Chapter Seven. Cat
CHAPTER SEVEN
CAT
I cross the bridge, the river threading beneath it, and turn in to Sherman Ranch, heading back to the model home.
My groceries slide sideways in the trunk, and I try to remember if the kid at H-E-B double-bagged the champagne.
That’s just what I’d need—a car reeking of alcohol. My sponsor would love that.
At the development’s entrance, bouquets slump in the sun, petals browned and curling in on themselves. A few teddy bears sag against the post, rain warped and matted. One fading poster board sign asks: WHERE IS IZZY?
All this construction has dug up more than dirt.
It’s brought the story of Izzy Whitmore back to the forefront of everyone’s minds.
Twenty-five years ago, Izzy disappeared without a trace.
Everyone in town believes she’s buried somewhere right here, on the Sherman land.
And now they’re all just holding their breath, waiting for one of these backhoes to dig her up.
I wonder if that’s partly why her sister, Iggy, is back in town.
Though I know from Melanie that her mom is sick.
I passed Iggy on the road a few minutes ago, and the sight of her nearly gave me a heart attack.
I wonder if she gets that a lot—if she’s used to people looking at her and seeing Izzy instead—and if that’s why she moved so far away.
I pull up and park in front of the model home.
On the porch, beside the rocking chairs, the plaid throw, and the vase of sunflowers, stand Kennedy Claire Preston and her copy-paste daughter.
Oh, Lord, I haven’t seen Kennedy Claire since high school, and, annoyingly, she looks just as good as she did back then.
I have the momentary urge to shift the car back into drive and escape.
But she’s already spotted me, throwing up her hand and waggling her lilac-painted fingers at me. I take a breath and open the door.
“Cat?” she says, lifting her sunglasses to the top of her blond extensions so she can squint across the yard. “Cat Dennis? I heard you were working here, honey. Good for you.”
I ignore the subtle dig. Back in high school, Kennedy Claire was the master of the backhanded compliment. I go around to open the trunk, loading my arms up with groceries.
“What a surprise,” I say, walking toward her. “You look amazing.”
She looks down at her dress, smoothing the skirt and smiling like she agrees. “This is my daughter, Sarah Lynn.”
“Hi, ma’am,” Sarah Lynn says, holding out her hand. I notice that her fingernails are painted the exact same shade of lilac. Even without the matching nails and matching hair, the resemblance is uncanny.
I punch the code into the keypad on the door and let them into the model home. They follow me into the kitchen, where I set the groceries on the counter. “How can I help you, Kennedy Claire? Are you thinking about buying a Sherman Ranch home?”
As far as I know, these days, Kennedy Claire owns an enormous home on the old money side of town.
After she won Miss Texas, she married into one of the most established families in town: the Prestons.
Oil money. Generational wealth. The kind that gets a high school named after them—Preston High, which we all attended.
In Anhalt, if you beat all the levels in the game of keeping up with the Joneses, you’ll find that the final boss is a Preston.
“Oh, no,” Kennedy Claire chuckles like the idea is ridiculous. “We’re here to scope out the Events Hall.”
“That’s right,” I say, “the pageant.”
“Our golden jubilee. Can you believe it? After forty-nine years in that little high school auditorium.” She holds her hands up like she’s praising Jesus. “This is the start of something bigger.”
“Let me get these squared away, and I’ll grab the keys.” I see her eyeing the champagne as I store it away in the pantry, and I try my best to keep my head high, my shoulders back. I owe a lot of people an explanation, an apology, but Kennedy Claire isn’t one of them.
We walk out together. One strip of sidewalk gleams pristine, wide enough for golf carts, but beyond it the roads break off into dirt, piles of gravel heaped up like anthills.
“Do you think we can get rid of that display by the entrance before orientation tomorrow?” Kennedy Claire asks as we walk. “The flowers and the teddy bears? It just kind of brings down the mood, don’t you think?”
“I’ll talk to Mark,” I say, though I think it’s unlikely that anyone from Anhalt will be able to step foot on the Sherman land without thinking of Izzy.
We pass along the river and between the trees, we can see The Hollow, a local spot where we all used to gather on sun-filled days to jump from the cliffs into water that stayed cool even in the hottest Texas summer heat.
