Молли Харпер - Nice Girls Dont' Live Forever

“Fast hands,” she said, tinkling out a laugh. “I’m lucky you caught that, or Courtney Ahern would have torn out my eyes for ruining the Persian rug. I’m Courtney Barrow. I own the Unique Boutique, the sterling-silver shop over on Dogwood.”

Courtney Barrow was just as cute as a button. She was tiny, curvy, and had an intricately braided silver necklace looped around her neck. Though my proximity to a substance I was highly allergic to made me somewhat nervous, Courtney Barrow was the only genuinely friendly face I’d seen that night, so I was sticking close to her.

“Jane Jameson, Specialty Books.”

Her slick, coral lips quirked. “Isn’t that an adult store?”

“No, no, there used to be an adult store next door. But we bought them out and expanded into their space. We pretty much gutted the store and started all over. You couldn’t have used that space for anything else, anyway. There was a lot of steam-cleaning involved. I don’t know when to stop talking sometimes.”

Courtney was unfazed by my babbling. “A bookstore. That’s so interesting. What made you go into the book business, Jane?

“I was too tall to be a ballerina?” I offered.

Courtney giggled. “You’re a hoot! Oh, you just have to meet Courtney Harris. She’d love you.”

“All right, then,” I said as she wound her arm through mine. “Wait, she’s named Courtney, too?

How many Courtneys are there here?”

“Twelve.” Courtney sighed as she led me deeper into the crowd of shimmering Courtneys. I was introduced to Courtney Gordon, who had started an event-planning company for children’s birthday parties, and Courtney Stephenson, who ran a specialty shop for baby bed linens. None of them seemed even remotely interested in my bookshop, and, to be honest, I couldn’t figure out how I would cross-promote occult items with luxury crib sheets. I was starting to think I’d made a huge mistake joining the chamber. I wondered if Courtney Barrow would release me voluntarily or if I would have to gnaw off my arm like a coyote stuck in a trap.

“It was so confusing when we all joined at once. We didn’t want to call each other ‘Courtney H,’

‘Courtney B,’ ‘Courtney G.’ This isn’t second grade, you know?” I smiled and nodded, because there was no derailing this chick’s train of thought. “So, we tried nicknames, ‘Short Courtney,’

‘Blond Courtney,’ ‘Cankles Courtney.’ But some of the girls’ feelings were hurt, so we ended up having to use Courtney H, Courtney B, Courtney G anyway. We still use Cankles Courtney, but only behind her back.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, I know that sounds mean,” Courtney conceded. “But trust me, you’ll know her when you see her.”

OK, itwasmean, but I did recognize Cankles Courtney right away. Sadly lacking in lowerquadrant definition, she was cowering before the formidable Courtney Herndon and receiving a stern talking-to regarding the chamber newsletter’s font style. Apparently, Cankles’ version of Curlz wasn’t curly enough.

“Courtney Herndon is the head Courtney,” Courtney Barrow whispered. “She’s been the chamber president for the last four years.”

Did she just say “head Courtney”? There was a Courtney hierarchy?

“Courtney!” my guide exclaimed. Several women throughout the room turned to us, realized we were referring to someone else, and went back to their wine. Courtney Herndon gave me an appraising look and a thin smile.

“This is Jane. She runs a bookstore where the porn shop used to be!” Courtney Barrow squealed.

“Isn’t that interesting?”

“Super,” Courtney Herndon said, though her voice gave the distinct impression that she couldn’t give a rat’s ass.

“Are you from the Hollow originally, or are you a transplant like us?” Courtney Barrow asked.

“I’m a native,” I said. “What do you mean, ‘transplant’?”

“Oh, well, we all married boys from the Hollow.” Courtney Herndon snorted derisively, as though she did not appreciate being uprooted.

Courtney Barrow smiled fondly, ignoring Courtney Herndon, as she said, “My husband, Gary, told me he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, so I just followed him home. Same with all of the Courtneys. None of us really has to work, but we’re self-starters. Except for Lisa over there.”

Courtney lowered her voice and nodded toward a strawberry blonde in a suit even more conservative than mine. “She runs her family’s accounting firm.”

“Well, that explains why I’ve never met most of you.” I turned to Courtney Herndon. “Courtney, what do you do?”

Courtney Herndon stroked back a stray blond curl. “I do home demonstrations for women interested in cosmetic products. I do home parties, makeovers, special kits.”

I nodded. “So, it’s like Mary Kay?”

Courtney H’s jaw twitched as she hissed out, “No, it’s nothing like MaryKay!” She turned on her ice-pick heels and stomped toward the wine table.

“All right, then.”

“Mary Kay asked Courtney H to resign because her sales tactics were too aggressive,” Courtney Barrow whispered, a conspiratorial grin tilting her lips. “She would point out a flaw and then recommend a product to fix it. Only, Courtney can be really, really … honest sometimes. And some customers complained. So, Courtney sent the customers letters to tell them why they were wrong … and then Mary Kay’s corporate offices filed the restraining order.”

I stifled a laugh. “Who’s she working for now?”

“She says she’s an independent contractor.”

“So she’s mixing up her own makeup in her basement? Given the restraining order, that can’t be—” Courtney Barrow lowered her voice even more. Even with vampire hearing, I’m sort of surprised I could hear her. “She’s still selling the Mary Kay stuff. She had loads of it when she quit. You know, your upline always tells you that you can’t sell from an empty wagon? Well, she took it seriously. She has enough lip plumper to sink a cruise ship. She just takes off all the packaging and replaces it with her own stickers she prints at home.”

“That is both brilliant and deranged,” I whispered back. Courtney Barrow giggled again, which was becoming less annoying.

She nodded to a tense blonde in the corner, who seemed to be scanning the room over and over, searching for some sort of infraction. “That’s Courtney Ahern, the one who’s crazy about the carpet. This house used to belong to one of her in-laws, but she persuaded her husband to give the tenants the boot and renovate the place for our headquarters. But now she’s paranoid one of us will do something to ruin the house’s potential resale value.”

“What does Courtney A do?” I asked. “Sell something that’s nothing like Amway?”

Courtney Barrow guffawed. “I’m going to like you!”

“Oh … good.”

Courtney Herndon stood, cleared her throat, and silenced the room. The various Courtneys filed into the meeting room, where we were directed to cozy tea chairs instead of the usual folding monstrosities. I sat through the approval of the minutes, the agenda, and the pledge. I came up with my own identification system for the Courtneys as they debated the proper color scheme for the annual business directory. Courtney Barrow, the only one who’d bothered to be friendly, was

“Nice Courtney.” Courtney Herndon was “Head Courtney.” Courtney Gordon, who appeared to be some sort of sycophant/enforcer, was “Toady Courtney.” Courtney Ahern was “Coaster Courtney.” I couldn’t come up with a better-fitting nickname for Cankles Courtney and felt a little bad about it. I moved on to picking which chamber member I would eat first if we were stuck on a desert island. I settled on Courtney Jensen, or “Fitness Courtney,” because it was obvious that woman hadn’t even seen a carb in years, and high-protein diets give blood a rich, oaky finish. I’d almost nodded off when I heard my name being called.