Chapter 29 Lottie #2
Everett wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close, and Noah hoists Lyla Nell onto his shoulders. Evie leans against me, and for a moment, we’re just a family—blended, chaotic, covered in various substances, and holding Bernard Thornbury in the form of polished stones.
“I love you guys,” I say, my voice thick with all the feelings I don’t have words for.
“We love you, too, Lemon,” Everett murmurs into my hair.
“So much, Lottie,” Noah adds, and Lyla Nell pats his head like she’s blessing him.
“Love you, Lottie!” she shouts, because whispering is not in her vocabulary, and we all share a laugh at that one. Okay, so my laugh was a little more genuine this time.
“This is just a phase, right?” I say weakly.
Evie shrugs. “You know what’s not a phase?” She squeezes my hand. “You, being the best mom ever.”
And that’s it. The tears come. The dam is unleashed, and I can’t stop them. I’m standing in my mother’s garden on Mother’s Day, holding a dead man’s bedazzled remains, surrounded by my family, and I’m crying like someone just promised me eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.
A bell chimes from the front of the garden, and I quickly wipe away my tears as we all turn in that direction.
Mom stands at the podium near the fountain with a microphone in hand, her sun hat slightly askew from the excitement of the afternoon. She looks absolutely radiant, like a woman who’s just hosted the event of the season and only had one minor murder arrest to deal with.
“Daughters of Honey Hollow!” she calls. “Can I have your attention, please?”
The crowd quiets down. Women drift toward the fountain, glasses in hand, faces turned toward my mother with a rapt attention usually reserved for presidential addresses or clearance sales.
Suze and Francine elbow their way to the front, both of them looking like they’re about to compete in gladiatorial combat instead of waiting for an award announcement.
“As you all know,” Mom continues as her eyes glitter out at the crowd, “we’ve spent this week celebrating our heritage, our traditions, and our commitment to this wonderful organization.
And while it’s been a difficult week, losing our dear Vivienne, we’ve also seen the very best of what the Daughters represent.
Community. Resilience. And truly exceptional homemaking skills. ”
A ripple of laughter and light applause moves through the crowd.
“The Golden Whisk Award,” Mom says, pausing for effect because my mother understands drama, “goes to the Daughter who has shown the most dedication to our mission this week. Someone who has embraced the spirit of the 1950s with grace, creativity, and unwavering commitment. Someone who has demonstrated that the values we cherish—hospitality, craftsmanship, and service—are alive and well in Honey Hollow.”
Suze is wound tighter than a kitchen timer. I’m pretty sure if someone touched her right now, she’d detonate.
Francine looks like she’s holding her breath. Her face is red. Her hands are clenched. Her massive bun is wobbling precariously. And she looks like a teakettle that’s been left on the burner too long.
“And the winner is...” Mom draws it out like she’s announcing the winner of a beauty pageant. “Suze Fox!”
The garden erupts in applause and cheers.
Suze gasps so loud I hear it from twenty feet away. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Yes! Finally, all that time I spent at the thrift store has paid off!”
She rushes forward to accept the Golden Whisk from Mom, along with the gift certificate to the Country Pantry, and then the tears start.
Not the polite kind either—full-on boo-hooing, and I’m pretty sure they’re happy tears.
She clutches that whisk to her chest like someone just handed her the key to the kingdom.
Francine, however, looks absolutely crestfallen.
Her face crumples, her shoulders sag, and then her hands fly to her massive bun, yanking out bobby pins with increasing desperation like the hairdo itself is personally responsible for her loss.
The bun unravels, and well, so does Francine.
Gray-streaked hair tumbles down in a long, wild cascade that reaches nearly to her waist, unfurling like a silver waterfall that just escaped from captivity.
It’s actually kind of beautiful in a Rapunzel-meets-prairie-woman way—or a silver slithering snake ready to unleash its fury on the general public.
“Seventeen children,” someone mutters nearby. “And she still has time to grow hair to her knees. How does she even manage getting anything done?”
“She doesn’t,” someone else snickers. “That’s why her hair hasn’t been cut in the last three decades.”
Suze stands at the podium, holding the Golden Whisk with that goofy grin still plastered to her face.
She looks out at the crowd, then at the whisk, then at Francine, who’s standing there with her hair everywhere and her face doing that thing where you’re trying not to cry in public but failing miserably.
Suze gives a heavy sigh.
And I know that sigh. It’s the sigh of a woman who’s about to do something kind even though it’s going to cost her everything.
“You know what?” Suze says into the microphone. “I’d like to give this award to a real winner. Francine Dundee!”
