Chapter 2
LOTTIE
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people.
Okay, so rarely do I see dead people. Mostly, I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom.
But right now, the only thing I see is the Pemberton-Clarke estate rising before me like a glossy magazine spread that came to life and decided to strangle me with a girdle.
Seven days of retro perfection.
Seven days of forced nostalgia.
Seven days that, if Honey Hollow’s track record holds, will probably end with someone dead.
The whole spectacle ends with a Mother’s Day brunch at my mother’s bed and breakfast, where the founding members will be honored in a tribute ceremony Mom has described as a tribute ceremony for the ages.
My mother is way too into this for it to be healthy. The woman has spreadsheets. Color-coded spreadsheets. I’m genuinely terrified.
And speaking of terror, this girdle is currently bisecting my internal organs while I balance a glass dish of banana pudding I assembled at three in the morning—because my two-month-old twins decided sleep was for quitters, and I decided stress-baking was the only rational response to being awake at that ungodly hour.
Somewhere in the pastel sea of poodle skirts and pearl necklaces ahead, my mother has already corralled my sweet baby girl, Lyla Nell, and my sweet twins.
Which means I have approximately forty-five minutes of semi-freedom before someone needs to be fed, changed, or physically restrained from committing a felony against a dessert table.
In fact, I can hear Lyla Nell shrieking from here. It’s either joy or destruction, and honestly, the odds are fifty-fifty in this family.
“Lot Lot, would you look at this place?” Carlotta belts out a catcall while hugging a giant punch bowl of homemade Chex Mix she brought—the spicy kind with extra garlic powder and cayenne that could double as a weapon.
“This screams old money and rich old men who don’t know how lucky they’re about to get once I hunt them down. ”
“Please don’t hunt anyone.”
“You know I can’t make promises I won’t keep.”
And I know for a fact she can’t keep that one.
The grounds of the Pemberton-Clarke estate stretch before us in terraced perfection with manicured lawns cascading toward a reflecting pool that screams generational wealth.
And seeing that Carlotta is ready and willing to hunt down the first billionaire she sees, I silently apologize to the unsuspecting silver foxes within range.
Peacock topiaries line down the stone paths, each one trimmed within an inch of its evergreen life—which, honestly, is more grooming than I’ve managed for myself in the past three years.
The pergola off in the back, where the heart of the garden party is taking place, drips with teal-and-emerald buntings that scream old money, new money, and possibly offshore accounts.
To top it off, someone has strung pearl garlands between the branches of the rows and rows of maple trees.
And I’d bet my bakery that each of those pearls once lived in an oyster.
Because nothing says casual afternoon gathering like dangling a semester of Ivy League tuition over a bed of hydrangeas.
“Geez, do you think those are real?” I nod toward the ritzy garlands.
“Of course, they’re real, Lot Lot. At this tax bracket, even the toilet paper is imported.”
I can’t help but marvel at the sight. My grandmother was a founding Daughter of Honey Hollow, but my family definitely did not inherit this kind of wealth. We inherited stubbornness, questionable taste in men, and the supernatural ability to see the dead.
Okay fine. Carlotta might have questionable taste in men, but I happen to have excellent taste in men. Perhaps a little too excellent.
But I digress. The Lemons may not have this kind of funny money, but the Pemberton-Clarkes, apparently, inherited enough money to buy a small solar system and a landscaper who takes his peacocks very, very seriously.
Speaking of taking things seriously…Carlotta and I just so happen to be dressed in matching poodle skirts at the moment.
Hers is hot pink. Mine is powder blue. Both come with fitted blouses, saddle shoes, and enough petticoats underneath to insulate Noah’s cabin for the winter.
Mom provided the vintage ensembles for my sisters and me for the week, in fear we might use our lack of wardrobe as an excuse to skip out entirely, no doubt. Smart woman.
“I feel like a cupcake,” I mutter, adjusting the layers of fabric around my knees.
“A delicious cupcake,” Carlotta corrects. “One that rich men want to take a bite out of. And I’m hoping they’ll take a bite out of me, too.”
“Try to refrain from turning pastries, and just about everything else, into an innuendo.”
“I’ll stop when it stops being fun. Besides, innuendos happen to be my specialty.” She pauses. “Actually, they’re the second thing I’m good at.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The fact is, we look like we stepped out of a sock hop, if the sock hop had been organized by someone with a vendetta against comfortable clothing.
