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“Couldn’t agree more,” Birdie said with an awkward salute.
“Make it quick,” he said, his eyes squinting at the man behind her.
“Of course. I’ll be right there.”
He finally sauntered away, buttoning up his suit jacket and giving the irresponsible waiter one last threatening glare. Luckily, Lucas kept his mouth shut and his head down with his arms cradling his stomach.
Birdie realized there was no chance of convincing the stubborn man to leave. “Keep to yourself and keep trying to get ahold of Grant. I want to know as soon as you hear something.”
Lucas nodded, but Birdie noticed his eyes narrowing on Errol’s back. “I’m serious, Lucas, if you can’t handle being in the same room with Errol, then you need to leave.”
He nodded, his ominous demeanor gone. Or at least, dampened.
She made her way through the various groups of people, no one stopping to talk to her or commending her on the night’s festivities, as tonight wasn’t her moment in the spotlight. It was Errol’s and Ariana’s. She was merely the freakish sideshow. Albeit, a veritable vision if she did say so herself, with the assistance of several organ-crushing layers of Spanx and a dress that slayed.
The guests stared at her not only because of her attire, but because it wasn’t often one gets to witness firsthand the widow who lost everything at the hand of her stepson and his mother, only to marry him and gain it all back.
It was the stuff movies were made of, Birdie playing the shallow, money-grubbing villain.
As she neared the grand front entrance, farther away from the guests, she spotted four women removing their coats and handing them to a maid dressed in a black cotton dress and white apron.
Errol was standing to the side, Ariana’s voice loud and shrill. “I’m so glad you could come. And dressed to the nines no less and on such short notice,” she said, with open arms.
The ladies turned, and Birdie almost stumbled as she recognized their faces.
Pinkie Wallensky, Erma Jeffries, Willa Mae Rathbun, and Cora Leigh Simmons. Dressed as 1930s mavens in gorgeous pastel gowns, a multitude of feathers, and extra-long strands of pearls.
The Pinkie Posse.
In her home.
Or, Ariana’s home.
In the home that used to be her home, that was, but now wasn’t.
Get it together.
“Well, hello there, Mrs. Shepherd,” Pinkie said with the haughtiness of a queen, her chin in the air and looking down her nose. “I’m sure you never expected to see us again.”
“I…” She didn’t know how to respond as that went without saying.
Erma spoke up for her with an equal amount of aplomb. “After leaving town with all of our money.”
Birdie’s eyes popped wide at that dramatic pronouncement.
Open-mouthed, she glanced at a smug Ariana and then back to the elderly women of Wayward, whom she made overnight TikTak stars. Sorry, TikTok stars. This was truly a surreal moment. “What…are you doing here?”
Ariana’s contemptuous gaze landed on her. “These ladies asked for a private meeting earlier this afternoon. They told me what you did. You should be ashamed.”
What in the world were these women up to?
Cora Leigh, with her sweet as sugar voice, said, “I told your dear mother-in-law that it could have been a misunderstanding. You leaving town with all of our money to fund the Wayward Coastal Development Project. There just had to have been an explanation.”
For Pete’s sake, Cora Leigh wasn’t even capable of feigned indignation.
Willa Mae scoffed dramatically. “The explanation is that she tried to swindle us. No good hussy,” the woman said, with quite the convincing vitriol, a flashback to when Willa Mae thought her son, Fisk, had lost his virginity to her, which he did not. Not even close.
“I…think there must be a mistake—”
