Chapter 18
There’s something deeply ironic about escaping a strip club only to spend the next hour stalking men on social media, but here we are in Emmie’s car at eleven P.M., frantically scrolling through Insta Pictures like a couple of digital detectives with trust issues.
And those men we’re stalking would be Jasper and Leo.
“Check Conrad’s story again,” I instruct Emmie as she navigates the summer night streets back toward Cider Cove. The warm ocean breeze carries hints of salt air and the lingering scent of fried food from Edison’s late-night establishments through our open windows.
“I already checked it three times,” Emmie protests, but she’s already pulling up his profile. “Wait, there’s a new post from twenty minutes ago!”
“What does it say?”
“It’s a picture of him flexing in a bathroom mirror with the caption ‘Bachelor party gains,’” she reads with obvious disgust. “There’s a neon sign in the background that says... oh my word.”
“What?”
“The Frisky Filly,” Buffy answers for her.
“You’re kidding me.”
“I am not kidding you. The men were literally across the street from us at a strip club called The Frisky Filly.”
I lean back in the passenger seat and stare at the ceiling of Emmie’s car. “So while we were being interrogated by cowboys and interrogating murder suspects, our husbands were probably getting lap dances from women named Candy and Destiny.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Emmie says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “Maybe they were being responsible adults.”
“Emmie, Conrad posted a bathroom selfie at a strip club. That’s not the behavior of responsible adults.”
“Fair point. But look,” she scrolls through more posts, “there’s no sign of Jasper or Leo in any of these pictures. Maybe they bailed early.”
“Or maybe they’re smarter than Conrad about documenting their debauchery,” Mom points out, and I shoot her a look.
We spend the next ten minutes driving through Edison’s neon-lit streets while conducting the most thorough social media investigation in the history of suspicious wives.
Piers posted a group shot of guys holding beer bottles, but it’s too dark to identify faces. Conrad’s story reveals disturbingly detailed knowledge of The Frisky Filly’s drink specials. And there’s absolutely no trace of our allegedly responsible husbands anywhere.
“You know what?” I announce as we finally head toward the highway. “I’m choosing to believe they went home early to take care of the babies like the mature, trustworthy men we married.”
Emmie shrugs. “That’s very optimistic of you.”
“It’s very naive of me, but I’m sticking with it.”
Why do I get the feeling my optimism is going to get tested?
The drive back gives us plenty of time to process the evening’s events, especially since Georgie, who somehow managed to acquire a cowboy hat, a sheriff’s badge, and what appears to be a lasso during our Edison adventure, insists on regaling us with detailed commentary about her stage performance.
“I told you I was going to get Conrad’s attention,” she declares from the backseat, twirling her newly acquired lasso. “Mission accomplished.”
“Georgie, you line-danced with male strippers,” Mom points out wearily. “That’s not exactly subtle flirtation. And Conrad wasn’t even at the club tonight.” He was at a totally different strip club—one that he’s more inclined to enjoy.
“Subtlety is overrated,” Georgie shoots back. “Besides, did you see how fast Conrad jumped on stage to rescue me when I got tangled up in my own lasso?”
I nod to Georgie. “And I saw how fast the security guards moved to prevent Mom from committing assault when she tried to drag you off stage,” I counter.
“Georgie, that was a Conrad look-alike.” Mom sighs with exasperation.
“I told you to lay off those glowing concoctions. We still don’t know what was in them.
With our luck, you’ll be drunk for weeks.
Anyway, at least that bouncer was perfectly reasonable once I explained that Georgie was having a psychotic break brought on by too much Western-themed entertainment. ”
Georgie squawks at the thought. “You told him I was having a breakdown?”
“I told him you were temporarily insane due to cowboy-induced hysteria. He was very understanding.”
By the time we’ve deposited everyone safely in their homes, it’s nearly midnight, and my cottage windows are glowing with warm yellow light that lets me know either my husband is home watching late-night television or we’re being burglarized by very considerate criminals who turn on lamps.
“Moment of truth,” I say to Emmie as we pull into my driveway.
“Remember,” Emmie grins, “act casual. We went to our book club.”
“A book club that lasted until midnight and involved cowboy hats?”
“It’s a very enthusiastic book club.”
We spot two figures on the couch, so Emmie and I make our way to the cottage, and through the windows we can see the flickering blue light of the television mixing with the warm glow of lamps.
