“You stayed all night?” Hazel asked.
Margot glanced at Kyle, who seemed to be frozen in horror. “Mm-hmm.”
Hazel patted her hand solemnly. “That’s better than I did. I had to call Daddy to come pick me up.”
“Oh, well, that happens to everybody,” Margot assured Hazel, who was tugging her away from the bed and down the hall. Margot walked carefully, trying to keep Kyle’s robe from flapping open and revealing her pants-less state. “When I was a kid, I had to call my father to come get me from Brittany Lowell’s slumber party because we watched a really scary horror movie and I didn’t want to be there anymore. But I told everybody I had a headache and needed to go home to get some medicine.”
“Did anybody make fun of you?” Hazel asked.
“No,” Margot told her, glancing away. And in a way, it was true, no one made fun of her for leaving the party. But Mother wouldn’t just let her go to bed. She’d questioned her like it was a job, demanding details. Was she really sick? Had someone said something mean to her? Had someone on the Lowells’ household staff done something inappropriate? But even at age nine, she’d known it didn’t come from a place of motherly concern. Linda was looking for something to hold over the Lowells.
Hazel plopped down at the kitchen table, interrupting her train of thought. “Was Mr. Stan mad at you when he had to come pick you up in his pajamas?”
Kyle pulled her chair away from the table and pressed a mug of coffee into Margot’s hand. She took an experimental sip and was pleased that a beverage in Lake Sackett didn’t threaten to melt her esophagus. Kyle began moving around the stove, grabbing pans and canisters and mixing bowls.
Hazel tugged at her sleeve, asking impatiently, “Miss Margot, did Mr. Stan get mad when he had to come get you from the sleepover?”
“Oh, it wasn’t Mr. Stan,” Margot said, shaking her head. “This was when I lived in Chicago. I didn’t know Mr. Stan back then.”
“But I thought Mr. Stan was your daddy.”
Kyle glanced up from the stove, where he was pouring batter onto a griddle pan. Margot took a deep drink of her coffee to stall for time. “Well, my mom moved away with me when I was really little, and I didn’t get to meet Mr. Stan until a couple of months ago. I had what you might call a ‘bonus dad.’ ”
“Was your bonus daddy nice?”
Civil and distant could still be considered “nice,” right?
Margot smiled. “Sure, he was.”
“So does he live with you now?” Hazel asked.
“Actually, he lives in England right now.”
“Where Queen Elizabeth lives?” Hazel exclaimed.
“Well, not in the same neighborhood or anything, but he lives in London, yes,” Margot said.
Kyle slid a plate full of banana pancakes in front of Hazel. “Hazel went through a princess phase last year and got sort of obsessed with Queen Elizabeth. She did a class presentation on her. She did a book report on a Queen Elizabeth biography for kids. She dressed up as Queen Elizabeth for Halloween.”
“You know, there are worse female role models. Any number of former Disney starlets come to mind,” Margot said as Kyle buttered and cut Hazel’s pancakes.
“Daddy, aren’t you going to make Miss Margot something to eat?”
“Oh, no,” Margot said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t. I’m just going to go change.”
Kyle nodded. “Sounds good.”
Margot practically ran for the bedroom. Throwing on her clothes, she could practically hear her own angry lecture in her head. She’d never dated a single father precisely because she wanted to avoid awkward situations like this. It wasn’t okay for a kid to see her father’s date doing the walk of shame. Hazel didn’t need to know that she’d slept over. Hazel didn’t even need to know her dad was romantically involved with someone until that relationship was serious. Growing up, Margot had seen too many friends faced with a constantly revolving roster of “uncles” and stepmoms. She knew how confusing and upsetting that was for them. Margot didn’t want to give Kyle’s girls the wrong impression.
This had been a mistake. She’d been an idiot to think she could get involved with a widower without getting entangled in his family life. She wasn’t prepared for this. Did she like his children? Yes. Was she ready for a package deal that included the most humiliating pancakes in history? No.
Margot caught sight of herself in the mirror and winced. Her hair was a total rat’s nest and she had beard burn . . . in so many places.
