“Are you not even going to listen to my solutions?” Sylvie asked.
I waved at two of my cousins from across the room. “Let’s hear them.”
“Option number one.” Sylvie ticked off a finger. “You live here for free.”
That would involve mandatory attendance at these crazy book club meetings, Sylvie’s nose forever in my business, and always worrying I would trigger her homemade security system that probably involved flaming arrows and poison darts. “What’s the second option?”
“Your old tree house in the backyard. It’s onlypartiallyraccoon-infested.”
“Seriously?” I gave a thin smile to two book clubbers who I could tell were whispering about me. What this town needed was another good scandal so they’d forget about mine. “I have movers coming in a few days. Where will I tell them to put my stuff?”
“I own a lovely storage facility off Sycamore,” Frannie said. “Climate-controlled. Lots of single men use it.”
Sylvie’s eyebrows waggled. “Because she gives them discounts.”
“Hey, my property, my rules,” Frannie said. “Anyway, you could store your stuffandscore a date.”
“Only one of those sounds appealing.” I followed my posse of family into the living room where Sylvie and Frannie’s bimonthly book club gathered. The snacks were always themed in accordance with the literary selection, so I wondered about the cobweb-covered sugar cookies, the bloodred punch, and the icing-drenched jumbo pretzel sticks whose ends had been sharpened to points.
“Grab you some yummies.” Frannie absently gestured toward the food-laden table. “These are some of my best cupcakes yet, if I do say so myself.”
“Indeed, they are.” Sylvie shoved one onto a sparkly plate and handed it to me. “Sit.”
“I really should use this time to search for rentals.” Though it wouldn’t hurt to take a bite or two. “I’ve got to find something as soon as possible.”
Sylvie sat beside me on the couch. “This town has experienced explosive growth in the last few years. Rental properties have yearlong waitlists.”
“Sylvie has people offer her under-the-table money to bump them to the top of her lists all the time,” Olivia said.
My grandmother looked quite pleased with herself. “Last week Delmot Parsons sent cheese dip over to our table while Frannie and I were dining at Casa Taco.”
“That man thought he could persuade her with warm, spicy queso.” Frannie shook her head. “I mean, it worked, but still. The nerve.”
Sylvie dug in a bag for her e-reader. “Quite plucky.”
“It would be silly to buy a house,” I thought aloud. “My job’s only guaranteed six months.”
“I told you I had a solution.” Sylvie cleared her throat and clapped her hands twice. “Ladies! Ladies! Sexy Book Club shall now begin.”
The large group of women meandered to their seats and dutifully hushed at their leader’s command. They knew who packed heat in the room.
Sylvie smiled proudly at me. “I’d like to introduce you to my granddaughter Hattie. She’s thirty and single, so if anyone knows a quality man with a reliable job, zero credit card debt, no weird attachments to his mommy, and no overt cheating, do let me know.”
I choked on a cookie. “Please stop.”
“You knew this was coming,” Olivia muttered. “She does it to all of us.”
But Sylvie wasn’t ready to shine her spotlight elsewhere yet. “Some of you might remember Hattie suffered a great humiliation at a funeral back in the spring.” The entire room nodded and shot me a collective look of pity. “She’s completely over that loser fiancé. A man who I told her was no good.” Sylvie didn’t bother hiding that know-it-all side-eye. “Anyhoo, my wonderful granddaughter is back in Sugar Creek, hopefully to stay. She’ll spend the next six months working at Miller James’s farm establishing the equine-assisted therapy program for veterans.”
Frannie fanned herself with a paperback. “Good Lord, I’d never get any work done if I were employed by a beautiful man like that.”
“One of Sugar Creek’s hottest bachelors,” said an elderly woman I recognized as the children’s librarian.
“I’m not in the market for another fiancé.” Didn’t that go without saying? I felt like it was a given. It had only been a handful of months since I’d had my heart blown to smithereens. And besides, I’d known Miller all my life.
“That Miller James has the sexiest deep voice,” Marge Jenkins said. “He could whisper sweet nothings in my ear all day long.” Marge was eighty if she was a day.
“Hair dark as Scottish whiskey, eyes that see right to your soul, and a body that belongs on a calendar.” Pastor Garcia’s wife touched her gray hair and glanced back to her novel. “Or so my daughter says.”
