Chapter 3 #2
If Gemma is keeping food service in order, Autumn’s the mastermind behind décor and presentation—making sure there’s a photo booth in the corner and every tablecloth is draped with symmetrical creases.
“Este,” Autumn says in a warning tone, all but stomping a foot in protest.
And the earnest pitch in her voice sends me over the edge; giggles bubble out before I can stop them.
Nora still looks confused, but I raise one hand like I’m prepared to take some kind of solemn oath. “Autumn”—I’m about to promise something reassuring, like maybe I won’t even think unfriendly thoughts about Carol—when Carol suddenly materializes. I suck in a breath through my teeth.
So much for my solemn oath.
Carol’s eyes are blazing like she’s trying to set me on fire with sheer willpower. “You and I need to have a conversation.”
“Este,” Autumn whines as a vein in her forehead starts to throb.
Hoping to smooth things over quickly for Autumn’s sake, I turn to Carol with my brightest, most chipper voice. “What can I do for you, Carol?”
“After a man drove through my fence last year—”
We all turn as Nora stiffens at the mention of the first in a series of events that would leave her husband dead.
“I know you’re mad, Carol.” I wave a hand to bring her attention back to me. “But let’s not bring that into—”
“I had security cameras installed,” she huffs. “And I saw what you did. I know it was you and Polly McGinnis who vandalized my house last night.”
The idea that Carol has video proof of Polly and me tossing toilet paper rolls onto her oak tree actually stuns me silent, sinking my confidence that I could talk my way out of an accusation. I look around the crowd, panicking a little. If Ford hears this, Polly’s toast.
Carol is the biggest blabbermouth I’ve ever met—a yammerer to her very core. She makes a Facebook post every time she buys tomatoes at the farmers’ market. But somehow, she kept the security cameras to herself.
Her cheeks turn red and splotchy—something I’ve seen before when she’s experiencing a level of rage she knows the Garden Club ladies would consider “unbecoming.”
“It was you.” The volume in her voice spikes. “I know it was, and I have video footage to prove it!”
People nearby are looking. I see Beau in the crowd. He’s got a knight-in-shining-armor expression on his face, but I wave him off and take a step toward Carol, lowering my voice to a coo. “Perhaps we should find a more private place to work out this misunderstanding.”
Polly had her fun, and I’ve gotten my puff of smoke. I’m getting ready to ask Carol for her Venmo to buy out the damages when a voice rises in the crowd. “It wasn’t Este, Carol. It couldn’t have been.”
It completely was, but discovering that someone else is coming to my defense is like finding an escape hatch in the nick of time.
Tippy steps beside me. “I was driving past your house last night,” she says to Carol, “and I saw a couple of kids there with the toilet paper. Este and Polly were out for a walk, and we all yelled at the kids to go away.”
Is this détente? Or mutually assured destruction?
“Tippy,” I say to her quietly. “It’s all right. I deserve—”
“We’re friends now,” she answers. “I’ve got this.”
Apparently, my refusal to hear Tippy’s secret in the bathroom has somehow galvanized her to my cause. And if it means settling this without ruining Autumn’s party, I’ll let Tippy take the wheel.
Carol sputters, “That’s not true, I have video proof—”
“Carol, I was there.” Tippy folds her arms across her chest to make her point.
And just like that, Tippy—and the House Tequila Built—has brought down the hammer.
She has enough power in this town to rewrite history. To erase the facts of the matter. I suddenly feel a touch of guilt for underestimating her.
Carol’s shoulders are cranked up to her ears, but she’s outmatched. And she knows it.
I’m about to put an end to all of it when something catches my eye through the window—a flash of someone familiar walking past the window outside.
In the same breath, Gemma interrupts the standoff with a tray of freshly poured champagne. “Ladies, can I offer you another drink?”
Tippy lifts a flute from the tray and slinks off into the party, leaving me double-checking the spot in the window.
What was that?
Carol leans very close to my face and hisses, “This is far from over, Este Walker.”
This is the downside of my devotion to my people. Sometimes, things spiral in ways I never planned. This one spiraled so far, in fact, I might be in an alliance with Tippy Schaeffer now.
I’ll have to cut Carol a check and buy her overpriced flowers at the farmers’ market to make this right. But at least Lemon & Fig’s night is salvaged.
Exhaling, I watch Autumn’s jaw unclench, then glance at the spot where Tippy had just been, wondering if I imagined the way she swooped in.
She’s already thrown herself into a new conversation, tilting her head back and laughing with Ford.
Then, across the room, she meets my eye—for only a second—and winks.
My new friend Tippy is a sleeper cell powerhouse. Good to know.
But the flicker of a figure by the window is tugging on my thoughts. I turn toward the large front window again, searching for a reasonable explanation—then, I freeze.
Past the glow of the string lights of Marcus’s restaurant, someone is standing on the sidewalk. Too still for a passerby. The angle makes it impossible to see their face clearly, but I don’t have to. My stomach drops, overwhelmed with knowing in my gut before my brain can catch up.
I know that person.
Then the crowd shifts, and my view changes. I blink, stepping closer to the window, and the person is gone. Maybe they were never there.
“Carol’s a lot,” Gemma says from somewhere behind me. “For a while, there was a betting pool in the kitchen on how many times she would send a dish back in a given night.”
“Huh?” My thoughts stutter. I turn back and try to recover. “What was the winning bet?”
“Seven.”
I smile, though my mind’s already drifting toward the window again.
I didn’t imagine it.
The energy around me feels charged with the certainty of it.
“Este—” Gemma starts, and there’s something in her eyes that makes me wonder if she saw the figure, too.
I almost ask her—the question’s on the tip of my tongue, begging to escape. But her face changes in an instant, concern replaced with a placid smile in a blink.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She nods quickly, and we both see Beau threading through the crowd. “I’m going to go check on the kitchen.”
“Did Carol find out it was you?” Beau asks as Gemma slips through the party.
“She bought a security system,” I repeat with my attention still half-fixed on the window.
Beau smirks. “Want me to hack into her account and erase the evidence?”
“Hah,” I respond flatly. But I know my husband, and if I asked, he would. He could. Before his illustrious buyout and early retirement, Beau was known for code that made the impossible possible. Tippy’s right, he is a genius.