Chapter 14
There’s nothing quite like coming home from a murder investigation to find your phone buzzing with what can only be described as a literary emergency.
No sooner do Jasper and I arrive back at the inn from our beer-infused interrogation than my phone lights up with a text from Emmie.
SOS! Get to the inn ASAP! It’s getting naughty in here, and we haven’t even cracked a book! Send reinforcements (and maybe a fire extinguisher)! P.S. Your sister is a genius and I’m terrified.
“Oh my goodness,” I gasp, stopping dead in my tracks on the moonlit path before I can reach Dad’s cottage to collect Ella. “I completely forgot about naughty storytime!”
Jasper looks more than mildly alarmed. “Naughty what now?”
“Never mind,” I say, sneaking a quick kiss to his cheek before turning toward the inn. “Please get Ella and put her to bed. But make sure she’s fed first! I’ve got a literary crisis to handle.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Probably not,” I call out as I take off at a pace that would impress Olympic power walkers, leaving Jasper standing in the summer evening looking equal parts confused and resigned to his fate as the husband of Cider Cove’s most chaotic innkeeper.
The moment I step through the Country Cottage Inn’s front doors, I’m hit with a wall of sound that suggests either a very successful party is at hand or a very successful mutiny is afoot.
Loud laughter pulses from the direction of the library, mixed with what sounds suspiciously like yacht rock music and the clink of cocktail glasses.
I follow the noise and step into what used to be my tastefully decorated library, but now looks like a tropical nightclub had an affair with a book club, and their love child is experiencing their wild teenage years.
“Holy moly,” I breathe, taking in the scene.
Faux tiki torches flicker from every corner—and I immediately send up a prayer that someone made sure these are the battery-operated variety because the last thing I need is fire in a room full of intoxicated literary enthusiasts.
To my right there’s a makeshift bamboo bar complete with a raffia skirt and a thatch umbrella, where a bartender in glowing neon clothing that looks like it was designed by radioactive fairies hands out cocktails that glow twice as loud as his accouterments in colors not found in nature.
Every woman in the room sports glowing bracelets and necklaces, turning the entire space into what appears to be a rave for the romance novel set. Pink spotlights have been rigged up near the fiction section, creating what I can only assume is a makeshift stage area.
“There she is!” Mom calls out, waving a glowing green cocktail in my direction. “What took you so long? We’ve been here for twenty minutes already!”
“I had to make sure Jasper could handle bedtime duty without burning down the cottage,” I reply, which in any other family would sound like an exaggeration, but in mine is a legitimate safety concern. Okay, so I may be stretching the truth, but still.
“Fair point,” Georgie says, bouncing over in a neon yellow lei that makes her look like a hula dancer.
She’s still moving with the loose-limbed enthusiasm of an elderly hippy who recently conquered a brewery’s shot challenge—and scored a kiss from her most recent crush.
“I’m still feeling victorious from my chandelier adventure.
Did you see Conrad’s heroic rescue technique?
The man has excellent upper body strength—and don’t get me started on his lips. ”
“I was there for the entire spectacle,” I remind her. “I’m just glad you lived to tell about it.”
“I’m just glad we all lived to tell about it,” Mom adds. “The poor ceiling could only take so much nonsense. Georgie could have killed us all.”
“Speaking of landing toes-up in the morgue,” Georgie whispers in that special acoustically challenged way that only someone who’s had several drinks can manage, “The killer Bea is here tonight. Over by the self-help section, looking like she’d rather be getting a root canal with a rusty drill.”
Before I can fully process this information, Fish, Sherlock, and Truffle come running over with the enthusiasm of pets who’ve been left to supervise a party and decided chaos was more entertaining.
We tried to hold down the fort, Fish announces with the dignity of a CEO delivering quarterly losses.
Rather unsuccessfully, Sherlock adds with a woof.
But the food is amazing, Truffle yips manically, and I found seventeen new hiding spots, and did you know your neighbor has three cats, and I barked at all of them, and also there’s a squirrel outside that’s been taunting me for HOURS! The little cutie pie rattles it all off in one breath.
The food is really that good, Bizzy, Sherlock is quick to assure me. Emmie really outdid herself. You should consider giving that girl a raise!
