I frown at Hayley and she tells me Hank Marvin is cockney slang for starving and sammie is sandwich.
“Help yourself,” I say, even though I think she will regret mixing her mango margarita with a cheese and pickle sammie. “The pickles are in the fridge.”
“Anyone else want a sammie?”
“No, ma’am.”
“No, thank you,” Hayley says.
“Hayley,” I say, “why don’t I invite Brandon to join us?”
“It is your knees up.”
“Knees up?”
“Party.”
“What do you say, should I invite Brandon Nickerson to my knees up?”
“Are you playing matchmaker again?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely.” I grin. “You are both hard workers who crave adventure. What do you say, fancy giving Brandon a go?”
“Fine.” She sighs.
Deidre returns with a plate of pickle and cheese sandwiches on crusty bread sprinkled with Cornish sea salt. We munch the sammies and take turns doing each other’s makeup. I spray Morrocanoil Mist on Hayley’s wild curls and give her a full face, smoky eyes, red lips, and dramatic lashes. She looks glam. Deidre gives me thick baby doll eyelashes and bright pink, Betty Boop lips. Hayley gives Deidre an eighties makeover, with frosted blue eye shadow.
“Let’s snap selfies,” I say, grabbing my iPhone.
“I look dreadful in selfies,” Deidre says.
“Not if we take one together,” I say, holding the camera high in the air and tilting it so we are all in the frame. “It has been scientifically proven that individual faces appear more attractive when presented in a group. It’s called the cheerleader effect.”
Deidre and Hayley move in close and I snap a dozen photos.
“This has been mad fun,” Hayley says, flopping back on the couch. “Is this what it was like when you lived in your sorority?”
“Yes”—I flop on the couch beside her—“when we weren’t going to classes, cramming for exams, or holding fund-raisers for our philanthropic causes.”
“I think I would like to live in a sorority,” Deidre says, squeezing in between us. “It sounds loads more fun than living with my mum. She treats me like I am still in nappies.”
“My grands are the same way,” Hayley says.
“I have a great idea!” I say, sitting up. “Why don’t you both move in with me?”
“Are you serious?” Hayley says, sitting up. “Dead serious?”
“Why not? I have four bedrooms and a teensy-tiny fear of coming home to a dark house and being stabbed with a knitting needle by a psychopath hiding in a cupboard.”
“What? How many margaritas did you drink?”
“Just kidding.” I laugh, even though I am not kidding.
“How much would you want in rent?”
I wave my hand, dismissing her words.
“You have to let me pay something.”
“Truth, y’all?” I look at both of my friends. “Normally, I would refuse your rent money, but I sold a piece of my momma’s jewelry just so I would have the money to pay the estate taxes for this place. Until my matchmaking business takes off, I need to economize. Trust me, the word economize was not in my vocabulary until I moved here.”
“So,” Hayley says. “We would be helping you by moving in?”
“Yes,” I say, my cheeks flushing with heat. “That’s not why I asked you, though.”
“I believe you, Emma Lee,” Hayley says. “When can I move in? Would next week be too soon?”
“Next week would be great!”
“What about you, Deidre?” Hayley asks, nudging Deidre.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s your mum, isn’t it?” Hayley says. “You are afraid she wouldn’t be able to manage on her own.”
“Her eyesight isn’t as bad as she pretends,” Deidre says, her voice low, as if it is the first time she has ever spoken the words aloud. “She was gutted after my dad passed, stayed in her pajamas all day, staring at the telly. People were sympathetic for the first year or two, but she kept on with the grief, feeding it like a flame she didn’t want to extinguish. I finally told her she was driving everyone away with her constant whinging and wailing. The next day, she said she thought she was going blind, that her vision was narrow and dark.”
Deidre is quiet for a long time, and I sneak a peek out of the corner of my eye to make sure she hasn’t fallen asleep, but she is just deep in thought.
“Mum will be fine.”
