Page 50 of Macaron Massacre
I grab him by the hand and whisk him to the back.
And make it work. Yes, we do.
Who am I kidding? Everett does all the work, and his wild generosity reminds me of exactly why I fell in love with this man to begin with.
Everett is mine. All mine. And I’m not willing to share him with some psycho that might be roving around Honey Hollow.
No, she must be stopped before it’s too late.
Or else?
* * *
Tuesday comesand goes in a patriotic tornado as voters rush to the polls, eager to make sure their chosen candidate is the next to lead our sweet little town under their careful supervision.
No matter how smarmy I think Mayor Nash is, when push came to shove, he received my vote in the end—and, apparently, everyone else’s. He won in a landslide, despite the fact he was a starring suspect in a homicide investigation—at least in the court of public opinion. Noah pretty much cleared him early on.
And here we are, a beautiful Wednesday afternoon in June at the base of Honey Lake with endless tents set up, tables laden with food catered from the Honey Pot Diner, my macaron towers stationed artfully throughout the refreshment tables. I’ve donned a pale blue sundress with white polka dots in honor of the occasion. I picked it up at the Scarlet Sage boutique owned and run by the woman who gifted the shop its moniker. It was only twenty bucks, and God knows I’m a sucker for a deal. It may not be my usual dress code while I’m working, but it’s far too warm to squeeze into my jeans. And besides, this shade of blue just so happens to bring out the blue in my boyfriend’s eyes. Just thinking about Everett has me swooning.
I’ve been at the lake for over an hour setting up, reconstructing a partially capsized macaron tower, and all with my purse slung across my shoulders. It’s actually a cute little black leather backpack with copper-colored zippers that Lainey gifted me last Christmas.
Since I assured Everett I would bring my gun with me wherever I went—sans the bakery because, let’s face it, I can’t wear this backpack while mixing in a bowlful of chocolate chips into the most delicious batter in the world. That would just be wrong. Otherwise it’s been, well, with me everywhere.
I spot Carlotta and the victor himself having a bit of an animated conversation by the platform constructed to hold his podium.
I stride over and shed a forced grin at the two of them. “Well, if it isn’t the winner himself. Congratulations. I just wanted you to know, you had my vote yesterday.”
His affect brightens. His wavy light brown hair turns yellow at the tips in the sun.
“Why thank you, Lottie. I appreciate that.” He glances back to Carlotta briefly before reverting his attention my way. “Have you seen your mother?”
“Oh, actually, she was just helping me set up. I think she went back to the bakery van to make sure that was the last of it.”
He nods just past us. “And there she is. If you’ll both excuse me.” He takes off, and Carlotta growls in his wake.
“It looks like I saved you.”
She averts her eyes. “In a lot of ways, you’ve complicated things. Can you believe that just because he’s rich and educated and has theperfect lifehe thinks he’s better than me?” She saysperfect lifewith air quotes.
A husky laugh brews in me. “I’d hardly call his life perfect. He’s a serial philanderer.” I turn and spot him fawning all over my mother, the two of them giggling like a couple of teenagers. “I’m just sickened that my mother can’t think straight when it comes to men.”
“Don’t be too hard on her”—she scoffs—“that man has been known to cast his spell hard over a woman or two.”
“More like ten or twelve—dozen.” I spot Meg over by a tent just shy of the evergreens. “Why don’t you have a few of my cookies? That always seems to settle you.” A shimmering spray of ethereal stars glows by the refreshment table. “And see that? You can talk to Nell while you’re at it.” I shoo her off as I make a beeline for Meg.
“What’s up, Lot?” Meg doesn’t look up from the paperwork in front of her. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing a light blue sundress, an accouterment seldom seen on my beautiful baby sis—and it just so happens to be identical to the one I’ve donned myself.
“The sun isup,” I say. “And I’m glad about it, too. Hey, I like your dress.”
She looks my way, and we share a laugh. “I can’t accuse you of not having great taste. Scarlet Sage?”
“The one and only. I do love me a good sale. And I love me a good sunny day, too. Have you noticed that summer is never long enough?” I peer over the stack of paperwork in front of her. There’s a sheet with a list of names written in three columns, filled to the brim. “What’s that?”
“It’s a list of contributors. Mayor Nash likes to thank those who donate to his campaign by publicly humiliating them.” She twists her lips to the side and looks as adorable as she was when she was six. No matter how old she gets, no matter the fact she’s just one year younger than me, I will forever see her as a six-year-old in pigtails.
“So, where’s Scott Dushane's contributor list?” I give a sly wink. “Or is the lack of one the reason he lost?”
Meg gives a wistful shake of the head. “He had ’em. Not as many as Mayor Trash, but he had a handful. He had a lot of money to back him, too. It’s a head scratcher as to what he did with it, though. I should have been in charge of his finances. Typical man. He probably blew it all on booze and women. Most of his contributors are here. In fact, he’s here, too. He’s right over there by the civic booth talking to the city council members.”