Sure enough, I spot what can only be described as a finger food paradise spread across several tables—mini quiches that look like tiny golden sunflowers, stuffed mushrooms glistening with herbs, bacon-wrapped scallops arranged like edible jewelry, a bowl of spinach artichoke dip that’s glowing with cheese, bruschetta topped with tomatoes so fresh they’re practically still growing, chocolate-covered strawberries arranged in perfect rows, an artisanal cheese board that belongs in a magazine, shrimp cocktail with sauce so red it matches the tiki torches, and mini cheesecakes that look like they were crafted by dessert angels.
“Emmie really does deserve a raise,” I admit, snagging a bacon-wrapped scallop and wolfing it down. Heaven.
“She’s been cooking for three hours straight for this event,” Mom says. “I think she’s having some kind of culinary breakdown brought on by excitement and terror of what’s to come.”
Emmie appears as if summoned, her hair slightly wild and her apron covered in what appears to be flour, chocolate, and possibly glitter. “Bizzy! Thank goodness you’re here. I think Macy and Camila created a monster.”
“The food looks amazing.”
“Not the food, the event! Look around! Every woman in a fifty-mile radius showed up. I think word spread on some kind of underground sisterhood network.”
Buffy walks in behind her with Skittles trotting at her heels, and they both stop dead. “Wow. Look at all these women. It’s like a book club but with better snacks.”
Food alert! Skittles announces, immediately spotting Truffle stationed strategically near the dessert table. Backup requested at the mini cheesecakes!
Ooh, mini cheesecakes do sound good.
She makes a beeline for the dessert table, her tail wagging with the dedication of a dog with a mission. And on her heels, I spot Candy holding court near the cheese board, surrounded by admirers who keep slipping her samples.
“I think every woman in Maine is present and accounted for,” I say, doing a quick head count that makes me slightly dizzy. And maybe every cat and dog, too.
“Present and ready for trouble,” Camila announces, appearing at my elbow with Macy in tow. Both of them are wearing enough glow-in-the-dark accessories to be visible from the North Pole.
I take a moment to frown at Camila. “Please tell me you didn’t pick the most scandalous books in the universe,” I beg.
“Define scandalous.” Macy grins wickedly.
“Oh, we definitely picked the most scandalous books in the universe,” Camila confirms cheerfully. “I may have bookmarked the spiciest scenes for maximum entertainment value.”
Macy smirks at both Buffy and me. I doubt either of my prissy, sissy sisters has actually read a romance novel before, Macy thinks with amusement. This is going to be educational.
“Educational is one word for it,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry.” Camila continues, “I’ve got my phone ready to record the whole thing.
This is going to be social media gold.” None of these women have any idea what they’re in for, she thinks gleefully.
Wait until they hear the scene with the pirate captain and the storm-tossed maiden.
She giggles to herself with the thought.
Oh, good grief. This self-appointed Bridal Rescue Squad is going to turn tonight into a cautionary tale in about twelve different ways—and at least two of them are probably illegal.
Charlotte and Kiki materialize from the crowd, both looking like they’ve fully embraced the tropical nightclub aesthetic, covered head to toe in glowing paraphernalia. Charlotte has her phone out, naturally, documenting everything with the dedication of a war correspondent.
“This is absolutely incredible!” Charlotte gushes, snapping photos of the tiki setup. “My followers are going to die! Hashtag literary ladies, hashtag glow party, hashtag naughty summer reading goals!”
This is perfect content, she thinks happily. I knew my wedding would be the social event of the season. All these women fawning over me like I’m some kind of celebrity. Which, let’s face it, I basically am.
“It’s certainly... vibrant,” Kiki says, and I catch her surveying the room with the analytical eye of an attorney, mentally calculating liability issues.
I hope whoever organized this has good insurance, she thinks. Because this setup screams fire hazard and a lawsuit waiting to happen.
“I hope you ladies have a wonderful time tonight,” I say, watching their easy camaraderie. “And you look like the two of you are off to a great start.”
“Oh, we are. Kiki has been amazing all week,” Charlotte gushes. “She knows all Piers’s favorite things and has been helping me plan the perfect surprises for him.”
Listening to her gush about their future together makes me remember what I used to have with him, Kiki thinks, her smile cold as ice. She’s practically glowing about marrying a man who still texts me when he’s had too much to drink. How pathetically naive.
Oh wow. I’m not too impressed with the drunk texting. I don’t care if he is intoxicated while he’s doing it. That’s not a good look. I feel bad for Charlotte already.