Page 22 of The Party Plot

“Love it,” Alice said.

“We’ll need a lot of tree branches, too. The creepier the better.”

“We can definitely do that. I think some of the flowers we’ll have to outsource.”

“Most folks around here just want sunflowers and hay bales for fall,” Gary agreed.

“But Casey has avision,” Alice said, flashing him a smile over her shoulder.

He did, Laurel, thought, sneaking a glance at him. Casey’s face was almost serene, and he looked perfect as always, not a hair out of place. He smelled nice, too, and not like a cigar store had exploded all over him. There were little birds embroidered on his shirt. Laurel envied their closeness to his skin. He thought of the apartment the night before, seeing Casey undone, the way the waist of his worn-out sweatpants had clung to his hip bones.

What was going on Casey’s head? His dark eyes sparkled as he spoke, his artistic hands making shapes in the air. Was it an act? No one would memorize that many types of flowers just for a scam. So then, did he actually like event planning? Laurel searched his expression for some sign of contempt, for an indication that he was secretly judging the Abernathys, their folksiness, the goats and the scarecrows and the chintzy hand-painted murals on either side of the barn (one saidLife’s a Peach; the other said,Keep Calm and Berry On). But maybe Laurel was the snob, because here he was picking apart this charming little slice of Americana while Casey seemed to be having a blast.

“You’re good at this,” he said finally, when the consultation was over, the timeline finalized and a tentative budget set. They were sitting in the car, hot leather seats baking against Laurel’s back and legs, and he couldn’t help saying it. The thought had been heavy on his tongue for the last half of the visit.

The look of quiet contentment dropped off Casey’s face as quickly as a curtain falling. “I think you should let me drive.”

“I’m not even buzzed,” Laurel said, though his brain felt a little wobbly. He was unsettled, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the alcohol. He probably should let Casey drive. If only so he wouldn’t feel like a hypocrite for worrying about Melody behind the wheel. But he didn’t want Casey touching his car; it felt too intimate somehow. The Land Rover had been in storage for months, and he’d missed it, and the open Lowcountry roads. He didn’t get to drive a lot in Europe.

He turned the key in the ignition. “I mean it. You’re good at this. I don’t know why you don’t just do it as a real job. Being a party planner could be super lucrative.”

“Being a party planner is bullshit.” Casey twisted the dial on the AC all the way up, and Laurel felt annoyance needling at his spine. “Being at someone’s beck and call all the time. Existing just to make sure someone else has a perfect experience.”

Laurel bit his lip. “I get it.”

“You don’t. Have you ever had to send back an entire cupcake tower because the royal purple icing didn’t look royal enough? Or taken a poodle to get fitted for a Swarovski crystal-encrusted eyepatch?”

He shrugged, trying for humor. “I bet you could write a hell of a memoir.”

Casey rolled his eyes. “It’s not a funny story. It’s being treated like an accessory. It’s seeing absolutely disgusting amounts of money change hands and knowing all of it is going towards the stupidest shit, when you don’t even have dental insurance.”

Laurel looked out at the road. “Well, what are you going to do with your disgusting amount of money when this is over?”

“I don’t know.” Casey was messing with the window control, opening it a crack and then rolling it back up. Laurel pressed the child lock button. Casey flung himself back into the seat, scowling.

A red, white, and blue sign for Wayon Bonard, “The People’s Congressman,” whizzed by in Laurel’s periphery. It was an eyesore, taking up half the sky, Wayon Bonard’s piggy little eyes boring into him. He grimaced, the sour feeling in his stomach getting stronger.

“So why are you really doing this?” Casey asked.

“What?”

“It doesn’t even seem like you like your mom that much. So why are you insisting on going through with this ball, instead of just turning me in? Got something to prove?”

Laurel wasn’t sure he should tell him. He wasn’t sure he even knew, himself. He was probably just being stupid and had, once again, thrown himself headfirst into something without thinking about the consequences. He pressed his lips together, fiddling with the air conditioning.

“Is it just for the pleasure of my company?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Laurel’s hands tightened on the wheel. He was going a little too fast for the rutted gravel road, the car shuddering around them. “Regardless of how much I do or don’t like her, I don’t want to see her humiliated.” That much was true, at least. Theoretically. Maybe-probably.

“Huh. Well, I guess as long as you’re paying me, it doesn’t matter.” Casey leaned back, folding his arms behind his head.

“That’s right, it doesn’t.”

An electronic ringing noise filled the car as Laurel’s bluetooth sparked to life. Denise’s name flashed across the screen, and he groaned. He didn’t want to talk to her. But he also didn’t want Casey in his head, digging up the past, questioning his reasoning. Laurel’s collar felt hot, irritation weighing him down. He didn’t like feeling this way, like all the varnish had been sanded off his emotions.

“Mom,” he said, his thumb pressing too hard against theanswericon. He forced a smile into his voice. “Hi.”

“Laurel, honey.” Denise’s voice came blaring out of the speaker. “Are you out at the Abernathy farm? Sarah Ann Copeland said she saw you there with Casey.”

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