Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
I smile and pull in a deeper breath, excited for the night ahead and generally grateful to be alive. My windows are down, the sun is on my face, and my sexy boyfriend has a four-day break from play and practice. We have plans to hit the food festival on Bourbon later with Elly and Grammercy, then swing by a blues club to meet Beatrice and her roommate for a drink.
Bea is thriving in NOLA. With Kai a continent away in Vietnam “finding himself”—aka hiding from the backlash after the entire world realized he was a repulsive creep—and her first single still charting months after its release, she’s really coming into her own. Her solo album should be done soon, she’s plugged into a community of musicians, and her roommate, Clover, is an aspiring fashion designer who keeps Bea in a steady supply of fun and flowy dresses.
Life is good.
So good, sometimes I have to pinch myself just to be sure I’m awake.
I’m considering stopping in at my favorite bakery to grab fresh bread to make French toast tomorrow morning—why not add another blessing to my weekend?—when my phone buzzes against the passenger seat.
As I pull to a stoplight, I glance down to see Makena’s name lighting up the screen, followed by several urgent-looking emojis and—EMERGENCY!—in all caps.
Well, that’s not good…
But thankfully, I’m far enough from downtown that street parking isn’t an issue.
After maneuvering the SUV out of traffic and into a space by some empty trash bins, I cut the engine and pick up my phone, scanning the message.
Makena: This is not a drill! This is an alert of the emergency friend-activation system. The sprinklers at our place are dead. I just got an alert from the house nanny app thing Parker installed that said the sprinklers are clogged. Which made me remember that I forgot to water the garden yesterday AND possibly the day before, because I was too busy packing and raccoon wrangling, which means the strawberries are probably dying.
DYING after months of tender coddling care!
They’re at a critical stage in their development, Char, and I will CRY if we don’t have fresh berries for shortcake when we get home. I’m already coming home without Popcorn, my sweet little chaos machine. If I come home to dead strawberries, too…
Well, then I’ll know I’ve failed at life. Please, swing by and water my precious treasures? If you’re not too busy?
Biting back a laugh, I thumb out a quick response—Of course, I’ll swing by now. I’m not far from your place.
Makena: Are you sure? It’s not too much trouble?
Charlotte: No, not at all. I was just headed home to shower and change before we go out tonight.
Makena: Oh, thank God. So you’re good to swing by there NOW? And I can use this news to soothe Parker’s frazzled soul? Popcorn just threw up in his lap, and the next rest stop is forty miles away. He is NOT a happy camper right now. Between that and the shitty sprinklers, he’s going to need extra gluten-free gas station donuts to make it through the day.
Charlotte: Ew. Gluten-free gas station donuts don’t sound great, to be honest.
Makena: They’re not. But they’re tradition. He gets them every time we visit his gram. But anyway, now is good? You’re going now?
Charlotte: Yes. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Fifteen minutes tops.
Makena: You’re my hero! Parker says you’re his hero, too. Thank you so much, darlin’, and have a great weekend. Say hi to Elly for me tonight and remind her not to eat raw fish. Raw fish is bad for preggos! Love you!
Charlotte: Will do. And you, too. Hang in there.
Itoss the phone back onto the seat, wait for a break in traffic, and pull away from the curb. I’m still in my work clothes from an earlier meeting—cream linen pants, a champagne silk shell, and my favorite vintage Gucci loafers in buttery tan leather. Definitely not gardening gear.
I’ll have to resist the urge to start pulling weeds and stick to watering. As a semi-neurotic weed plucker from way back, that won’t be easy, but these shoes are irreplaceable.
Sometimes, we all have to choose fashion over function.
Just a few minutes later, I pull into Makena and Parker’s driveway, grab my sunglasses from the console, and head around the side of the house toward the backyard. The gate creaks as I push through, and suddenly I’m in a different world.
The garden is green in that wild, early-spring way. Everything is soft and alive, vines crawling over the fence, herbs spilling out of the raised beds like they’ve decided to stage a hostile takeover. The azaleas are flushed pink from last week’s warm spell, and the sweet olive by the trellis is throwing that honey-apricot scent I was relishing in the car across the entire yard.