Carlotta’s caramel-colored hair is pinned up in victory rolls that took her forty-five minutes and approximately six hundred bobby pins, with a few silver streaks catching the sunlight.
We share the same hair color, the same hazel eyes, the same heart-shaped face—we’re all but twins, really, except Carlotta has about twenty more years of questionable life experience etched into her features.
More gray in her hair, more laugh lines around her eyes, and more evidence of a life lived loud, proud, and without apology.
Carlotta is basically a preview of what I’ll look like in two decades if I stop waxing my mustache and start making significantly worse romantic decisions.
“You know what the best part of outfits like this used to be?” Carlotta does a little twirl with her skirt flaring and sends a few rogue bits of her Chex Mix flying.
“The fact that they were a fad that quickly ended?”
“The fact that men back in the fifties had no idea what was under all these layers.” She gives a wicked grin. “I bet the mystery drove them wild.”
“I’m pretty sure the mystery is driving my circulation to a halt.”
The chatter from the women grows in volume as we make our way to the party.
“Remember, Carlotta, we’re supposed to pretend our cell phones don’t exist this week.
” Or at least while we’re at these shindigs.
There’s no way anyone is going to pry Candy Blitz from my hands.
I’m a mother now and I’ll take my me time where I can get it.
Besides, I have both a score and a level to maintain. Not to mention my sanity.
Carlotta chuffs at the thought. “Do you know how many dating app matches I’m missing right now?”
“You’re exclusive with Mayor Nash,” I’m quick to remind her. Not that she seems capable of remembering. Much to my surprise, a few years back, I learned that Mayor Nash was my biological father. Honestly, it still surprises me to this day.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she grouses. “Scary Harry is my main man. Rub it in, why don’t you?”
“Very funny.” I avert my eyes at the thought. “You turned your phone off, right? Mom said no breaking character.”
“Define off.”
“Carlotta.”
“Fine, fine. It’s on silent in my bra. Which technically counts as off since no one can hear it but me and the girls.”
“Well, have the girls take your calls while we’re here. I’d like to not get kicked out of an event for once, simply because I brought you along.”
“And ruin my track record?”
She’s not wrong. It sort of would.
“You know,” I say, navigating around a decorative peacock-shaped paving stone, “Mom’s been planning this week for months. If anything goes wrong—”
“Nothing’s going wrong. Look at this crowd. Your mom is a genius.” Carlotta stops short and gasps. “Check it out, Lot. That hot Adonis over there is giving me the eye.” She nods in earnest at a statue of some Greek god positioned near the reflecting pool.
“Carlotta, that’s a statue.”
“And, what’s your point?” She squints at him approvingly. “He’s got excellent bone structure. I’ve dated worse.”
I don’t doubt it.
We start up the path toward the party, and I’m so busy marveling at the sheer audacity of wealth on display that I don’t notice the peacock-shaped paving stone where one tail feather is sticking up higher than the rest—right up until my saddle shoe snags on it.
I lurch forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on roller skates, and my banana pudding tilts dangerously toward catastrophe.
Carlotta grabs my elbow, which somehow makes everything worse, and for one heart-stopping moment, I envision my entire contribution to this event splattered across Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke’s immaculate stonework.
But thankfully, my maternal reflexes are bordering on a superpower. I overcorrect with a twist that my chiropractor will hear about later, and the pudding survives.
Barely.
“Nice save, Lot.” Carlotta grins. “You’ve got impressive grip strength. I’d make a joke, but your husbands are probably within earshot.”
I shoot her a look for implying I have two. “They’re not here yet.”
Okay, fine. I sort of do.
Carlotta shrugs. “Then I’ll save that joke for when they are within earshot. It’s more fun that way.”
We continue up the path, and that’s when I see it—the buffet table.
It stretches across the garden like a monument to 1950s culinary ambition, laden with towering Jell-O molds in colors that don’t exist in nature, casseroles labeled in perfect cursive, cheese balls in various sizes and shades of orange, and an ambrosia salad so aggressively pastel I feel personally challenged as a baker.
And there, dead center, surrounded by fresh flowers like a religious artifact awaiting worship, is Midge Thornbury’s legendary banana pudding.
It’s glowing. I swear it’s actually glowing.