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Bitchy Betty is getting arrested. Right now. Right before our very eyes. I can’t fucking believe it.
“This is the best day of my whole life,” Stella says emotionally, and I swear I see the glisten of a tear in her eye.
Betty screams her protest like all holy hell as they escort her to one of their cars and place her inside the back seat, covering the top of her blue-haired head just like they do for all the criminals on all the cop shows.
When she’s safely inside, Sgt. James confers briefly with the other officers, who then retreat to their cars, and then he paces the distance of the lawn back up to us.
Carly opens her mouth almost immediately. “What’s going to happen to her? Is she going into the clink? Maximum security? Please tell me it’s a work camp, at least. Community service! Oh my God, yes, I need to see Betty in orange coveralls!”
I have to bite my lips and shake my head to keep from laughing aloud. She’s so fucking happy right now, she’s glowing.
“We’ll just file a misdemeanor disorderly charge, so she’ll probably be out on bail in the morning. It’s safe to say she just needs a little time and assistance in getting herself calm.”
Carly’s smile deflates a little, and that makes me want to laugh even more. Never has there been a greater rivalry in a retirement community than the one between Betty Matthews and Carly Page. Of that, I’m almost sure. If there has, I don’t think I’d want to see it.
It’s a simple charge, and she’ll hardly be left with a hugely tarnished record, but I think this morning, on the streets of Sunny Creek Village in a pink jumpsuit and ripped clothes, Stella and Carly Page have finally been vindicated.
I can hear the munchkins from the Wizard of Oz singing now. Ding-dong, the witch is dead!
Carly
Spirits are officially at an all-time high as Sgt. James pulls away from the house with Betty in the back seat of his car to take her to booking.
Booking, I tell you! JAIL!
I never imagined there could be an ending to our feud as good as this, but sometimes life comes up with some wonderful surprises. Miracle babies. Puppies. Lottery wins. And for me, today, Betty Matthews in the back of a gosh darn cop car!
“Come on, come on,” my mom says, ushering me into the house by crowding me. “I’ve got coffee and muffins inside, fresh baked just a couple hours ago.”
Her hands guide my shoulders, and I have to walk quickly to keep from tripping at the pressure of her pace. Still, it’s not too much that I don’t have the control needed to steal a glance at my cute little rule-follower. I look at Ryan over my shoulder and waggle my eyebrows.
Betty in the drunk tank and muffins! my brain squeals with glee. It doesn’t get much better than that. I don’t care that I’ve already had a big pancake breakfast, after being a part of the real-life episode of Cops that just went down on my mom’s lawn, I can manage a muffin or two.
He smiles, shaking his head at my euphoria. I don’t even have to express my joy verbally. He just knows. It’s written in the very bounce of my normally stable step.
I follow my mom down the hallway into the kitchen and sit down at her little four-seater eat-in table. There’s a basket of muffins in the center and several abandoned mugs of half-drunk coffee, likely those of the police officers who just took their leave. Ryan steps up beside me, brushing against my body with the side of his as he grabs a couple of the mugs and carries them to the sink to rinse them out.
I rub at the pebbled skin of my arm that he’s left behind and then look up and directly into the narrowed eyes of Sal Miller. He looks beyond curious. Dangerously so. And my capacity to confront it head on given the events of the morning is bottomed out somewhere below zero, so I straighten in my chair, grab a muffin from the basket, peel off a piece of the top of it, and shove it in my mouth.
“Ryan, sweetie, could you pour Carly a cup of coffee?” my mom asks, taking a seat in the chair next to me and scooting it nearer to grab my closest forearm. “There should be enough there for a few more cups. Make one for yourself too, and then I’ll start a fresh pot.”
“Of course,” Ryan says politely and gets a couple mugs down from the cabinet to fill.
“She takes two sugars and splash—”
“Of milk,” Ryan finishes with the sexiest of smiles. “I got it, Ms. Page.”
A shiver runs down my spine at just the sound of his voice. I am but a weak, weak woman for him, and I don’t know what to do about it. Let it run rampant and control the course of my life? Squash it like a bug before I reach a state from which is unrecoverable? I just can’t seem to decide.
