Ford is buddying up with Ardell? Why?
I scan for Ardell again, but instead I spot Polly, cornered by Carol Parker.
Like she had been in Ford’s garage, Carol is dressed in an all-white tennis set with a baby blue sweater draped over her shoulders. She looks like aGood Housekeepingaction figure—posable and polite. Pull the string on her back and her arm karate-chops fresh flowers.
Carol’s eyes catch mine for half a second—cool and knowing—before her voice lifts into something warm enough to melt butter.
“Este! Nora!” she trills, like we’re all old friends. Even with the dirt she now has on me, Carol knows when it’s time to play nice.
“What a delight to see you here. I was just telling Polly that Art can’t wait to meet her. He’s an enormous admirer of Ford’s.”
Polly waves in my direction, eyes pleading with me to save her from the most boring grown-up conversation ever.
“Hey, Polly, I thought you had tennis,” I say, tossing her a lifeline.
“Not today.” She grimaces. “Dad signed me up to volunteer with the junior caddies at the tournament instead.”
Carol chuckles in that careful, perfect-hostess way of hers. “It’s wonderful to see young people so involved. Ford must be soproud.” She turns her attention to me. “Este knows how important it is to pitch in around here, don’t you?” Her gaze lingers a beat too long. She’s not talking about community service.
Nora clears her throat, and I know we both feel it. Carol’s a breath away from mentioning the tees and the garage snooping.
But then someone calls to Nora and me from across the lounge, giving an enthusiastic wave, and the way Carol’s smile widens makes my jaws clench. “We’re going to have a little trophy ceremony later today,” she says brightly, clapping her hands together once for emphasis. “You could help me pass out the trophies. Like my little assistant.”
Nora sniffs a laugh as the word “assistant” lands with the force of a slap, but I keep my smile fixed. I can’t afford to dissent.
“That sounds…fun,” I manage.
Carol’s eyes glimmer with satisfaction. Being in her pocket is humiliating, but it’s better than being outed for skulking around Ford’s garage like a cat burglar. If Ford knew I’d been pawing through his sports equipment, Polly would never be allowed near my house again.
And she needs the quesadillas.
So I nod, accepting Carol’s Lilly Pulitzer–patterned leash.
“Wonderful.” She presses her palms together like she’s delivering some kind of blessing. “I’ll come find you in a little while.”
She scurries off, leaving Nora and Polly staring at me in disbelief.
“What the hell was that?” Nora shakes her head. “Is Carol your boss now?”
“What? No.”
“But she got to tell you what to do,” Polly chimes in, probably thinking my servitude has something to do with penance for our prank.
She’s half-right.
Nora taps her chin as if trying to remember something. “I mean, she’s giving you assignments. It’s almost like you’re her…what’s the word I’m thinking of? Starts with a ‘b.’ ”
I cross my arms. “I’ll give you a word that starts with ‘b.’ ”
Polly snickers and suggests we go watch the last few teams finish the tournament.
“Isn’t Beau playing?” she asks.
My husband loves team sports and golf and his weed pen. This is his dream afternoon. Never mind the odd housewife whispering about him and Gemma leaving Marcus’s restaurant as he walks by.
He’s the guy who buys the rounds, tips the waitresses without leering, and remembers everyone’s name with a smile. His untouchable charm is out there somewhere on full display.
“Sporty” is not a word anyone would use to describe me. When I was a kid, the most athletic outings my parents engaged in were Renaissance Faires, where someone would heave a ten-foot log across a college field. In New Orleans, Delia counted the annual krewe season with its endless balls and parties as her cardio.