“Does that mean you are moving into Wood House?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely!”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
Remember when I had to take Biol 1030 and I moaned it did not make sense for a Communications major—who would end up handling public relations for a major social media outlet—to waste time learning about cellular activity (not cell phone activity)? I thought all scientists were atom-splitting geniuses. I saw an article today about two scientists who studied the behavior of four dozen couples over the course of sixteen years. Their findings: Kindness is the most important component in a successful relationship, and surprises are kindnesses that keep the relationship vitally alive. What a no brainer!
I am sprawled out across my bed, adding a string of hashtags (#picoftheday #mygirls #britishbesties #makeup) to the best shot from last night’s makeover session, when I think I hear someone at the front door. It takes a moment to penetrate my consciousness because I am multitasking—hashtagging like a social media boss and fretting about Lexi. She hasn’t added an update to her Facebook News Feed or answered my texts since Cash left for his Pigeon Forge foray and I am worried about her. First, she starts acting all insecure. Then, she falls off the grid. I might be fretting and clucking over nothing, but you must play momma hen every now and then when you have a bestie with a history of depression.
I cock my ear and listen. I hear Hayley’s soft, gurgling snore coming from the room next door, and the white noise of the river whooshing outside my window. I am about to return to my hashtagging and fretting when I hear it again: a thud.
The sort of thud a psychopath might make if he were climbing in through a window or riffling through drawers in search of knitting needles.
Thud-thud.
Hang on! That sounds more like the thud of the front-door knocker. I look at the time at the top of my iPhone screen. It is just after eight—on a Sunday morning—when saints are making their way to church and sinners are sleeping off a night spent imbibing too many margaritas. (Sorry, Jesus! The mango made me do it!)
I climb out of bed, stumble into the bathroom, and gasp when I see my reflection. Sweet Mother of Pearl! I must not have removed all my Betty Boop–inspired makeup before going to bed last night because there are black marks around my eyes that make it appear as if I got tattoos to give me scary baby-doll lashes, and the skin around my lips is stained fuchsia. I look like Betty Boop about to take the walk of shame—I am even wearing a silky red babydoll!
Thankfully, the thudding seems to have stopped. I reckon it was a tourist looking for a bed-and-breakfast. I grab a fistful of makeup wipes and scrub away my hangover face. A few sprays of dry shampoo, some tinted moisturizer with illuminator, fresh mascara, brush my teeth, and I have removed the shame from my game. I put on my fluffy spa robe, the one with my loopy monogram embroidered in lipstick red thread on the pocket, slip my feet into faux fur slippers, and pad to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Thud. Thud.
Sugar honey iced tea (It’s an acronym, y’all. Southern ladies do not use cuss words—especially on a Sunday morning)! There is something banging away at the front door.
I walk to the front door and look through the peephole, but there is nobody there. No lost tourists. The drive is empty, no cars or delivery vans.
I shuffle back to the kitchen and am pouring water into the teakettle when I hear it again, the thud-thud of the door knocker.
I walk back to
the front door and peer through the peephole. The image is slightly warped, like the reflection in a fun-house mirror. Warped rosebushes. Warped garden path. Warped wooden garden gate. That is all. I hold my breath and wait for a warped face to suddenly pop up on the other side of the peephole or someone to creep out of the bushes.
But—nothing.
I creep over to the window, pull the curtains back, and look out, but the angle is all wrong to determine if someone is lurking beside the front door.
Back I go, into the kitchen to light the AGA and put the kettle on the front burner. I am reaching for the kettle when someone knocks on the back door.
“Son of a b”—I draw the b sound out for several seconds, willing my heart to start beating again—“iscuit!”
I drop the kettle onto the burner with a loud clang and walk to the back door. I turn the key in the lock and swing the door open to find Knightley Nickerson standing on the step holding a puppy in his arms—a puppy with black button eyes, a wonky ear, and a big red bow wrapped around her furry neck!
