Chapter 31
Frankie adjusted the hem of her wide-legged linen pants and caught her reflection in the darkened window. Tonight’s wig, a bouncy, soft-curl brunette bob with just enough side swoop to say approachable yet mysterious, had been christened Harmony. Harmony suited her friendship mission.
Marcus hadn’t surfaced when she came downstairs that morning. She took it as confirmation that her vibrator had delivered the kind of ego death no amount of coffee could revive.
She’d meant last night’s vibrator retrieval as a don’t-worry-about-it shrug, a casual no-big-deal. But in retrospect, maybe it had landed more like a flashing neon sign that screamed: You’ve been replaced by rechargeable silicone and a woman with standards.
She frowned. Oops.
Next to the coffee pot, she’d found a note in Marcus’s irritatingly neat handwriting: You can use the ballroom. But stay in that vicinity. Do not start until the workers leave at 3:30.
Ziggy, who had joined her for coffee and spotted the note, immediately launched into a barrage of questions about Marcus. Pure Ziggy energy, rapid-fire and nosy, as if the bland handwriting were a code only he could crack. What exactly had gone down last night to inspire such an insipid message?
Despite wanting to spill everything so Ziggy could help untangle the mess in her head, she’d kept the humiliating little scene to herself.
Not that her brain had let her escape it.
The vibrator had given it a valiant effort, but concentration had refused to cooperate.
Hard to focus on down there when her mind was stuck replaying what had gone on down there prior.
Every awkward minute in brutal high definition.
The man who had once taught her to crave foreplay had muttered “open sesame” and kissed her thigh like a distant coworker.
What kind of math even was that?
Her therapist’s voice floated in, maddeningly calm: do not write endings in the middle. Try curiosity before certainty.
Which was exactly when she had turned the vibrator off, admitted defeat, and stared at the ceiling until sunrise.
She’d carried that same restless loop through the entire day.
Curiosity or certainty. Technically, she had chosen curiosity last night, and technically, he had failed twice.
Leaving her stranded the first night was almost as offensive as whatever that performance had been the second.
At some point, even her therapist would have to say screw curiosity, protect the pussy.
With no verdict in sight and her guests scheduled to arrive at any moment, she pressed pause and chose to focus on the debut of her so-called fashion club.
The ballroom wasn’t Manhattan-ready. It was barely Hudson Valley-ready.
But for Gi Gi’s Crossing, it passed the test. Mismatched chairs encircled an antique trunk masquerading as a centerpiece, dressed in vintage scarves, dripping candlelight, and cut glass, the whole thing auditioning for a flea market grand opening.
Overhead, fairy lights twinkled, courtesy of Ziggy’s fearless ladder act and complete disregard for OSHA.
She watched as Evelyn, who’d arrived an hour early from Threads, adjusted a centerpiece with the intensity of someone prepping a royal wedding. “This one’s tilting too aggressively left.” She fluffed the feather boa, treating it as if it were sacred tinsel.
“I love that you said that like it’s a crime,” Frankie said. Privately, she filed Evelyn under long-term potential, the kind of woman she would text from Manhattan about shoes and secrets.
Ziggy sashayed past them with a punch bowl in one hand and a bottle of gin in the other. “We are mere moments away from fabulous,” he announced. “Marcus’s top shelf was practically begging me to liberate it.”
Frankie arched a brow. “I told you to use the shot bottles from the box at the store. No one in Gi Gi’s Crossing is going to mourn a missing crate of Nippleton’s Nip Shots.”
“If Marcus notices, I’ll settle the debt with tie consultations.”
“Hello? I’m here,” Poppy Sinclair sang out, balancing bacon-wrapped dates and bourbon. “Appetizers, gossip, and sass, reporting for duty.”
“Love the confidence. Lose the jacket. Keep the attitude,” Frankie said. “And thanks for coming.”
“Word is the cool kids are already calling this the Losers’ Lounge,” Poppy said, shrugging out of her jacket.
“Losers’ Lounge today. Town royalty tomorrow. Watch and learn.”
The door swung open to Rae and a cluster of middle schoolers stacked behind her like nervous dominoes. She planted her feet and lifted her chin.