Kyle met her in the hallway. “So, it’s probably better if you went home.”
As much as it stung, Margot nodded. “I was already on my way out.”
“I’m sorry. I just— I don’t want to confuse the girls, to make them think there’s something more here. I just don’t want them to get used to you being around.”
“Right.” Margot swallowed thickly.
“I mean, not because—you said it yourself, you’re not staying. And I’m not ready. They’re not ready. This was just too soon.”
“Right, please stop explaining. I’ll see you around. Tell Hazel . . . don’t tell her anything. Never mind.”
He leaned close, hesitating before his lips could touch hers. She pulled back and followed his line of sight over her shoulder to Hazel. She was watching the scene with a little furrow of worry between her brows. Margot’s heart squeezed at the expression, remembering that little line as something she’d seen in her own reflection as a girl. Always worrying, never comfortable, never sure of her place. Margot stepped back from Kyle. “Good-bye, Hazel, have a good day.”
“You, too!” she said, turning back to the kitchen.
“Uh, before you go, I got you something,” Kyle said, reaching into the coat closet and pulling out a small silver gift bag. “I was going to give it to you last night, but we got . . . distracted.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“I found it online,” he said as she opened the bag to find a box labeled URBAN SOUNDSCAPES SLEEP MACHINE. “Normally, people want nature sounds, the ocean, crickets, that sort of thing. But this one sounds like traffic or sirens or any sort of city noise you want.”
“Thank you, that is very sweet,” she told him. “It’s one of the nicest presents anyone has ever given me.”
And sadly, it was. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had given her a gift that she needed, something he put thought into and purchased based on something she’d said. Her previous lovers usually stuck with the flashy items like flowers and jewelry. She felt a weird, warm rush of . . . something . . . in her chest, and pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum.
Was this what a heart attack felt like?
“I’ll call you,” he said absently, glancing over his shoulder.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, scooting out the door as quickly as possible.
Margot speed-walked toward her truck, climbing into the driver’s seat and wincing at the stiff ache in her thighs. And that just brought up mental images of all the things she and Kyle had done the night before. Things that she wouldn’t be doing again anytime soon, because she was pretty sure she’d just received a very firm brush-off from a man who had no interest in presenting her to his daughters as a long-term fixture in his life. Which was fine with her, really, except that it hurt more than she expected.
She sighed and bounced her forehead against the steering wheel.
So. Very. Complicated.
SEVERAL EVENINGS LATER, Margot opened the front door to her cabin while talking on her cell phone and found Frankie and Marianne standing in her kitchen, putting frozen orange juice concentrate, blue gummy bears, and vodka into her blender. Margot dangled her house key from her keychain and threw her arm up, as if to say Why do I bother?
Frankie and Marianne both shrugged in response and continued with their amateur mixology experiment.
“Manny, Manny, listen to me. I know that you don’t do pro bono work. I wouldn’t ask you to work for free, especially in this big of a r
ush. I’m asking you to work at a discount. A deep, deep discount.”
Marianne winced.
“So I’m not going to remind you of how I introduced you to all of my clients in the charitable circles so you could climb out of the super-saver coupon basement and into the world of high-end printables—despite the fact that your office is located in the boonies.”
“I’m forty minutes outside of Chicago, Margot.”
“Same thing. And I’m not even going to remind you of the time your nephew-slash-unpaid-intern decided it would be hilarious to add extra Fs to the presentation folders for the Chicago Endowment for the Arts and I managed to catch them before they were distributed at CEA’s annual luncheon.”
Frankie’s mouth dropped open into a delighted O and she silently clapped her hands. It was an odd contrast to her Grumpy Cat T-shirt.
Margot rolled her eyes at her cousin and grinned. “I will simply remind you that we’re friends, and friends do favors for each other, especially when reciprocated favors are long overdue.”