“You are a very difficult woman to surprise, Miss Maxwell,” he says, grinning. “I have been knocking at your front door for thirty minutes. In the future, I will ring ahead to let you know I will be delivering a surprise. Though, I should imagine that would defeat the purpose.”
I laugh.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hmm,” he murmurs, raising an eyebrow. “Not quite the welcome I had imagined.”
“Good morning, Knightley,” I say, standing on my tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It is good to see you. I thought you would be on your way to London by now.”
“So did I.” He chuckles.
“Come in,” I say, standing back.
He bends over and picks up a wicker basket lined in red-and-white-gingham fabric and filled with new puppy paraphernalia, before following me into the kitchen.
“What is all this?” I say, taking the basket.
“Bowls, toys, food, treaties, and a leash.”
“I see that,” I say, setting the basket on the table. “Why are you giving me a basket full of dog items?”
“You need them,” he says, grinning.
Wonky Ear is staring at me, her little nub of a tail thumping against Knightley’s arm, and I suddenly remember what Knightley said when I opened the door. You are a difficult woman to surprise, Miss Maxwell! Surprise.
“Oh my word!” I cover my hands with my mouth and bounce up and down on the balls of my feet. “Is this really happening? Are you giving me Wonky Ear?”
Knightley laughs. Wonky Ear wags her nubby tail faster. I bounce hard enough and fast enough to pull a backflip.
“Surprise!” He grabs the pup under her front legs and holds her out to me like a precious baby in a fur suit. “You are now the proud owner of a purebred West Highland terrier with a slightly lazy, though no less charming, right ear.”
I stop bouncing and let out a squeal of delight. I take the puppy into my arms, hold her close, and nuzzle her soft white head with my chin. She smells like a puppy, sweet and earthy, with just the hint of Knightley’s cologne. You know how parents always say they fell in love with their child the moment they laid eyes on them, the moment they knew that was their baby? Holding this puppy, looking into her trusting black eyes, I swear I feel the same way, filled up to bursting with love and terrified I don’t have what it takes to protect and nurture my new little bundle. I am overwhelmed with emotion.
“You look as if you are about to cry,” Knightley says, worry lines etched across his face. “Was this a good surprise or a bad surprise?”
“Good.” I blink back tears and flash him a watery smile. “The best surprise ever. Thank you, Knightley.”
“You are quite welcome.” He leans down and presses a kiss to my lips. “You are sure you are happy?”
“Crazy happy.”
Wonky Ear squirms in my arms. I let her down and she begins sniffing the legs of the kitchen table and chairs. She raises her head, looks me dead in the eye, and pees on the floor.
“Uh-oh,” I say, grabbing a roll of paper towels off the counter. “Are you sure you want to leave Wonky Ear with me? I am a dangerously ignorant pet owner. I don’t even know what signs to look for to know if my puppy needs to do business.”
“I have every confidence in you,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You have only been in England for a few days and already you have learned how to light an AGA without singeing your eyebrows and operate a British automobile like a rally driver.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He grabs the paper towels from my hands, rips off several sheets, and attends to Wonky Ear’s mess. “Now, I really must be going. The M40 is murder, even on a Sunday.”
I scoop Wonky Ear into my arms and follow Knightley through the living room to the foyer. He steps out onto the porch and turns to face me.
“Remember,” he says, scratching Wonky’s head. “She will circle and sniff when she needs to go outside. Mrs. Swinbrook said to ring if you have any questions, and my mum said she will pop by tomorrow to check on you both. If you need anything else, I am just a Facebook post away.”
“Circle and sniff. Got it.”
“You will be great.”
“Any other tips?”
“Only one,” he says, grinning. “Reconsider her name. Wonky Ear seems rather insensitive, considering the hy-perpolitically correct climate in which we find ourselves living.”
I laugh.
“Right. New, PC name.”
