Chapter 9 Lottie
LOTTIE
“That casserole was relatively easy, and with all that cheese and potatoes, it looks like a carb-loaded dream come true. I’ll be the first to help myself to a giant spoonful once the judges give their verdict.”
Carlotta snorts. “You mean once you lose to the Pudding Princess and console yourself with emotional eating?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, yes.”
I hopped over to the Honey Pot and used their industrial oven to bake what I’m calling my cheesy hashbrown heaven casserole—shredded hashbrowns mixed with sour cream, cheddar cheese, and a stick of butter that can cover a multitude of culinary sins.
The top is covered in crushed corn flakes that baked into a golden, crunchy crown of glory. My sister Charlie helped me throw in a cup of chopped onion and a few other ingredients she assured me would turn this potato pie into a bona fide winner.
Charlie is my look-alike in every way—same caramel-colored hair, same hazel eyes, one year younger, and my full-blooded sibling. She was raised by Carlotta, which is tantamount to being raised by wolves, so I always give Charlie extra grace when she needs it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out to find another photo from Lainey. Lyla Nell is standing in front of a craft table with her arms crossed, chin lifted, looking like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk on proper glue stick usage to a group of children.
“Oh! She’s just so adorable,” I murmur.
Carlotta leans over my shoulder. “Little Yippie with the pigtails looks like she’s being bossy.”
I look closer. Huh. She does kind of look like she’s ordering the other kids around. And come to think of it, none of the other kids look all that happy while looking her way. Huh.
My phone buzzes again. Another photo. This time, Lyla Nell is pointing at something off-camera with an expression that suggests she’s not asking, she’s commanding.
“Oh yeah,” Carlotta says. “That’s definitely bossy.”
Another buzz. Lyla Nell has her hands on her hips now, mouth open mid-shout.
A little boy behind her looks genuinely terrified. “Is she—” I squint at the screen. “Is she yelling at that kid?”
“Looks like it.” Carlotta grins. “Your daughter’s running that craft session like a maximum security prison. I’m so proud.”
My phone buzzes one more time. The newest photo shows Lyla Nell holding what appears to be a construction paper crown while standing on a chair. The other children are seated in a semicircle around her like subjects before a tiny tyrant, and I think a few are crying.
“Oh my word.” I zoom in. “She made herself a crown.”
“Queen Yippie has been coronated.” Carlotta cackles. “I give it ten minutes before she starts demanding tribute in the form of juice boxes.”
I text Lainey despite the impending embargo on all things modern. Is everything okay?
The response is immediate. She’s fine. Very… leadership-oriented.
Translation? My toddler is terrorizing the craft room, and Lainey doesn’t want to admit she’s lost control of the situation.
I grimace. “Maybe preschool was a mistake.”
“Or maybe she’s just warming up,” Carlotta suggests cheerfully. “Give her another hour, and she’ll have staged a coup and renamed the place Lyla Nell’s Academy for Kids Who Want to Learn to be Naughty.”
“Would you stop?”
My phone buzzes again. It’s another text from Lainey. She’s having SO much fun! You should totally sign her up for the summer session, too! They have openings!
I groan.
“What?” Carlotta asks.
“Lainey is trying to pressure me into signing Lyla Nell up for summer school.”
“Summer school?” Carlotta perks up. “Oh, I went to summer school every year of my life. Best times I ever had. All the bad boys were there.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say with a grunt. “Wasn’t summer school for kids who were failing?”
“Or kids who were excelling in extracurricular activities,” Carlotta says with a wink that makes me immediately regret asking.
We reach the community center just as Mom appears at the entrance, resplendent in her lavender 1950s ensemble, pearls gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“Summer school is not for failing students,” Mom says, catching the tail end of our conversation. She peers into the casserole dish Carlotta is carrying for me. “Oh, what do you have there?”
“Cheesy hashbrown heaven casserole,” I announce. “Potatoes, cheese, sour cream, onions, and enough butter to make a cardiologist very, very rich.”
“Sounds divine,” Mom beams. “Bring it inside! The competition is about to begin!”
The Honey Hollow Community Center underwent renovations last year, and the result is something between a vintage postcard and a time capsule someone forgot to bury.
The main hall has polished hardwood floors, expansive picture windows that let in floods of natural light, and exposed wooden beams across the ceiling that give it a rustic-yet-elegant vibe.
But right now, it looks like someone detonated a time bomb set to 1952.