The crowd gasps. So do I. So does basically everyone except Carlotta, who just frowns as if she saw this coming.
Francine’s head snaps up, her hair still half-pinned, half-wild, looking as if she can’t decide if she’s a 1950s housewife or a woodland witch.
“Francine has seventeen children,” Suze continues, her voice steady and warm. “And thirty-two grandchildren.”
“That’s a lot of little yippers,” Carlotta adds, and I shush her.
“And,” Suze continues, “she makes the old woman who lived in a shoe look like an amateur with a studio apartment.” The crowd breaks out into gentle laughter.
“She cooks, she cleans, she homeschools, she runs a business with her husband, and she still found time to compete in every single event this week.” She walks over to Francine and holds out the Golden Whisk. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Francine stares at it for a moment with awe and wonder before tearing up as she looks at Suze.
Francine Dundee bursts into tears and hugs Suze so hard they both nearly topple over in a tangle of vintage dresses and emotions.
The crowd erupts in applause again, louder this time, and I’m pretty sure half of them are crying, too.
Carlotta nudges me. “Well, that was unexpectedly wholesome and boring. I didn’t see that coming.”
“Neither did I,” I admit, wiping at my own eyes, because apparently, I’m not done crying today.
“Frankly,” Carlotta grunts, “I expected more from Suze.”
I shrug over at the woman. “And I expected nothing less.”
My sisters drift over—Meg with baby Piper balanced on her hip, Charlie with a glass of lemonade and a knowing smile, Lainey with her ever-present sunshine energy and her two little cutie pies—and we form a little cluster of Lemon women watching the Daughters of Honey Hollow carry on like it’s the 1950s all over again.
“Did you really just solve another homicide?” Meg asks, adjusting Piper’s tiny black dress. Like mother, like daughter.
“Yup.”
“On Mother’s Day?” Lainey asks in disbelief.
“Yup.”
“And almost get killed in the process?”
“That, too.”
Charlie shakes her head. “You are insane, Lottie.”
“I prefer dedicated,” I say.
Lainey laughs. “You’re both. And we love you for it.”
“Lottie!” I turn to see Keelie jogging toward us, her blonde hair bouncing, Little Bear toddling along beside her. He spots Lyla Nell and immediately veers off toward the play area where she’s organizing the other children into what looks like a military formation.
“Happy Mother’s Day!” Keelie throws her arms around me, then Meg, Lainey, and Charlie in quick succession. “To the best mommies in the world!”
“Back at you,” I say, hugging her tight. “How’s Little Bear?”
“Wild as ever.” She grins. “Hey, speaking of wild—the circus is coming to town in a couple weeks! We should totally take the kids. Make a whole day of it. Cotton candy, rides, the works.”
“A circus?” Lainey lights up. “The kids would love that.”
“I’m in,” Meg says. “Piper’s probably too young, but I want to see the elephants.”
“There might not be elephants anymore,” Charlie points out. “Isn’t that controversial now?”
“Then I want to see whatever they replaced the elephants with,” Meg declares.
I look at Keelie. “When did you say it’s coming?”
“Two weeks. I saw the posters going up downtown. It’s setting up at the fairgrounds.”
“Count us in,” I say. “What could possibly go wrong at a circus?”
Keelie laughs. “With you? Everything.”
The sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that make the whole garden look like a painting.
The party continues to rage all around us with women laughing, children playing, the fountain splashing, the jazz drifting softly through the air like a soundtrack to the most perfectly imperfect day.
And here I am, surrounded by my family—biological, blended, chosen, and everything in between. My husband—okay, both of them, sort of—my children, my sisters, and a garden full of women who just watched one of their own get arrested for murder but are still here celebrating Mother’s Day anyway.
Because that’s what family does. They show up.
I look down at the stones in my hands—Bernard Thornbury’s final resting place, now covered in acrylic paint, glitter, and love notes—and I can’t help but laugh.
Motherhood, apparently, means taking whatever life hands you, even when it’s messy and weird and slightly horrifying, and finding a way to live with it.
Even if living with it sometimes means nodding like everything is perfectly normal and refusing to elaborate on the human remains in your possession.
Happy Mother’s Day to me.
And for the record, since someone is bound to ask eventually—Midge Thornbury’s legendary banana pudding secret turned out to be exactly what she whispered to me in the woods.
Banana extract.
One tiny teaspoon.
And for the golden glow? Two teaspoons of pumpkin purée.
Eighteen county fair ribbons over a bottle of flavoring and a gourd.
Honestly? I respect the audacity.