Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Must be nice.
It was a last resort, checking the closet. I’m actually thankful, because the last damned thing I’d want to do is show up to a ball in my uncle’s oversized slacks with a belt choking it in place.
I’m not gonna waste another minute flip-flopping through my clothes pretending I have a clue what I’m doing.
So it’s in my plain white button-down and decent jeans—the only pair I got without any holes—that I drag myself outside, over the lawn, and to Wyatt’s front door. I hate myself for a second, tell myself to chill, lift my knuckles to knock, then my fist, then drop my hand to my side and shake my head.
What’s the big deal? He’s come over two or three times this week wanting to check up on how things are going with the car. I haven’t scared him off. Things are okay.
Why am I a stupid sack of nerves today?
I press the doorbell.
Easier to do than a knock, I guess.
I wait ten seconds.
Ten more.
Then I ring the doorbell again, this time with an ear to the door to make sure I hear it.
Still no answer.
I’m at the other end of the porch peering in through the glass of his front window when the rumble of a car engine behind me makes me spin around. Someone pulls up to the curb and stops. Window rolls down.
A woman’s round, sweet face pops out. “Lookin’ for Wyatt? He ain’t home, hon.”
My eyes flick to the driveway.
Am I really that freaked out by bad fashion that I didn’t notice a whole damned vehicle missing?
Suddenly the woman’s out of her car and heading straight up the driveway. “He’s at the McPherson’s gettin’ his flowers set up. Did you need somethin’?”
I stare her down.
This woman with a voice as airy as cotton.
She taps a hand to her cheek. “Jesus, help me, I just realized you would not remember me from Eve. I’m Patricia. Patty Parker. I live down the street. Thick as thieves with your dear auntie Lottie. Babysat you nine, ten times. My, how you’ve grown!” Her eyes do a dance all over me. “My, how you’ve grown,” she repeats in a deeper tone. “Mercy.” Then she appears instantly ashamed of herself and pats her cheek the way you wake up someone who’s concussed. “I am someone’s mother, Lord forgive me.”
That last part she says to herself.
I have no idea what just happened.
“Sweet darlin’, is that what you’re wearing tonight?”
I glance down at myself, then back at her.
“You know what?” She takes hold of my hand, which catches me so off-guard, I nearly fall off the porch when she says, “We live just down the street. I was just headin’ into town to meet Dale for a little—Oh, what am I doin’, you didn’t ask. Come. I’m gonna help you, sweet darlin’, just like Lottie would expect me to.”
I don’t remember getting in her car. Or arriving at her house.
Hanging next to her front door, printed on a plank of polished white oak: God sees everything, but your neighbor sees more.
All I know is one minute I’m on Wyatt’s porch, the next, I’m in someone’s bedroom while Patty empties two closets onto a bed.
“Dale!” she hollers. Then: “Oh, Lord, he’s not even home. I’m shoutin’ at walls. Don’t worry, we’ll find somethin’ in your style.”
Next second, I’m left alone to try twenty things on while she shouts from the other side of the door. “My son Bobby left some stuff in his closet, but I think he’s smaller than you. Oh, you know what? Think he’s got a jacket that’ll match the—Yes, I’ll go check! Try on the pink one, don’t forget!”
I pick up a pink shirt, squinting at it.
“The other pink one!” she calls out—despite having no eyes in the room and having no clue which shirt I just grabbed. “Not the one with the doohickey on it. We’re goin’ to a ball, not church.”
No idea what doohickey she’s talking about.
I’m on my fourth outfit when she’s back in the room, three jackets over her arm. “Nope,” she says, flinging one onto the bed after slapping it to my chest for a look. “Nope. Absolutely not. Oh, maybe, if you got a nice boutonniere …”
This goes on for a while.
When I finally speak, my words come out like gravel. Haven’t talked since I got here. “Weren’t you supposed to, uh …” I clear my throat. “… meet your husband someplace an hour ago?”
“What husband?” she mumbles dismissively before dumping an armful of shoes onto the floor. “You want a pair that’s shiny … but not too shiny. You wanna look like a thousand bucks, darlin’, not a million. No one likes a million.”
Next come the ties.
No power on earth could prepare me for the ties.
“No. Not happening. Nope. No.” She keeps rejecting tie after tie, holding each one up to my neck. “You’re not an accountant. No, you’re not a butler. You’re—Oh, maybe a bowtie could work. Do you wanna try a bowtie? I can fetch some. Bobby wore ‘em to death back in high school. Do you know Bobby? Have you met? He must be so nervous right now, up at the pavilion doin’ last-minute prep stuff for their dance … Oh, right, the bowties. Gimme a minute!”