On the other end of the line, Manny sighed. “You just had to bring up the Endowment for the Farts, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.” Margot shrugged out of her suit jacket and put it into her tiny closet, along with her shoes. Marianne handed her a frosted glass full of orange slush topped with a layer of floating blue bits. Margot took a sip of the tart, delicious blend, trying her hardest to steer her lips around the cold chewy orbs of gummy candy. She loved her cousins, but there were limits.
Behind Marianne, Frankie held up a DVD copy of Sharktopus vs. Whalewolf. Margot shook her head vehemently. Frankie pouted. Marianne held up a copy of The Vow. Margot shook her head just as hard. Marianne pouted.
While this pantomime played out, Manny was still speaking. “You’re asking a lot, honey. Four-color glossy for seven different brochures? You know that’s a chore.”
“But they’re short runs, Manny. And I’m uploading the files to your FTP site as we speak. I did all the design work myself and they’ve already been proofed. I just need you to hit print. I’ll drive to Moncrief myself to pick them up. And you know I hate Moncrief.”
Manny exhaled through his nostrils. Loudly.
“It’s going to help a lot of people, Manny,” she added.
“Gah, okay. But I’m using this as a tax write-off, Margot.”
“I will swear an affidavit that you are Moncrief’s foremost humanitarian.”
“I miss you, doll. None of the girls at Elite Elegance give me nearly as much shit as you do.”
“I prefer to think of it as challenging you, emotionally and morally,” she said.
“That, too. Talk to you soon, okay?”
“Absolutely. Love to Maria and the kids.” Ending the call, Margot drank a good portion of her grown-up slushy, blue bits and all, and raised it in victory. “I don’t want to be obnoxious right now, but I am amazing.”
Frankie said, “So that’s what you’re like in your natural habitat.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, usually you’re uncertain and edgy in that ‘lion with a thorn in its paw’ sort of way. But you couldn’t have been more self-assured just now. Like Jesus himself had come down and said, ‘Order as many brochures as you want, Margot,’ ” Marianne said. “I just get the feeling that’s more ‘you’ than you’ve been since you got here.”
“Does Jesus really involve himself in printing orders?” Margot asked. “Also, why do I even bother locking the door if you two are just going to break in and abuse my small appliances?”
“We don’t know, really,” Frankie said. “Everybody knows where the spare keys are.”
“Also, why gummy bears?” Margot asked, holding up her drink.
“We were going for an alcoholic bubble tea sort of thing. But tapioca is disgusting,” Frankie told her.
Margot shrugged. “On this, we agree.”
“So you’re really kicking ass and taking names. I don’t want to say I was totally right, emotionally blackmailing ya into helpin’ with the festival. I’ll let other people say that for me,” Marianne said, nodding toward the large corkboard Margot had tacked to her living room wall. The corkboard meticulously outlined Margot’s overhaul of the festival plans, focusing on bringing tourists into Lake Sackett. She’d arranged for boat tours where participants would be subtly routed to see all the shoreside inns, marinas, and restaurants while enjoying Lake Sackett’s scenic beauty. Hayrides would show the visitors the more land-bound locations where they could deposit their money. She’d added a Taste of Lake Sackett event over the weekend so local restaurants could make a little extra cash and get some free marketing. The usual carnival company set up their rides and games on the school grounds. But Margot had offered them a higher percentage of the gate to give local products as prizes instead of the traditional cheap stuffed animals and trinkets. If the participants somehow managed to win at ring toss, they would get a small plant from Nan’s Nursery, cookies from the bakery, or a sample from the Jerky Jamboree.
The children had their own dedicated stage. The signs were ordered and matched, as opposed to homemade glittery crazy quilt signage. The vendors were ruthlessly bound by their contracts.
“This is just like planning a party,” Margot assured them. “A really big party.”
“If I move this note card, will you freak out and start cursing?” Frankie asked, reaching out for the card listing the order of the children’s presentations with a teasing smirk.
“I wouldn’t test her,” Marianne muttered out of the side of her mouth. Frankie shrugged and unwrapped a tray of deviled eggs and little baked sausage balls, setting them out on Margot’s counter.