A natural spring flows from the riverbed, feeding a deep blue-green well that glimmers like an open eye.
Limestone shelves curve around it, worn smooth by decades of bare feet and river water.
And beside it looms the cave, dark, damp, and echoey.
I pick up the pace, and the Amenity Center rises in front of us, an immense building of glass and stone, the one finished jewel of the development.
Inside, the air is cool, smelling faintly of chlorine. Floor-to-ceiling windows open to the pool—cabanas, a lazy river curling through manicured gardens, even a swim-up bar. Kennedy Claire clasps her hands under her chin, delighted. “Can you imagine the photo ops?”
We move on. The gym gleams with untouched machines, Peloton spin bikes and treadmills, a rock wall.
Hallways stretch off toward conference rooms, lined with polished oak doors.
And then the Events Hall, where the pageant will actually take place.
Vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers, walls of glass looking out over the Hill Country. Opulent enough for a wedding.
“There’s even a bridal suite,” I say, pointing back toward the hallway. “It’ll make a perfect dressing room for the pageant.”
Kennedy Claire spins in the middle of the room, her heels clicking like applause. “Mark had sent me photos, of course, but this is truly to die for.” She snaps her fingers at her daughter. “Sarah Lynn, take notes.”
Sarah Lynn pulls a notebook from her purse, clicks her pen.
“You don’t mind if we spend some time here, do you, Cat? I’m going to jot down some instructions, and then my volunteer committee will be here later today to set up for orientation.”
“That’s fine. I’ll leave a key with you.” I spin one off my key ring and hand it to her. I’m about to leave them to it, when I have a sudden stroke of genius.
Last night, Olivia and I didn’t end up watching a movie.
Instead, we pulled up YouTube videos about pageant prep, and in between, we talked more than we have in years.
I collected tidbits—names of her friends and places they’d been and songs she likes—folding each away like pressed flowers between the pages of a book.
The pageant is my in with Olivia, my way to spend time with her. She has opened a door, just this little crack, and I’ll be damned if I pass it up.
“Do you need more volunteers?” I ask. “I’d love to help.”
I register the slight tick of surprise on Kennedy Claire’s face.
“Well,” she breathes the word out, like she is genuinely shocked.
Then she smiles from ear to ear. “Honey, I’ll put you on my list. No one understands how much work it is to run a pageant of this magnitude.
” She pulls her phone from her purse, unlocks it, and hands it to me.
“My daughter is competing this year,” I say as I type my number in.
“Is she now?”
“Olivia.” I hand the phone back to her.
Kennedy Claire turns to Sarah Lynn. “Do I know Olivia?”
Sarah Lynn shakes her head. “It’s her first pageant. She’s super sweet,” she adds to me.
“Aw, newbies are so cute,” Kennedy Claire says, and I ignore the way she has just flippantly dismissed my daughter.
She types something out on her phone, and I hear my own ding in my back pocket.
“There. Sent you a text. So now you have my number too.” She puts her hand to her hip and scans me from head to toe.
“You have no idea how excited I am to have an extra set of hands. Actually, you know what, I have something for you.” She digs around in her bag and pulls out a small stack of ivory-colored cards with loopy gold lettering.
“Invitations to the pageant. Hand them out to whoever you like. We’re aiming to get the whole town in attendance this year. ”
I take the invitations, run the pad of my thumb slowly over the shiny embossed letters, feeling like I’ve just been handed a Willy Wonka Golden Ticket to win back my daughter.
“She’s really excited about it. We were practicing poses last night.
” And I can’t help but gush, thinking about the way Olivia transformed before my eyes, no longer a shy teenager hiding behind her hair, but all long neck and poised grace, the posture of a ballerina.
“She’s a natural—so much stage presence.
She’s been doing competitive dance since she was three, you know? ”
Kennedy Claire’s smile freezes. “Has she?” she says, but the honey has slid from her voice. She turns to her daughter. “Did you know that?”
Sarah Lynn shakes her head, and something silent passes between them—an exchange I can’t quite read, but one that has me wondering if I’ve said too much. One that sends a wriggle of warning inching up my spine.