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Hell, no.
* * *
It was onlysix in the morning but Birdie decided she might as well get up, rather than to continue replaying last night’s humiliating events.
She felt miserable and beyond cantankerous, deciding to forego brushing her teeth or taming the riotous blond curls, accentuated by a particularly suspect strip of brunette down the middle of her part.
It had been months since visiting a salon, but today, she just couldn’t find the energy to try to disguise her trashy lack of hair color down her middle part and just threw it all on top of her head in a messy, and a little bit greasy, bun.
Here was the game plan. She was going to go downstairs, fix herself a heart-healing breakfast because she was literally starving and hurt and… and starving.
Erma Jeffries could kiss her Pilates-deficient ass as she was going to help herself to the kitchen to make bacon and eggs and anything else she damned well pleased.
Period.
End of story.
Then, she was going to pick up her daughter from Lucas’s house, which she would refuse to enter, insisting on sitting outside in her rental car, in her funk—because, again, she didn’t bother to shower—and then spend the day with Mia chucking rocks at cars and harassing the locals.
Okay, maybe not that last part. Because even with her surly attitude, she knew involving her daughter in activities that were sure to encourage a misdemeanor probably should be stricken from her to-do list.
But a girl could dream.
Slipping her feet into her leopard-print slippers, still wearing her crepe de chine pajama set, she made her way to the door. She might be broke, but Angus managed to grab a couple of nice things before they were thrown out of her house. She slogged her way out of the room and down the hall.
Once she got to the stairs, she paused at the sound of laughter. The sound coming from more people than the usual Pinkie crew that showed up most mornings.
As she made her way down the steps, she tried to make out who might be enjoying some fine dining this morning. There was Erma, of course, who was tittering like she had an actual heart instead of a left ventricle pumping sticky tar and ill-will.
Then there was Willa Mae Rathbun, asking someone if they wanted another rasher of sausages, and if she needed to make them another plate of scrambled eggs.
She smiled at another voice, which sounded vaguely familiar. Was that Lorraine Walker? Such a nice lady, maybe she wouldn’t have to duel her way to the kitchen after all.
Then she heard a deep, burly voice say, “Aye, lassies, it’s fair to say that exaggeration is jist truth that lost its temper.”
A wide grin covered her face as she squealed, running down the stairs with renewed glee, she turned the corner at the landing and catapulted down more steps, and then stopped at the curved arch that led into the dining area.
No one noticed her, and she wasn’t sure how to approach a herd of jackals circling her dearest friend. There Angus was, in full Scottish form, as the women all around the table were held spellbound by his brogue and ginger hair and—no, he did not—a full-blown Scottish kilt.
For the love of…
“Birdie, me lassie girl!” He finally noticed her amongst the adulation and shot out of his seat to move around the table. She all but clapped her hands in anticipation of her dear friend’s welcoming bear hug, and when he finally picked her up and swung her around, she found she was crying with sheer joy and abject relief.
“Ya beauty, I beg of yae, no goanae cry.”
He kissed her on the top of her head as she wiped at her cheeks and then thought she heard all the ladies swoon in unison. “I can’t help it. I’m so happy to see you.”
“Haud yer wheest, lassie. Yer heid’s full o’ mince!”
“I won’t shut up and I’m not talking nonsense. I missed you so… so much!”
Birdie felt a soft hand on her arm. “Oh dear, is she going to be okay?”
Wait, what? Was that Willa Mae looking at her with concern in her eyes? The woman who used to tsk-tsk whenever she passed her on the street?
“Get the girl a cold rag, Erma, she’s overwhelmed.”
Yep, that was Willa Mae.
