting to date her. She won , although he’s hardly a prize, so if anything, I have the right to be angry.
Ivy scratches her forehead. “Chuck Lambert? Hmm, working for that walking hormone isn’t a credible reference. Want to split some Skittles? I have the feeling we’re going to need some comfort junk food.”
Ivy leaves before waiting for my answer because—duh—of course I want Skittles. Victoria Swain passes her on the lodge porch wearing a prim black sheath dress instead of the standard campground uniform of shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops. Okay, why, exactly, is Mrs. Swain camping here if she has no intentions of, well, camping ? I’ve never seen her enjoy the pool or any activities, and Dr. Swain’s only form of socializing is stopping by the lodge for the Wi-Fi code Mom changes twice a week.
Mrs. Swain sees me and waves, tiptoeing gingerly toward me so her heels won’t sink in the grass. “Hello, Dee! My, you look very attractive tonight. Special occasion?”
Oh, man, maybe I am too gussied.
Mrs. Swain fingers the sleeve of my shirt with a wistful sigh. “I wish Roxanne would dress like this instead of wearing those horrible clothes she gets at Goodwill—Lord knows who’s worn them before her. I keep asking her to go to the mall with me so we can begin collecting her summer wardrobe, but she always says no.”
Yeah, shocker. Can’t say I blame her, though.
Mrs. Swain looks at her diamond-trimmed watch. “Drat, I’m late for our hospital charity event. But thank you, Dee, for showing Roxanne the ropes today.”
“Sure, no problem. And hey … can I get you an activities schedule? We have tons of fun things to do here that you might enjoy. Like karaoke, maybe?”
This is a shot in the dark, seeing as how Mrs. Swain doesn’t seem to be the karaoke type. But to my surprise, she sadly gazes at the pavilion where Mona is fussing with speaker wires. “Well, no, Martin doesn’t sing. Besides, he’s at the hospital every day, so I’m stuck with all the work for our new house, and Roxanne isn’t very interested in spending time with—” She falters as though she’s said too much, and then digs out car keys from her beaded handbag. “But thank you, Dee. It does look like fun.”
Okay, another shocker.
Mrs. Swain walks away before I can reply and is halfway to her Lexus by the time Ivy returns with the Skittles. Ivy nods her head toward the pavilion, where Mona is standing center stage again. “Well, looks like it’s showtime.”
Mona takes the mike off the stand.
Good Lord, are her shirt’s top two buttons now undone? Yes, they are. She struts to the front of the crowd, her arms spread wide as she shouts, “Can y’all hear me?”
Oh my gosh. Did Ivy mean showtime … or showgirl?
A feeling of dread washes over me. Men gawk. Two little boys stop arguing over a cherry Coke long enough to stare at her mile-long cleavage. The Cutson brothers’ father, Frank, holds up a Budweiser and hollers out, “We hear ya!”
“All right then, handsome!” Mona gives Frank a wink, despite the fact that his very tough—like, motorcycle-tough—wife, Tamara, is sitting beside him. Mona poses like Marilyn Monroe welcoming
And now, from the way he’s checking me out from the pavilion, I can tell I have accomplished that goal. Thank you, Natalie, thank you, pink shorts .
* * *
“Testing, testing, one—two—three, can y’all hear me?” Mona Owens taps the microphone with her ridiculously long nails.
“What do you know about her?” Ivy asks, eyeing Mona’s outfit that is way too tight, but does match our theme. Have to give her credit for that.
“Not much, other than that she works at Chuck’s on Friday nights.” Oh, and her daughter hates me. Can’t forget that part, especially with Sabrina glaring at me. What is her problem? Blaine dumped me and then gave me that oh so sweet birthday present by starting to date her. She won , although he’s hardly a prize, so if anything, I have the right to be angry.
Ivy scratches her forehead. “Chuck Lambert? Hmm, working for that walking hormone isn’t a credible reference. Want to split some Skittles? I have the feeling we’re going to need some comfort junk food.”
Ivy leaves before waiting for my answer because—duh—of course I want Skittles. Victoria Swain passes her on the lodge porch wearing a prim black sheath dress instead of the standard campground uniform of shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops. Okay, why, exactly, is Mrs. Swain camping here if she has no intentions of, well, camping ? I’ve never seen her enjoy the pool or any activities, and Dr. Swain’s only form of socializing is stopping by the lodge for the Wi-Fi code Mom changes twice a week.
Mrs. Swain sees me and waves, tiptoeing gingerly toward me so her heels won’t sink in the grass. “Hello, Dee! My, you look very attractive tonight. Special occasion?”
Oh, man, maybe I am too gussied.
Mrs. Swain fingers the sleeve of my shirt with a wistful sigh. “I wish Roxanne would dress like this instead of wearing those horrible clothes she gets at Goodwill—Lord knows who’s worn them before her. I keep asking her to go to the mall with me so we can begin collecting her summer wardrobe, but she always says no.”
Yeah, shocker. Can’t say I blame her, though.
Mrs. Swain looks at her diamond-trimmed watch. “Drat, I’m late for our hospital charity event. But thank you, Dee, for showing Roxanne the ropes today.”
“Sure, no problem. And hey … can I get you an activities schedule? We have tons of fun things to do here that you might enjoy. Like karaoke, maybe?”
This is a shot in the dark, seeing as how Mrs. Swain doesn’t seem to be the karaoke type. But to my surprise, she sadly gazes at the pavilion where Mona is fussing with speaker wires. “Well, no, Martin doesn’t sing. Besides, he’s at the hospital every day, so I’m stuck with all the work for our new house, and Roxanne isn’t very interested in spending time with—” She falters as though she’s said too much, and then digs out car keys from her beaded handbag. “But thank you, Dee. It does look like fun.”
Okay, another shocker.
Mrs. Swain walks away before I can reply and is halfway to her Lexus by the time Ivy returns with the Skittles. Ivy nods her head toward the pavilion, where Mona is standing center stage again. “Well, looks like it’s showtime.”
Mona takes the mike off the stand.
Good Lord, are her shirt’s top two buttons now undone? Yes, they are. She struts to the front of the crowd, her arms spread wide as she shouts, “Can y’all hear me?”
Oh my gosh. Did Ivy mean showtime … or showgirl?
A feeling of dread washes over me. Men gawk. Two little boys stop arguing over a cherry Coke long enough to stare at her mile-long cleavage. The Cutson brothers’ father, Frank, holds up a Budweiser and hollers out, “We hear ya!”
“All right then, handsome!” Mona gives Frank a wink, despite the fact that his very tough—like, motorcycle-tough—wife, Tamara, is sitting beside him. Mona poses like Marilyn Monroe welcoming
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