The coffee table looks to be littered with takeout containers, pizza boxes, and what appears to be an entire dessert tray from the café.
The sound of a basketball game drifts through the screen door, along with the comforting scents of garlic, tomato sauce, and chocolate. And that’s how I know I’m truly home.
“Either our husbands had the most epic boys’ night in history or they ordered enough food to survive a zombie apocalypse,” I observe.
Bizzy and Emmie are back, Fish announces from somewhere inside the cottage. And they smell like cheap perfume and regret.
They also smell like nachos, Sherlock adds hopefully. Are there leftovers?
I push open the screen door and step into what can only be described as the aftermath of a very successful dinner party hosted by people who don’t understand portion control.
Empty Chinese takeout containers cover the coffee table, pizza boxes are stacked on the kitchen counter, and there are enough dessert plates to suggest someone raided Emmie’s entire inventory.
“Well, well, well,” I announce, taking in the scene.
Jasper and Leo look up from the couch where they’ve been intently watching the game, and both of them have the slightly guilty expressions of men who’ve been caught red-handed doing something they’re not supposed to be doing.
“Hey, honey,” Jasper says with a smile that’s just a little too bright. “How was the book club? I picked up Ella and the gang, and Leo and I were babysitting the kids.”
“Babysitting your own kids?” Emmie asks, amused. “How heroic.”
As much as I’d love to razz them over that, we’ve got bigger strip clubs to fry.
“Never mind that,” I say, biting down a smile. “The book club was educational.” I shoot Emmie a look. “How did the babysitting go?”
“Babysitting was delicious.” Leo grins, gesturing to the collection of empty food containers. “We may have gotten a little carried away with the takeout orders.”
Emmie surveys the carnage. “Did you two eat everything in Cider Cove?”
“We were stress-eating,” Jasper explains. “Babies are exhausting.”
“Welcome to our world,” Emmie says with a slightly incredulous tone—as it should be.
The cottage has a menagerie of furry witnesses to the evening’s feast—Fish sits perched regally on the back of the couch, Sherlock is sprawled across the rug looking as if he’s fallen into a snack coma, Truffle is bouncing between the legs of the furniture, and Cinnamon and Gatsby flank the dessert platter like a couple fluffy security guards.
The tiny hoomans were perfect angels, Truffle yips excitedly.
They slept the WHOLE time, and made these adorable little snoring sounds and I watched them for like three hours straight, and they’re SO CUTE and also the big hoomans ordered pizza AND Chinese food AND that cake thing, and I may have gotten some crumbs, and OH MY GOSH, did you know babies smell like powder and happiness? Have I mentioned there was FOOD?
Speaking of food, Cinnamon chimes in from her position by the dessert plates, I may have helped with quality control on the cake.
We all helped with quality control, Gatsby adds without shame. It was a team effort.
I peek into the nursery where Ella and Elliot are sleeping peacefully—Ella in her crib and Elliot curled up in the portable playpen we set up for nights like this.
Both babies look completely content, which means our husbands actually did their job instead of abandoning childcare duties for strip club adventures.
Unlike their wives. And I feel more than a twinge of guilt at the thought.
“You know,” Emmie says, settling into one of the chairs. “We would have done the same thing with the carbohydrate buffet if we’d been stuck at home all night.”
Jasper and Leo exchange a look that’s equal parts amused and alarmed.
“Sure, you would have,” Leo says with obvious disbelief.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, though I have a terrible feeling I already know.
“It means,” Jasper grins while muting the basketball game, “that we know exactly where you spent your evening, and it wasn’t at any book club.”
Emmie and I freeze.
“Don’t think a single thought,” I hiss at her under my breath. “Especially not about you know what.” Especially since Leo Granger happens to share my little mind-reading quirk.
Leo bursts out laughing. “You know what? Really? That’s your strategy?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.
“Charlotte posted seventeen Insta Pictures stories from The Saucy Stallion,” Jasper informs us. “Including several featuring the two of you being deputized by cowboys.”
“Oh.” I shrink a little at the thought.
“Oh indeed,” Jasper says, lifting his brows. “So, while you were getting abducted by male strippers, Leo and I were being responsible adults, feeding babies, and ordering enough Chinese food to feed half of Edison and most of Cider Cove.”
“In our defense,” Emmie says weakly, “it was for investigative purposes.”