A massive banner stretches across the back wall: WELCOME TO THE DAUGHTERS OF HONEY HOLLOW CASSEROLE COMPETITION AND JELL-O JUBILEE! The letters are hand-painted in cheerful pastels with little illustrations of casserole dishes and Jell-O molds scattered throughout.
Long tables line both sides of the room, absolutely groaning under the weight of casseroles on one side and Jell-O molds on the other.
The air smells like a collision between a church potluck and a 1950s housewife magazine—cream of mushroom soup, melted cheese, vanilla pudding, and something vaguely tropical that might be canned pineapple.
And the women.
Oh, the women.
There must be fifty of them, all dressed as if they’ve just stepped out of a time machine.
Poodle skirts twirl as women move between tables.
Pin curls are shellacked into submission.
Creamy pearls catch the light. Cat-eye glasses perch on noses.
One woman is wearing white gloves while serving herself lime green Jell-O, which seems both impressive and deeply impractical.
The whole scene is so aggressively wholesome that it loops back around to being vaguely unsettling.
“This is either charming or a cult,” I mutter to Carlotta. “I haven’t decided which.”
“Why not both?” She grins, setting my casserole down on the nearest available spot. “I’ve been in a few charming cults myself. In fact, I’m in a few now.”
I frown because I happen to believe her. Also, because I think I might have inadvertently wandered into one myself.
I’m pushing the twins—both still blessedly asleep, thank heavens—when a dark-haired beauty pops up between us like she’s been summoned by a séance.
“Speaking of sisters,” I say.
It’s Meg, my younger sister by a year. She’s dyed her naturally blonde locks a shocking shade of midnight.
She dresses exclusively in black despite the spring weather, and her combat boots look wildly out of place among all the saddle shoes and kitten heels.
In other words, she looks exactly like her ordinary self, a modern-day Goth princess.
Meg happens to work down at a gentleman’s club in Leeds, where she teaches the strippers their money-making moves—or as she prefers to call it, empowerment choreography.
But right now, she’s nursing her four-month-old baby girl Piper, and we’re all being treated to a pale globe of a boob sitting outside her neckline while tiny Piper munches away like she’s at an all-you-can-eat mommy buffet.
“Nice to see you’re embracing the 1950s aesthetic,” I say, gesturing to her Gothic nightmare ensemble.
“I’m going for beatnik poet, not Stepford wife,” Meg replies without hesitation. “Also, you’d better cool it with the murder spree. People are starting to talk.”
I shoot her a look. “I didn’t murder anyone. I just keep finding the bodies.”
“Semantics,” Meg says, adjusting Piper’s latch without breaking eye contact. “You’re still Honey Hollow’s angel of death.”
“That’s what I keep telling her!” Carlotta chimes in, utterly unfazed by the public breastfeeding display. “But does she listen? No. She just keeps stumbling over corpses like it’s a hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby,” I mutter.
“Could have fooled me,” Meg snorts. “You’ve got more dead bodies on your résumé than most funeral directors.”
Carlotta cackles. “I’ve always liked this one.” She slaps Meg on the shoulder. “She’s got edge. And she’s not afraid to whip out a boob in public. You’re my kind of woman, Spicy Lemon.”
“Thanks.” Meg grins. “I’ve been working on my shamelessness. It’s coming along nicely.”
“I can see that,” I say dryly. And for the record, Meg has been shameless since the day she was born.
“Literally.” Meg juts out her boob, completely unbothered. “Piper’s gotta eat. If people don’t like it, they can avert their delicate Victorian sensibilities elsewhere.”
“Amen to that,” Carlotta says. “This place could use more public nudity. Really liven things up.”
“Please don’t encourage her,” I beg. “Or yourself.”
Ozzy chooses this moment to start fussing, his little face scrunching up in that pre-cry expression that gives me approximately five seconds to intervene before he wakes Corbin and all baby heck breaks loose.
Mom swoops in like a pearl-wearing superhero and scoops Ozzy out of the stroller. “I’ll get him settled and sign you up for the competition, sweetheart.” She disappears into the crowd, cooing at Ozzy, who immediately stops fussing because, apparently, Glam Glam has magical powers.
Corbin starts fussing two seconds later because I’m guessing he senses a disturbance in the force. For reasons unknown to me, the boys hate to be separated.
I pick him up, park the stroller against the wall, and bounce him gently while Meg, Carlotta, and I make our way toward the tables.
“All right,” I say, surveying the spread. “Let’s see what we’re up against.”