“Roll call,” Rae announced. “This is Eli. He likes hoodies and pretending he is invisible. This is Theo. He draws everything and everyone. This is Maya, queen of unicorn boots. And this is Priya, who carries a taco purse because joy is a lifestyle.”
Frankie took them in with a curator’s eye. “Invisible works if the shoes are good. Artists get extra napkins. Queens may proceed. Taco purse is a power move.”
Rae’s mouth twitched. “They are here to behave and learn things.”
“Perfect,” Frankie said, stepping aside. “House rules. Mocktails to the right, adult drinks to the left. You are spritzer people tonight. Try the cherry-lime. It pairs beautifully with good decisions. Break a rule and you help Ziggy coil extension cords.”
Four nods. One small smile.
“Welcome to the club,” Frankie added. “Make it worth the outfit.”
George stepped inside, nodded toward Frankie, and then headed straight to a ficus, which he proceeded to hide behind.
“Who’s that?” Ziggy asked.
“George. Our very own socially awkward town sweetheart.”
Ziggy’s eyes lit. “Challenge accepted.”
Harriet the Spy arrived next, full camouflage from hoodie to face paint, binoculars clanking against her chest like statement jewelry. She gave a tight nod and staked out a corner by the window.
Frankie leaned toward Poppy. “Bet you money she’s been bingeing Bridgerton. She’s learned gossips leak more if you lurk in the shadows and play wallflower.”
“I love that show,” Poppy whispered back.
Frankie smoothed her skirt and faced the group. “Welcome to Operation Small-Town Chic Club, a boutique experience with limited seating and unlimited opinions. The wait list is tragic and hungry. Do not feed it your seat. Tonight, amnesty. Next week, grades. Fashion has consequences.”
Ziggy snapped a salute with his velvet cuff. “On that note, let’s get fabulous.” He floated through the room with clipboards and sleek gold pens.
“We are starting with a quick quiz to map your fashion point of view,” Frankie said. She took George’s hand and guided him to a chair. “Think of it as curating your personal aesthetic.”
Harriet slid into the next seat and squinted at her paper. “‘When invited to a group event, you’re the one who…’” She glanced up. “What does that have to do with fashion?”
“Everything,” Frankie said. “Style isn’t just what you wear. It’s how you arrive. Do you stand out? Blend in? Is your look a reflection of your mood or your mission?” She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t overthink it.”
Internally, she was already quoting the page from How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole) that preached group settings were ideal for mapping social wiring. Clothing was a metaphor. So were snacks. She was just connecting the dots creatively.
Rae’s friend, Theo, raised his hand. “It says, ‘What would you never forgive a friend for?’ Isn’t that…personal?”
Frankie leaned over with a conspiratorial smile and tapped the next line. “It’s followed by, ‘Would you forgive them if their shoes were amazing?’”
“I—”
Rae elbowed him. “Dude, shut up. You’re going to get us all kicked out.”
Frankie moved on before further interrogation could dismantle her strategy, mentally checking off one of the book’s golden rules: people let their guard down when they think it’s all just for fun.
If they realized later that they’d accidentally learned something about emotional resilience? So much the better.
Ten minutes later, the clipboards were collected and stashed for later analysis.
“All right, my fashion-curious darlings,” Ziggy announced, twirling a length of gauzy fabric between his fingers. “Now that your charming surveys are complete, and yes, your penmanship will be judged, it’s time to unveil the next fabulous segment of tonight’s agenda.”
He gave the fabric a dramatic toss toward Poppy, who caught it one-handed without spilling her drink.
“This segment is called Fabulous or Fabricated?” Ziggy declared, striking a pose in a teal velvet blazer that shimmered under the fairy lights.
Rae clapped. Harriet scribbled. George blinked.
“You will each take a turn with this mystery textile,” Ziggy explained, voice rich with flair. “Your task is to declare whether you think it’s luxury or lie. Silk or synthetic. Splurge or street fair.”
Poppy let the fabric drape across her forearm. “Feels fancy.”
“Don’t be fooled by texture alone, darling,” Ziggy warned. “That’s how wardrobes get ruined. One minute you’re serving old-money elegance, the next you’re squeaking through town like an overcooked sausage casing.”
Frankie choked on her drink. Ziggy glanced her way and winked.
The fabric began its slow tour.
Eli rubbed it between two fingers. “If I say denim, do I get extra credit for honesty or immediate expulsion?”
