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I tell myself that she’s not hurting anyone. That there are worse things than waking up to a shelf full of unblinking, creepy doll faces. Not many things but a few.
But I can’t get over her timing.
“Is she really going to spend her last night out as a single woman handling breakable objects with her mom and grandma?” I ask incredulously.
Becky nods.
“What happens when she gets drunk?”
“There’s no alcohol allowed in the auction room,” Becky explains grimly. “Now do you see why I didn’t want to go?”
“Holy shit. That sounds awful.”
I try to imagine Brendon sharing his house with a menagerie of porcelain dolls. Yeah, right. Maybe for batting practice.
I grab the tequila bottle and pour myself another shot. If Henrietta won’t toast to her last night of freedom, I will.
