Page 5 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

A few shrill screams go off, along with the illumination of a few cell phones just as the lights come back.

And to my surprise, I find a cute little white fox sitting on my belly with freakishly tall ears spiked into the air. It belts out a few quick barks before disappearing in a vat of pink and blue stars.

Both Carlotta and I yelp in response.

“What is it, Lemon?” Everett asks while pulling me in.

“It was that tiny little ghost of a fox,” I say. “It was just here.” I pat my belly in the exact same spot. “But now it’s gone.”

“It might be gone”—Everett says as he scours the room—“but I have a feeling the killer has arrived.”

LOTTIE

The music swells around us, a lively Irish jig that makes my twins do a little jig of their own against my ribcage.

Everett, Noah, Carlotta, and I weave through the sea of redheads toward Eliza Baxter, who stands like a statue carved from ice despite the warmth in the community center tonight.

“Mom?” Everett says with his voice as formal as it always is when addressing the woman who birthed him. “I had no idea you were coming to Honey Hollow.”

Eliza’s perfectly manicured hand flutters to her pearl necklace. Eliza is tall, statuesque, has a shock of dark hair, and has the standard-issued Baxter cobalt blue eyes.

Everett has them, too, as does our daughter Evie. I actually adopted Evie when she popped into our lives a few years back after being all but abandoned by her birth mother. I’m still so thankful each and every day that she’s in our lives. But I digress. Not only does Evie have the Baxter baby blues, but she has the rest of their standard-issued good looks, too.

“Everett, dear.” She sheds an easy smile. “Forgive me. This was a last-minute decision on my part.” She leans in and kisses him on both cheeks and Noah as well.

“It’s always good to see you, Eliza,” he says.

“Likewise,” she says. “Especially you.” She points my way and gives a little wink. Her silver-streaked auburn hair is swept into an elegant updo that would make my hairstylist weep with envy. She wears an emerald green dress that probably costs more than my minivan and has on a cream-colored coat that screams old money. That’s because sheisold money.

Eliza is a hotel heiress.

Fun fact: Noah’s dubious father was once married to Eliza. And after he stole a bunch of her money, he faked his own death. But he’s back from the proverbial other side and somehow he’s managed to latch himself to Miranda Lemon, my own mother—the one who raised me.

“Lottie”—Eliza nods with her usual restrained warmth—“you’re looking so very”—she cringes a moment as she inspects my painfully swollen body—“expectant.”

“That’s one word for it,” I agree, patting my belly. “The doctor says I canexpectthe twins any day now.”

Before Eliza can respond, a woman steps up beside her. She looks to be in her late sixties with short red hair with a hint of gray roots, wearing a stylish black pantsuit with a green silk scarf. There’s something skittish in her eyes as she quickly scans the room before landing our way.

“And this is the reason I’m here,” Eliza says, pulling the woman in by the elbow. “This is one of my bridge buddies from Fallbrook, Glinda Van Jance.” Eliza’s smile widens, genuine and warm. “Glinda, this is my son Everett, his wife Lottie, and my bonus son Noah.”

Carlotta coughs loudly.

“AndCarlotta,” Eliza adds with a sigh.

“That’s right. Lizzy and I are practically besties,” Carlotta is quick with the lie. “That’s why we color-coordinated today.” Sheelbows Eliza and nearly knocks her over like a bowling pin. “Glad you got the memo, Sexy Mama.”

Sexy is Carlotta’s nickname for Everett—for obvious reasons. And apparently, it’s been extended to his mother as well. Carlotta has a long history of giving people nicknames—that they’ve earned or she’s simply christened them with. Usually, it’s the latter.

“It’s a pleasure,” Glinda says, quickly shaking everyone’s hand with a firm grip that speaks of someone used to commanding respect. And I can tell by the way she holds herself, she certainly does that.

Carlotta grunts. “So what gives? The two of you just sit around all day playing bridge at the country club?” She locks onto Glinda. “You’re not a hotel heiress, too, by chance? Or let me guess, you came upon your wealth the old-fashioned way—by way of a wedding ring.”

“Carlotta,” I scold, but it’s useless at this point.

“Simmer down, Lot Lot,” she scolds right back before turning her attention to the poor woman in front of us. “I’m a big believer in marrying wellandoften—preferably to men with large life insurance policies and questionable health.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes at the thought. Carlotta has never once accomplished that questionably fiscal feat. At least that I know of.

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