“You’ve got to twist, not pull!” Georgie insists.
“I AM twisting!”
“That’s pulling!”
“Twisting AND pulling is a perfectly valid strategy!” Mom yanks the claw with enough force to launch a chunk of lobstermeat airborne. It sails across six feet of pristine table and smacks Blaire directly in the face.
Blaire freezes. The lobster falls into her lap, and her expression suggests she’s contemplating murder.
“I am so sorry,” Mom says, and she sounds genuinely mortified.
My Vera Veragamo dress,Blaire gasps with the thought.Ruined. Absolutely ruined.“It’s fine,” Blaire says through clenched teeth, dabbing at the butter stain with a napkin that’s clearly not going to help.It’s not fine. It’s never going to be fine. But we’re all pretending.
“So Macy,” one of the women calls out while reaching for more corn, “I saw your candles went viral. The Stink Bomb line?”
And here we go.
“It’s called Snack After Midnight. The candle people can’t seem to get enough of is called Seaside Surprise,” Macy corrects, her smile tight with murderous intent.
“Right, right. Surprising that anyone bought it,” Kennedy adds, and she’s clearly trying to fit in with the mean girls because that seems to be her survival strategy.
Laughter ripples around the table, and I watch Macy’s face flush.
“Actually,” Macy says, reaching for her wine glass with dangerous calm, “I have a waiting list. Customers are begging me to restock. But sure, keep telling yourself nobody wants it.”
The laughter stops.
Little do they know Macy is the original mean girl. And at this moment,I’m sort of proud of that fact.
“It’s not like it was intentional,” Blaire says, dabbing at her mouth. “The viral thing.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” Macy tilts her head. “Any marketing expert will tell you that memorable beats pretty every single time. And trust me, mac and cheese with caramel drizzle is memorable.”
She’s got a point,Tamsin thinks, and I catch the grudging respect there.Even if it does stink to high heaven.
“Still,” Blaire says, “it’s not exactly the publicity you want for a luxury brand.”
“Luxury?” Macy laughs. “I make soap and candles in Cider Cove, Maine. I’m not some high-end boutique in Paris. I’m not trying to be. But I do pay my bills, own my shop outright, and sleep pretty well at night knowing I’m not drowning in debt to maintain an image.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut yourself with.
Did she just—Kennedy’s thought cuts off abruptly.
Ooh, I like her,Blaire thinks, and there’s actual amusement there.
Sloane sets down her fork. “Actually, I think it’s brilliant marketing. Viral is viral. Any press is good press. Macy is playing a completely different game than the rest of us, and she’s winning.” She sounds sincere. She sounds supportive. She even looks impressed.Though I wouldn’t burn one of those bonfires waiting to happen if you paid me.Her thought is pure acid.The packaging alone is pedestrian.
Macy catches the defense and shoots Sloane a grateful smile, but I can see she knows it’s hollow. You don’t survive in retail without developing a sixth sense for fake kindness. Mysister’s been navigating the mean girl ecosystem since high school, and she’s learned that the prettiest compliments usually come with the sharpest teeth.
“Well,” Macy says, reaching for a lobster tail and cracking it with impressive efficiency, “at least my candles won’t land anyone in prison for fraud. That’s more than some businesses can say.”
She doesn’t look at anyone in particular when she says it, but I watch Sloane’s hand tighten on her wine glass.
That line has to apply to one of these witches, if not all,she thinks to herself with a smug smile.
She’s not wrong.
Careful, little soap maker,Sloane thinks with a dark smile.You have no idea who you’re playing with.
