Sorry, you must be a member of the group to do that. Join this group.
More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
After Mother donned her fire-breathing face, we managed to play an uninterrupted rubber. Bitty Sue, Lorna and Mother managed two bottles of wine as well.
It is aspirational to take down two bottles of wine at afternoon bridge
I could have told him what I knew – that knowing why doesn’t make things better. It just makes them clearer.
Spending an awkward hour with a dominatrix was a small thing to bring him solace. At the very least, it would get him out of my kitchen.
My hand tightened around the handle of my purse. I wanted to swing it at her head. Two things stopped me. First off, the purse was a Nantucket Lightship signed by José Reyes. It wasn’t just a handbag. It was a piece of handcrafted art and I didn’t want to damage the weaving or scrimshaw against the blades of her cheeks. Second, she was obviously trying to get a rise out of me.
It was a relief to be around women for whom seersucker was a fabric and not a safe word.
She’s so desperate, she’d sell her grandmother’s pearls for a man.”
your mother is fit to be tied. She hasn’t been this upset since she found out what your sister’s husband did for a living.”
I was a murder suspect. I deserved a breakdown. I just didn’t want a cop with nice eyes, the man Mother had selected to be my second husband, or Powers around when it started.
I should have stuffed Harriet’s chicken salad down the disposal. Between finding bodies, escorting Roger Harper to a kinky club and being hospitalized, I hadn’t gotten around to it.
“Tacos?” Daddy stood in the door. “Your mother just got out of the hospital. She needs something better than tacos. I’ll take you girls to the club for dinner.
can you imagine a country club dinner as better than TACOS??
“Why?” Stupid question. Madeline had been my husband’s mistress. My husband was missing. Someone had hit me over the head with a fireplace poker and tossed Henry’s office. Clearly someone at the Russell house was involved. It just wasn’t me.
“It’s dinner at the country club. What could possibly happen?” Famous last words.
“Are you wearing a bra?” Mother sounded scandalized. I wasn’t. Bras were as passé as poodle skirts. I usually wore one anyway, but the Missoni didn’t allow for any extraneous straps. Instead, I’d slapped Band-Aids across my nipples and hoped Mother wouldn’t notice. I should have hoped for world peace. It was more likely than Mother missing any detail of my appearance.
He was a philanderer, a blackmailer, possibly a murderer, and definitely my soon-to-be ex-husband, but for a half-second, I was glad to see him.
His voice carried, loud enough for the people inside the clubhouse to hear. Around us, forks froze in mid-air, conversations ceased. Even the lightning bugs out on the golf course stopped glowing their little behinds.
“What kind of club?” “Golf.” “Yes. You said that. Left-handed or right-handed? What brand? Is it engraved?” Detective Jones blinked. “You can tell by looking if a golf club is left-handed or right-handed?”
The medical examiner chose that moment to load my husband’s body into the back of his station wagon. He really was dead. In life, Henry would never have ridden in a station wagon.
He grinned as if I’d confirmed every supposition he had. I was an ass-wiggling, rule-following widow whose three-iron was mercifully in the trunk of her car and not in police evidence.
“Honey, I brought you a ham baked in Coca Cola. You won’t have to worry about cooking for a week.”
omg. I'M worried
The kitchen was dreadful. Add a comatose middle-aged man in his bathrobe and a leather-clad dominatrix and it was downright awful.
How was it that my mother and my sister could bring out the worst in me without even trying?
No way was I letting him take me upstairs to find something more appropriate to wear to a burglary.
“If Max killed the burglar, I didn’t want to be the one who found the body.” I was only half-kidding. Detective Jones pressed his lips together. Tightly. Like he was trying to hide a smile.
The plan was in the water we drank, the air we breathed. It was poured into the pavement on the streets we called home. Marry a nice man, one who was a good provider, and live happily, or at least comfortably, ever after. Safe to say I’d followed the plan. I’d married a banker. Had a baby. But the plan had failed me. It left me alone huddled in a window seat with every emotion I’d refused to let myself feel seeping through my pores until the air in my bedroom was heavy with sadness and angst and confusion.
He lifted the gun a bit higher. “I’m very sorry about this.” “I am too,” I murmured. Powers had been so busy killing people he hadn’t noticed the change in me. I pulled the trigger.
It had to be some kind of record. How many women were asked out at the reception following their husband’s funeral? How many women were asked out twice?
