Kristan Higgins - In Your Dreams

Clearly, going to the wedding of the man who’d made Emmaline’s membership possible was going to be discussed.

“You know what I think you should do,” Allison drawled in her glorious Louisiana accent as she fondled a black lace bra. “Put some high-test laxatives in their drinks. I can prescribe you a little something on that front, darlin’. Or, even better, cut up a jalapeño right before the reception, see, and then rub it all over your hands—” she pantomimed this action “—and then touch their eyes. Hellfire and damnation, y’all!”

“How is she gonna touch their eyes?” Shelayne asked. “But actually, Em, if you could do what Allison said, then grab his junk, that would be fantastic. We had a case in the E.R. for that last year. It was hilarious. Well, to us nurses, anyway.”

“Yeah. So tempting,” Em said, unable to tear her eyes off the package in Shelayne’s hands. “But I probably won’t.”

“Try those on, Emmaline,” Jeanette said. “I might get a pair myself.”

“Isn’t it bad enough that I had to buy a bathing suit?” Em asked.

“Mandatory water sports.” Grace clucked. “Who ever heard of such a thing at a wedding?”

“Exactly,” Emmaline said.

“Shush, child,” Allison said. “We showed you mercy by letting you get a one-piece. Now get in there and show us your boobies.”

“This is so humiliating,” Emmaline said. But she obeyed, slinking into the dressing room with her bathing suit in one hand, and the...things...in the other.

Emmaline yanked her MPD sweatshirt over her head and took off her jeans. Put on the bathing suit, which was one of those “look ten pounds lighter” types, praise Jesus. But when she’d tried it on the first time, the Bitter Betrayeds had deemed her boobage to be unremarkable. All the squeezing and squishing from the miraculous fabric apparently minimized her bust as well as her stomach.

Enter Ta-Ta Ta-Dahs.

The Ta-Ta Ta-Dahs looked like raw chicken fillets. Their purpose: to boost the girls. The breasts. Yeah.

Em opened the package and grimaced. They felt like raw chicken, too. Em sighed, then hefted her left breast and stuck the thing underneath. Flinched. It was cold. Silicone, the package said. Maybe Em would just buy regular chicken breasts. It would cost less than these. She slid the right one in and looked.

Well, well. They worked. Ta-dah indeed.

She went out to show the group.

“Hello!” Allison said. “We have liftoff, people.”

“How do they feel, Emmaline?” Grace asked.

“Disgusting. I’m changing back into my clothes now. You people have had your fun.”

A little while later, seated around a table at the Olive Garden and sucking down Peach Sunrises that weren’t nearly as good as Grace’s, Em took a deep breath. “So, guys, I’d like to bring a date,” she admitted. “You know anyone?”

“Jack Holland,” came the chorus.

“Wow,” Em said. “Is he for sale or something?”

“No, no,” Jeanette said. She worked at Blue Heron and was therefore the resident expert on the Hollands. “He just does that kind of thing. You need a date, he’ll go.”

“Not Jack,” Emmaline said.

“Why? He’s so handsome! If I was twenty years younger... And he saved all those kids! I mean, he was gorgeous before, but now, I swear, things pulsate when I think about him. Lady things.” This was from Grace, who was on her third drink. At least she wasn’t driving.

“Jack took me to my sister’s wedding,” Shelayne said. “He’s a perfect date. Gorgeous, we all know that, but he can also hold a conversation, he smells fantastic, he’s not embarrassing on the dance floor. When we got home, he kissed me on the cheek. I offered sex, but he turned me down. Nicely, though, you know? My feelings weren’t even hurt.”

“His ex-wife is back in town,” Allison said. Em already knew this—Faith had stopped by the police station, presumably so Levi could kiss her and put his hand on her stomach and offer other married gestures of devotion, and spilled the news.

“His wife?” Grace asked. “The Southern belle? The blonde? When we did Sound of Music, I begged her to play Liesl, but she was...well. You know.” She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “Not friendly.” This was about as mean as Grace got.

“Her name is Hadley,” Jeanette said. “And, yes, she’s gorgeous. She came in the gift shop at Blue Heron the other day. So stylish.”

Emmaline remembered Jack’s wife—tiny and blonde, as helpless and adorable as a newborn bunny. Once, they’d been at the grocery store at the same time, and Em had realized it was Mrs. Jack Holland because of the accent (small town, nothing else to talk about). Em had had her arms full of overpacked grocery bags, her Ben & Jerry’s threatening to topple out. Gerard Chartier had seen Em struggling, said an amiable hello, then practically trampled her to offer to carry Hadley’s one underfilled string bag, which seemed to contain an entire apple.

“Let’s just say it got really chilly, and fast,” Jeanette added with great relish. “Honor froze her out with that stare of hers, and Hadley got the point. She practically ran out the door.”

“Who in her right mind would cheat on Jack Holland?” Allison asked.

“If Jack had a vagina,” Grace said, “he could belong to our book club.”

“No more Sunrises for you,” Emmaline said. “Back to my problem, I don’t think Jack is up for it. He’s got enough on his mind.” Also, he was too beautiful for a mere mortal such as herself. “You guys know anyone else?”

“I’ll ask Charles’s cousin,” Allison said. The cookie jar–inspired divorce had not stopped Allison and Charles from talking every day. “He’s a man. He must know other men.”

Talk turned to what Emmaline should wear, if she should go on a crash diet beforehand, if she should color her hair and slut it up or, just to make Kevin feel guilty, wear smelly clothes and stop washing her hair a week beforehand.

“No, no,” Jeanette said. “You have to be extra beautiful.” She gave Em a hard stare. “Want me to send my daughter over? She knows about these things.” In fact, Colleen used to make the occasional appearance at the Bitter Betrayeds, mixing her fabulous cocktails, but she was back with the guy who’d dumped her and rosy with love and hormones, so they’d kicked her out.

“You know what?” Emmaline said. “I’ll just go alone and hang out with my family.” She paused, picturing that. “Actually, if anyone can come up with a guy willing to fly to California for a few days, I’d make all those parking tickets go away.”

* * *

AND SO IT WAS that two nights later, Emmaline kissed Sarge seven times, made sure Squeaky Chicken was with him and walked around the corner to O’Rourke’s to meet the man known to Allison’s ex-husband’s cousin. Mason Maynard.

According to Allison and the quick background check Emmaline had run, Mason was employed (score!) in marketing and didn’t live with his mother (double score!). Never married, forty-one and fairly nice-looking in an unthreatening way. “He likes dogs, eating out and French films,” Allison had said.

Emmaline had winced. “That’s a red flag. And why ‘films’? Why not ‘movies’?”

“Attitude, Em. I have to go. I want to sext someone I met online.”

“That’s how serial killers—Allison? Hello?” Her friend had hung up.

But Allison had a point. Em would forgive the French films and even sit through one or two if Mason Maynard would be so kind as to go with her to the Wedding of the Damned.

Em took a deep breath and went into O’Rourke’s, which was warm and quiet tonight, the gentle lights glowing with just the right amount of flattering ambiance. The usual suspects were here—the Iskins, Bryce and Paulie, Jessica Dunn and Big Frankie Pepitone. Lucas was smiling at his wife as she shook a martini shaker.