“A love offerin’ from Tootie,” Frankie said, tossing the cling wrap away with a flourish. “She wants to make sure we have something in our stomachs to soak up the booze.”
“I am a little protective of the board,” Margot admitted, taking her hair out of its careful chignon. “I know it sounds paranoid, but I was afraid that Sara Lee would break into my office and try to change things. Bless her heart.”
“Oh, no, that’s reasonable,” Marianne assured her. “Especially after you wouldn’t let her take over at the parent work day. Sara Lee’s warpath has gotten that much steeper.”
Margot groaned and scrubbed her hand over her face. “It did not go well,” she admitted.
It would go less well, Margot knew, if she discussed some of the discrepancies she’d found in the previous years’ records. She’d come across spending patterns and receipts that just didn’t make any sense, but she was keeping her theories to herself until she had sorted through all of Sara Lee’s files.
“Well, Sara Lee has moved on to trying to convince the local businesses that you’re gonna screw the pooch something awful and they’ll lose money on the festival. She tried to get on the agenda at the Chamber of Commerce meeting, but Uncle Bob told her personal attacks didn’t count as new business,” Marianne said.
“She’s too late, I made all the vendors sign contracts. But I’ll touch base with them, reassure them in my sweetest Sunday tones that I truly appreciate every little bit of their help.” The last sentence was Margot’s best imitation of the molasses-thick accents of her neighbors.
“That wasn’t bad,” Marianne told her. “Just try to ease back on the twang a little bit, that’s more of a Tennessee/Kentucky thing. Also, speaking of contracts, here are those papers you asked about, for Aunt Tootie.”
Margot accepted a manila folder full of forms marked with the Sackett County seal. “Thanks, this is going to be a huge help.”
“And in another awkward segue, speaking of vendors, you might want to talk to Bud down at the bakery,” Frankie said. “He’s closing up shop.”
“Oh, no, he was supposed to provide the cupcakes for the festival’s opening ceremonies!” Margot cried. “And prize cookies!”
“Well, he’s still closing. He’s getting older. His sales have been on a downswing for years and
his son is an idiot. It would be pointless to put Bud Jr. in charge of a business that would burn down within a month. He just can’t make it work anymore.”
“That’s so sad,” Marianne said. “But yes, Bud Jr. is an idiot.”
“I’ll talk to him, make sure he’ll honor the sales contract,” Margot replied, writing herself a note on a Post-it and pinning it to the “to do” section of the board.
“More and more businesses are gonna close down if tourism doesn’t pick up.” Frankie sighed. “We’re gonna end up like one of those creepy ghost towns in horror movies, where the only buildings not boarded up are the police station and the shop of a questionable mechanic who has no intention of fixing your car so you can get out to a safe distance.”
“As the wife of the town’s mechanic, shut your face,” Marianne told her.
“The mechanic is always questionable!” Frankie insisted while Marianne made a rude gesture.
The trio sat at the tiny kitchenette table and enjoyed their drinks and snacks, debating their DVD choices.
“Frankie, I love you. But I don’t think I can sit through another movie where a shark gets sucked into a weather system or crossbred with another animal, creatin’ an ‘eff you, science’ hybrid,” Marianne told her cousin.
Frankie gasped, affronted, and turned to Margot, who shook her head. “Why do the tornados only affect sharks? Why not a Squidnado? Or a Dolphinado?”
“Because people would be happy if a bunch of adorable dolphins were dropped into their backyards! I’m pretty sure that’s the plot to Free Willy,” Frankie protested.
“It’s really not,” Margot told her.
Frankie rolled her eyes to the fullest extent her thick mascara would allow. “Okay, fine, I will watch one non–Nicholas Sparks movie with Ryan Gosling in it—”
“Yay!” Margot and Marianne chorused.
“If . . . Margot spills all the gory details of her tawdry affair with the school principal,” Frankie finished.
“It’s not tawdry! I don’t even know what that means!” Margot spluttered.
“Everybody in town knows you two have taken up together,” Marianne said, prodding her ribs. “Tootie and Aunt Leslie are already planning your wedding cake.”