Theo held it to the light. “Would never survive dodgeball, I vote fake.”
Maya pressed it to her cheek. “It feels rich. Like Frankie.”
The fabric kept moving, opinions piling up like scuff marks on a dance floor.
Evelyn rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “Silky, but not in a wholesome way. Like it’s hiding something.” She leaned in, eyes gleaming with small-town secrets. “Speaking of hiding things. Did you hear what they finally decided on for the book festival theme?”
Frankie, impressed with Evelyn’s smooth segue into gossip, raised a brow. “Please tell me it’s not Twilight.”
“It’s The Great Gatsby,” Poppy chimed in, stealing Evelyn’s punchline.
Evelyn’s lips tightened. “Mm-hmm, Gatsby. But only because Marcus is turning the manor into a movie replica. That’s the part no one’s supposed to know yet.”
Ziggy gasped. “No. No. That cannot be true. I would have packed sequins!”
“It’s true,” Evelyn confirmed. “The flyers are going up tomorrow.”
“Pearls. Fringe. Jazz. Champagne regret. This is the renaissance I was born for.” Ziggy leapt to his feet, arms flung wide. “We’re learning the Charleston. No arguments.”
Evelyn lit up. “I already know it!” she announced, kicking off her shoes and clearing space with performative purpose.
“Then you’re my demonstration doll,” Ziggy declared, bowing low with a flourish. “Teach us your ways, Beehive Empress.”
Evelyn grinned, her pink beehive bobbing as she planted herself in the center of the room. “It’s all in the knees, people.”
Music blasted from Ziggy’s phone, brassy and bright, and within seconds they were hopping, swinging, and twisting in full Roaring Twenties chaos. Evelyn’s beehive bounced in perfect time, and Ziggy’s velvet blazer shimmered with every swivel.
When Ziggy and Evelyn struck their finishing pose, Ziggy winded and Evelyn triumphant, the room broke into surprised applause.
Ziggy caught his breath and pointed dramatically at the group. “Up. All of you. You think the Gatsby glitterati sat out the dance floor? This is your moment to sparkle.”
“Even George and me?” Harriet asked.
“Especially you,” Ziggy said, voice softening. “Gatsby was a fraud, but he knew how to throw a party. And so do we.”
Theo stood.
“You’re going to dance?” Eli asked, sounding horrified.
Theo nodded. “It might be nice to actually know this stuff. You know, in case we end up somewhere with chandeliers. Or elbows off tables. Or whatever it is rich kids learn in their fancy dance classes.”
Rae chimed in, “Bet we could show them up if we knew the steps.”
That did it. The middle school crew slid off their chairs, shuffling forward, bracing for embarrassment but too curious to back out.
Frankie stood back, arms crossed, satisfaction curling through her chest. She hadn’t forced anyone to come, but here they were learning and laughing and dancing and trying. Maybe the house wasn’t haunted. Maybe it was enchanted.
Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. She turned, and there he was. Marcus. Lingering in the doorway, all shadows and hesitation, watching the room as if weighing whether he belonged.
Their eyes locked. His were carefully guarded.
And just like that, whether it was the liquor or something far more dangerous, her choice became clear. Not safety. Not pride.
Curiosity.
She arched a brow and crooked her finger, summoning him.
He hesitated, then shrugged off his jacket, crossing the room in long strides.
“You here to critique the fun,” Frankie asked, head tilted, “or join in?”
He stepped beside her, their hands finding each other without discussion, and fell into rhythm as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.
“How do you know the Charleston?” she asked, breath catching.
“We had a neighbor who believed all men should. You?”
“Gatsby-themed gala. Two years ago. One too many champagne towers.”
They twisted, tapped, and spun with ease, as if they’d rehearsed it.
The room hushed. Even Ziggy.
Frankie spun, caught Marcus’s eye mid-turn, and laughter unexpectedly bubbled out.
They moved together easily. Too easily. Like the rhythm had been waiting for them all along. Curiosity had been right to choose him.
Marcus stepped in close and leaned in, voice brushing her ear. “We move well together. Let me try again when the cat clocks out.” His gaze held hers, unflinching.
She leaned in, close enough to feel the heat of his skin.
“My bedroom. Midnight,” she whispered. “Curiosity says you’ve got one more chance.”