Good thing Wes was only there to fill in the gap until his sister decided to be a mother again and came home. Just until I get my act together, she’d said, but a month had come and gone without so much as a text. Still, Laura didn’t need him reminding her their arrangement was temporary.
Wes sat down beside Laura and tucked her into his side. He waited a few minutes but she didn’t eat a single Cheerio, making his stomach sink. His dumb comment was just another prime example of his inability to do this. To be here, attempting to be a child’s caregiver. Knowing what would distract her and get her spirits back up, he snuck a Cheerio and popped it into his mouth.
“Hey,” she complained.
“Couch snacks are fair game. You want food all to yourself, you sit at the table. Everyone knows that.”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Better eat them fast, before I snag some more.”
Laura turned her body to shield the bowl of dry cereal and shoveled a fistful into her mouth. Better. She was still mid-chew when her spine snapped straight and she pointed at the television. “Oooh. Instant Pot.”
Wes cozied deeper into the couch cushions. “Now we’re talking, kid.” He waited until she was distracted by the infomercial to work his mind voodoo. “You know, I’m no expert on making friends. But if I was hanging out in the classroom, pasting macaroni onto construction paper and stuff, just minding my own business . . . and one of the other kids did a perfect Scooby-Doo impression, I would want her at my craft table. Hundred percent.”
She sucked in a breath. “I do a good Scooby-Doo impression.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He snapped his fingers. “You do. How’s that go again?”
“Scooby-Dooby-Dooooo,” she howled, eyes crossing a little. “That one?”
Was he biased or should there be a talent scout knocking on their door? “That’s quality work, Laura. It’s like I’m in the room with Scooby.”
She beamed. “Now you do it.”
He did it terribly on purpose. “I can’t compete. You’re the master.”
“Thanks.” His niece crawled up under his arm and laid her head on his chest. “We don’t glue macaroni to paper at school anymore. We have iPads now.”
Instead of addressing her implication that he was out of touch, Wes looked down at the top of Laura’s head, frozen. This was new. She’d never cuddled up to him before.
Unsure exactly how to proceed, he relaxed his arm around her shoulders, settled them in as a unit, and went back to watching the television. If there was a weird flip in the middle of his chest, he ignored it. Probably just fatigue or something.
Bethany walked through her living room, toothbrush stuck in her mouth. Using one hand to scrub her pearly whites, she ran the admiring, opposite hand over the jeweled throw pillows that decorated her couch. She wiggled her toes in her thick white carpet and sighed happily, moving the brush to her back teeth and cleaning them with a vigorous circling of bristles.
Tonight’s Just Us League meeting was set to begin in an hour. Their official positivity whiteboard was arranged at the perfect angle in the living room, and the blinds were drawn to an optimal position, allowing in the right amount of Saturday evening light, made hazy by late-fall weather. Champagne flutes were arranged on the kitchen island, waiting to be filled with bubbly. She’d lit a candy-apple candle upon returning from her hair appointment, and the interior of her home called to mind a small-town harvest festival.
“God, I’m good,” she said, the words garbled by her toothbrush. A dribble of white foam cascaded down her chin and she swiped it away. “Ew, Beth.”
She jogged up the stairs to her en suite bathroom, the glowing flicker of her favorite vanilla candles swaying against the white tile, before she spit into the sink and wiped her mouth. She turned her good side to the mirror and smiled, giving her blond hair a gentle tousle.
“Welcome, everyone. What smell? Oh, the candle? I picked it up at an outdoor bazaar in the Hamptons while shopping for artwork to stage our latest flip.” She leaned close to the mirror and ran her tongue along her top row of teeth. “Glamorous? Me? No. You’re so sweet.”
She pushed away from her marble vanity, turning on her big toe and entering the bedroom. Two outfits were laid out on the bed. A cream-colored cashmere sweater that left one shoulder bare, paired with black leather leggings. And a red turtleneck dress. Since she usually wore the former with boots and wouldn’t be leaving the house, she went with option one and slipped on a pair of gold ballet flats to complement the ensemble.
“You’ll do,” she whispered, looking over her reflection with a critical eye. “You’ve worn this before, though.”
Bethany scratched at the side of her neck on her way into the walk-in closet. Her pulse started to hammer beneath her fingertips and she forced herself to stop scratching before she left red marks. She didn’t have time for an outfit change now. Georgie and Rosie would be arriving any minute to help set up for the meeting—
The front door opened and closed downstairs, the voices of her younger sister and their best friend drifting up the stairs.
She took a centering deep breath. “Be there in just a minute!” she called cheerfully, yanking hangers off the racks and running a mental checklist of the outfits she’d worn since the inception of their women-powered support group. If the members knew she was agonizing over her outfit, they would laugh at her. Tell her she was being silly. Heck, some of them wore variations of the same ensemble to every meeting, didn’t they?
They weren’t Bethany Castle, though.
No. They were a hell of a lot more authentic.
Realizing she was scratching at her neck again, Bethany forced herself to stop, finding a silk emerald-green tunic at the back of her closet with the tags still hanging from the wrist. She snapped them off and pulled the garment over her head, speed-walking toward the stairs. Before descending, she tucked her hair artfully behind one ear and fanned the irritated skin at her neck. Then, fingertips casually trailing down the banister, she greeted Georgie and Rosie with a smile. “You ladies look like I need a cocktail.”
Georgie laughed from her perch on the kitchen stool. “On it,” she said, popping the cork from a chilling bottle of champagne Bethany had arranged in a silver bucket beside the flutes.
“I’m on food,” Rosie called, sticking a tray of something delicious looking into the oven. “Beth, we need to have a serious talk about Georgie.”
“I’m right here,” Georgie protested. “You can’t miss me.”
“Let me guess.” Bethany accepted a glass of champagne and took a small sip. “This is bachelorette party related.”
Rosie nodded. “She won’t commit to a plan. She’s noncommittal.”
Georgie threw up her hands, splashing champagne onto the island. “I don’t want one. The wedding is the party. I don’t need a pre-party party.”
Bethany stuck out her bottom lip. “Pre-parties serve a purpose. It will save you from drinking too much and stumbling through the cha-cha slide on your wedding day. You’ll have gotten it out of your system.” She grabbed a folded kitchen towel and wiped up the fizzy splotch of alcohol. “Besides, I’ve already planned it. There’s a binder with colored tabs and everything.”