Page 7 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“You kid, but this is good for you.” She pauses. “Might help offset all that meat on your platters.”
“Charcuterie,” I remind her. Because it’s literally my business. Just Around the Board pays for these overpriced candles, thank you very much.
Wait? What does she mean, “offset all that meat?”
I have a good body. Maybe even great, for forty-two. Pilates, kickboxing, a little Krav Maga. Okay, not complete Krav Maga, but enough to elbow a creep in the throat and work up a sweat.
The kitchen hums with polite small talk. I smile, nod, pour coffee. Perfect hostess outside. Inside? I’m still crouched behind mangoes watching Noah rescue a toddler.
Two years without him. Now he’s in my head like a song I never wanted to remember the lyrics to.
I’m refilling the French press when the back door clicks open—Amy. No knock, no hello, just sliding in like she owns the place. Sunglasses, oversized t-shirt, iced coffee, giving me the look. Not “hi friend.” Not “how’s it going?” The “we’re talking about Noah whether you like it or not,” look.
She sets her drink down, scans the room, and chirps, “Mornin’, everyone.” As though she has every right to be here. If you ask me, she does. But she’s not an official member becauseshe doesn’t have a store front downtown. But she does run her own business. Amy is a young adult cozy mystery author. And anyone who thinks being an author is not a business is just foolish. Amy is all things to her business in the same way the rest of us are with ours: marketing, product development, management, financial, administrative, labor… you get the idea.
The rest of the SLSBA members trickle in. Soon we’re knee-deep in passive-aggressive debates over garbage can placement and someone’s cardboard marketing cutout “violating community harmony” where it sits on Main Street.
I nod. I sip. I smile. Repeat.
Finally, the meeting adjourns. I’m halfway through a lavender scone when Linda pounces.
“So, Elle,” she says, syrupy sweet. “How are things?”
I freeze, fork in midair.
What’s she fishing for?
Play it cool. Be breezy. I look to my scone. Like... lavender… in the wind.
“Oh, you know. Nothing new. Work, kids, heat stroke.” I cram more scone in my mouth.
“I heard your ex-husband is back in town.”
I choke. Coffee saves me. “How could you possibly know that already?”
“Martha’s a good friend. She works at Green Grocer. Said she saw the two of you getting cozy in produce this morning.”
“Wow. News travels fast,” I say flatly.
“Not much else to do here but talk,” she says, sharpening her conversational knife under the table.
God, I hate her.
Lavender in the wind, Elle.
I lean in. “Then you’ll love this—he also rescued a toddler from pickle-related death.”
Her brows jump. “Really?”
“Hero stuff. Very public. Lots of witnesses. I’m sure Martha can give you the play-by-play next time you’re buying bread without souls.”
Linda blinks, caught between intrigue and irritation. I sip my coffee like my pulse isn’t still sprinting.
Across the room, Amy raises her brows in a we’re debriefing the second this is through.
The last guest finally drifts out after over staying their over stay. My hostess smile collapses like it’s been stapled on too long.
Amy drops into Noah’s chair, the one the kids dubbed the daddy throne. The one I cuddle in late at night when I can’t sleep and silently cry because it no longer smells like him. I’m not sure it ever really did outside my imagination.