“Good-bye, Emma Lee.” He kisses me again. “I will be back Friday afternoon.”
“Good-bye, Knightley.”
He strides down the path and turns in the direction of the walk leading to the stream. I watch until he disappears behind the hedges. I turn to go back into the cottage and practically collide with Hayley and Deidre, who are standing in the foyer, arms crossed, grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Text to Alexandria Armistead:
What’s up, girl?
Text to Tara Maxwell:
Prole drift is a stupid term used by uppity Brits to describe when an upscale product becomes popular with the nonaristo classes. Like I care. If Hunter wellies are good enough for Princess Diana, they’re good enough for us. Right?
Text to Tara Maxwell:
Right?
Text to Kristen Carmichael:
Keep crushing it, crunch queen! We are not worthy!
Text to Madison Van Doren:
Forget that Barton boy. He is a millionaire with no damned sense. You are worth a dozen Barton boys. (No special reason. Just curious. Does Agent Provocateur deliver to the United Kington?)
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
What are you wearing to meet Johnny Amor? Because we are meeting him at The Lucky Pig, I was thinking we could go Gatsby-esque. I am seeing you in a beaded flapper cocktail dress with loads of fringe and me in pinstriped trousers, suspenders, and fedora. Before you tell me you did not pack a flapper dress in your suitcase, I know just the place. What are you doing Wednesday next? Fancy a shopping trip with a gentleman of style and distinction?
Text to Alexandria Armistead:
Are you okay?
Text to Alexandria Armistead:
Check your VM. I left you a message.
Chapter Twenty-nine
To: Manderley de Maloret
From: Emma Lee Maxwell
Subj: Re: Re: Things that make you go hmmm . . .
Manderley de Maloret. Madame de Maloret. I don’t reckon I will ever get used to calling you Madame. You asked if I liked Knightley Nickerson the way Emma Woodhouse liked her Mr. Knightley. I am only on chapter eleven. So far, Emma has treated Mr. Knightley like an older brother. Does she develop romantic feelings for him? Ooo. I hope so, because then this would be a case of life imitating art.
Love and miss you like crazy,
Em-girl
PS Do puppi
es always have to do business when they sniff? Like every time?
Chapter Thirty
Knightley Nickerson ® Emma Lee Maxwell
May 29 at 6:09 a.m.
Have you thought of a kinder, gentler name for
Wonky Ear?
Comments:
Emma Lee Maxwell I have.
Knightley Nickerson Well? Is she to be Harriet Smith or Jane Fairfax?
Emma Lee Maxwell No more fictional names!
Knightley Nickerson Well?
Emma Lee Maxwell Nether Westcote.
Knightley Nickerson Perfect.
Emma Lee Maxwell You think?
Knightley Nickerson I do. Someone beautiful once told me remarkable adventures begin on the road to Nether Westcote and Little Slaughter. I would have to agree.
Madison Van Doren Please tell me you did not name your va-jean Wonky Ear.
Emma Lee Maxwell Ew! You are nay-nay.
Madison Van Doren Me? You’re the one who named your va-jean Wonky Ear. I do not even want to think about what must be going on down there for you to call it that.
Emma Lee Maxwell Stop!
Chapter Thirty-one
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
Relationships are like slipping on a pair of boots. Some fit fabulously and make you feel like a million bucks. Others pinch your toes and keep you from walking the path you were meant to walk. Donate the toe-pinchers to Goodwill, girl, and walk on!
A few days later, I wake to find another surprise waiting on my doorstep—Lexi sitting on a Louis Vuitton rolling bag and clutching a stack of papers in one hand and a lump of damp Kleenex in another.
“Lex!”
Nether yaps and runs into the garden. I throw my arms around my best friend. She lets out a sad little hiccup and hugs me back. She looks like Betty Boop just before the walk of shame—mascara ringing her eyes and lipstick smeared on her perfect lips.
Badly Done, Emma Lee Page 23
