A Set of Sisters: A We Sisters Three Box Set (Books 1-3)

by Melissa F. Miller

"Love you guys, but I gotta go," Thyme said. "I'm doing a moonlight yoga class in the park."

"That said, I think we need to conduct ourselves like we're on camera at all times. Just in case."

"But it's just not appropriate—" "Got it," I said too loudly. I wrenched my arms free and hurried over to the stove to hide my embarrassment.

wondering if the need for propriety was just his good Southern way of letting me down easy.

The fact that money really did talk was one of the earliest lessons I learned working for the Moores. And it was a lesson that had endured.

It was a lesson we'd certainly never learned at home, what with the "Fight the Power" posters that had hung on the walls and the communal property rule.

He was the Vice President of Something or Other—high enough on the totem pole to make Marilee feel catered to; low enough on the totem pole to be dragged into work on a Sunday.

she was as out of her element here as I was. It was an immensely comforting piece of knowledge. And I had to give her credit for playing the wealthy lady role so well.

"The title to the Mercedes. Your marriage certificate. Fred's original Social Security card. Your birth certificate. His birth certificate. A stock certificate for the Mid-Southern Oil and Gas Company." I took out the next two documents, scanned them, and cleared my throat, "A birth certificate for Jessica Abigail Spears. A death certificate for her." I stared down at the paper. Marilee and Fred had had a daughter who'd died at four months old.

a plaster footprint that had to be the baby's.

"Um, a set of car keys." They clattered to the table. "A certificate of deposit that hasn't matured yet. An award from the Lions Club to Fred."

"Um ..." It was stuffed full of cash. I leafed through the stack. They were all crisp one hundred dollar bills. I removed the two-inch wad and handed them to her.

three envelopes, identical in size and thickness to the one I'd just removed, and a pocket-sized notebook.

"Rich people are weird, Sage. I don't pretend to understand them. All I know is lots of guys put money on every hole. Not usually that much, but ..."

He's the newly elected president of the club, which is pretty hilarious, because this isn't his home course anymore." "It's not? Why?" Roman shook his head. "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. But folks are all up in arms about it. It's sort of a scandal."

Breathing in, I smile. Breathing out, I touch joy.

"Is this black?" he sniffed at the mug. "Oh, yeah. Sorry. How do you take it?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Yankee." He reached for the sugar bowl and plunked two lumps into his cup, followed by a splash of cream. "I like it sweet and light, just like me." He winked.

Rows of padded chairs covered with black fabric occupied the dance floor. Large urns filled with perfumey, white flowers tied with black crepe ribbons anchored the corners of the room.

"Remember, it's not a funeral. It's a memorial service." "What's the difference?" "Money, I guess." He swallowed a laugh. "This is weird. Why is it here anyway?"

I hadn't expected the celebration to involve actually popping a cork, on a Monday afternoon, no less. But the rich were different.

But I figured that the same rule that applied to dogs and small children applied to self-important jerks. Don't show fear; they can smell it.

'j'accuse!'

"Pro networking tip: When you're at an event like this, just keep your drink in your left hand. Less jostling it around to shake hands. Trust me, you're more likely to spill it during that maneuver than you are just using your left hand to drink it—even if that's your non-dominant hand."

"I think human nature is a little more complex than that. Is Chip a good man? I think he is. But I know that good people sometimes do terrible things.”

“But more often, terrible people do terrible things.”

I liked Muffy a lot. She was a great mother to her kids and a good boss. But she was my boss, not my bestie.

With all the heavy, unspoken subtext, the room was beginning to feel like the stage of a Russian play.

moue

I'd had a Catholic roommate in college who'd insisted that a lie of omission was just as bad as a lie of commission.

It's a beautiful day. I'm healthy. I'm safe. I'm lucky. I'm blessed. I repeated the words silently, my own private mantra.

So, I have to focus on what I can control. No, control's the wrong word. I have to focus on the things I can affect.

I trailed the two of them into the shade of the cool house and wondered if rich people received some sort of secret lessons in handling big, ugly messes gracefully.

I slumped back in my chair. Somehow I hadn't thought about the fact that Roman now had two much younger, half-siblings. "Dear, don't slouch. It becomes a habit," Marilee said absently.

If, as the saying goes, sunlight really is the best disinfectant, we can't suppress completely natural, harmless thoughts like yours."

"They're entitled to handle the situation however they find most comfortable, but they can't dictate how the rest of us deal with it. One thing I truly believe is that hiding from ... let's call them challenges ... gives them power over you. And that's how one ends up in Chip's situation, cornered and frightened at the thought that this secret he's been worrying over and working so hard to bury is going to come out."

Mom always says if someone's mad at you, you have to talk it out. Have to."

Otherwise, I'd just taken two small children on a two-hour round-trip drive with no pay off. Which was a serious rookie move for a childcare professional.

"And if Gavrilo Princip hadn't shot Archduke Ferdinand, then World War I wouldn't have happened."

"My mom was pretty het up about my auntie's meddling.

“Good. They need to have themselves a come to Jesus meeting.”

Riotously blooming flowers planted along both sides of the walkway formed a fragrant path to the door.

I was burning connections left and right. When all was said and done, I wouldn’t just be unemployed. I’d be unemployable.

I was more than happy to help the Mistress of the Universe with her pursuit of increased flexibility for the low, low rate of one hundred and fifty dollars an hour.

lambaste

she probably runs through nannies like tissues.” “Tissues? Heaven forbid. Just use a handkerchief.” We shared a laugh at that. Paper products were verboten in our childhood home.

Audra was a sweet kid. But she was all go, go, go, and no rest. At no point did she just want to veg in front of some educational programming on PBS Kids.

“Mom says you can leave them. Becky will clean them up when she comes.” I crouched beside her. “Your mom’s confused. Even when we’re lucky enough to have people to help us keep our houses clean and take care of us, we still need to take care of our own things. Becky’s a helper, but you need to be a helper, too.”

I didn’t know if my subversive act would stick, but for now, I was feeling pretty good about trying to steer Audra off the path of the obliviously wealthy and onto a more thoughtful course.

There’s nothing like a one-hundred-and-five-degree yoga class to leave a soul relaxed and placid.

Yes, the studio had a shower, but I prefer a nice long soak in a tub full of lavender essential oils and Epsom salts after a vigorous class.