She’s loading lobster into her purse—not discreetly tucking away a claw or two, not wrapping anything in a napkin like a civilized person, just straight-up grabbing chunks of lobster meat with her bare hands and droppingthem into her enormous tote bag like she’s at a buffet with a to-go container.
“Georgie, what are you doing?” Mom hisses.
“Taking home leftovers. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re committing a felony against shellfish!”
“There’s perfectly good lobster going to waste here, Preppy. I’m being economical.”
Macy’s been observing this whole scene with pure glee, and apparently she’s decided Georgie’s onto something because suddenly she’s reaching for her own purse. Within seconds, she’s committed—corn on the cob vanishing into her bag, potatoes rolling in after, and then she grabs an entire lobster tail, wraps it in a napkin, and stuffs it in like she’s packing a lunch.
“Macy!” My voice comes out strangled. “You, too?”
“What? Georgie’s right. This is like fifty dollars of lobster per person. I’m not letting it go to waste.”
Mackenzie’s friends look like they’ve just witnessed a crime. Mouths open. Wine frozen halfway to their lips. They’re not wrong; this is grand theft lobster, and we’re not even pretending to be sorry.
I have never been more proud,Fish announces.
Wait, they can just TAKE the food?Biscuit Gravy sounds like his entire worldview just shattered.Like, just grab it and PUT IT IN A PURSE? Why doesn’t everyone do this ALL THE TIME?
I need a purse,Sherlock says urgently.Bizzy, I need a purse immediately.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Mackenzie appears from nowhere, her voice hitting apitch usually reserved for dog whistles. “YOU CANNOT PUT LOBSTER IN YOUR PURSE!”
“Why not?” Georgie asks, utterly unbothered. “You said this was a casual Maine experience. Well, this is how we do leftovers in Maine.”
“In CONTAINERS! In PROPER CONTAINERS! Not in DESIGNER HANDBAGS!”
“Eh.” Georgie shrugs. “My purse is from a craft fair. It’s seen worse.”
Macy nods along. “And mine is leather. It’ll wipe clean.”
“That is NOT the point!” Mackenzie is about to have a stroke. “You’re supposed to be CIVILIZED! You’re supposed to be CLASSY!”
“We are classy,” Georgie says, dropping another chunk of lobster into her bag. “We’re just also practical and hungry at odd hours in the night. Like you’ve never craved a good lobster at three in the morning.”
Strangely, I have. More than once.
Mom puts her head in her hands. “I don’t know them. I’ve never seen these women before in my life.”Never mind the fact I gave birth to one of them.
Blaire looks like she’s witnessing a felony and can’t decide whether to call the police or faint. Tamsin’s filming the whole thing on her phone—probably for blackmail purposes. Kennedy’s trying not to laugh and losing the battle spectacularly, wine threatening to come out of her nose. And Sloane—Sloane’s got a real, genuine smile on her face, the kind that says she wishes she’d thought of this first.
“You know what?” Macy says, grabbing one more piece. “Emmie made this lobster, and Emmie wouldn’t want it wasted. So really, we’re honoring her hard work.”
“By putting it in your purse?” Mackenzie growls like she’s about to pounce.
“Exactly.”
Mackenzie makes a sound that’s half shriek, half sob, and storms off toward the parking area.
Georgie looks at Macy. Macy looks at Georgie.
They both dive for more lobster.
I love these women,Fish declares.I want to be exactly like them when I grow up.
Between Mackenzie’s meltdown and Georgie’s seafood smuggling operation, I’m starting to think the real mystery this week isn’t who killed Brittany—it’s how any of us are going to survive each other until the Fourth of July.
