"Maddie, dear." She stands right in front of Jazz and me and tilts her head the way she does when she's about to ask a deeply personal question. "We're all so glad your mother is doing so well. Your father must be over the moon."
Oh. Maybe I misjudged the elderly gnome after all.
"He really is," I say, and I mean it. "It's been a good year."
"Of course, of course." She nods, then picks an invisible thread off her sleeve. A pause, perfectly timed. "Can I ask you something?"
Here we go. My bad for always thinking the best about everyone.
"Mrs. Kowalski..." I begin.
"Evelyn Primrose told me you were seen kissing Demetrius Thornwood on the pier the other day," Mrs. Kowalski blurts out like she can't help herself, which is probably the case. "I told her that certainly, if my neighbor's daughter was kissing a billionaire, I would surely know it before she does."
I hold very still.
"So, is it true?" She says it with a ravenous expression, like curiosity is eating her up alive. "Are you and Demetrius an item now?"
The backyard contracts by about forty percent and I look down at my feet again as hot, treacherous tears burn my eyes. I'm aware of my mother at the periphery of my vision, the way she shoots me a concerned glance as she entertains the wives of my dad's employees by the bounce house we rented for the kids.
Jazz puts her lemonade down.
"Mrs. Kowalski," Jazz says, in the warmth-level-zero voice she reserves for bluntness. Jazz isn't really into coddling, anyway. "Maddie is here to celebrate her mom. And I'm going to go ahead and run a little interference on the neighborhood bulletin board for a sec." She smiles, which is not actually a smile. "She's taking a break from busybodies today. Okay?"
Mrs. Kowalski opens her mouth. Then she seems to think better of it.
"Oh, I didn't mean to pry, dear. I just thought it was lovely, that's all."
"It really was," Jazz says, with a smirk so precise it functions as a door closing. "Buffet looks amazing, by the way. Grace made her famous potato salad. You're hungry, right?"
Mrs. Kowalski takes the hint. She pats my arm, says she will bring me a plate in a minute, and drifts back toward thegrill where the Knitters Club is holding court, glancing hungrily at us like sharks waiting for their next victim. The Knitters Club minus their ruling sovereign, who is already settled at the rehabilitation center, as Mrs. Fairweather confirmed this morning.
The backyard expands again and I remember how to breathe.
I look at Jazz. Jazz looks at me. She picks up her lemonade.
"Did I ever tell you that I love you?" I ask her.
"Not nearly enough, bestie. Not nearly enough."
I chuckle and it feels so good, it almost brings fresh tears to my eyes. Almost.
That's when I hear it.
A low, deep rumble cuts through the backyard noise. This is not Mr. Prewitt's ancient truck or Mrs. Allen's rickety sedan that backfires on hills. It's something bigger and much, much smoother. Something utterly out of place on my parents' street.
I've only ever heard one engine that can produce that kind of rumble and it makes my heart jump all the way into my throat and almost past my teeth. That would have been the story of a lifetime for Mrs. Kowalski to spread all over town. Madison Berwick, vomiting her own heart right in front of her mother's guests.
The conversation nearest to me stutters, then comes to a slow stall and dies. One of Dad's coworkers turns his head toward the front of the house. Then the woman beside him does the same. Then Mrs. Kowalski, who was halfway to the potato salad, stops dead in her tracks.
Jazz sets her lemonade down very slowly. "Maddie, wait."
I'm already on my feet.
I don't know what I think I'm going to do. Intercept, maybe. Head it off. Get there first and deal with whatever this is. That's the plan I make in the three seconds it takes me to cross the yard and push through the side gate.
Then I stop cold in my tracks.
Parked at the curb, half-blocking the road, is Demetrius's monstrous Rolls-Royce. It sits there long and black and obscene in the late afternoon sun, and the neighbors who were already drifting toward the sidewalk stop and stare.
