Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“Amita Laghari has hosted it in recent years, but this year, it was decided that since Amita has had that terrible, terrible luck with her ankle ever since the tennis tournament at the country club—and honestly, any woman our age who tries to do a diving volley should consider herself lucky when she only sprains an ankle!—the luncheon would be here at Wellbridge House.” Mother’s smile widened a fraction, clearly not particularly torn up over poor Mrs. Laghari’s injury.
When we reached a large stand of yellow lollipop-shaped rosebushes that precisely matched her dress, she took a pair of shears from her basket and attacked the flowers with more enthusiasm than mercy.
“Well. That’s… great,” I said, because really, what else was there to say? “I hope it goes swimmingly.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to get involved any more than I had to be, but my curiosity was overwhelming. “Do the Botanical Society women always wear—” I bit my tongue and swallowed the word costumes. “—these dresses?”
“Of course not, Jonathan.” She frowned at me reproachfully, one hand on her hip. “Honeybridge exists in the twenty-first century, you know. These days, we encourage all attendees to wear whatever they choose as long as it’s family-friendly!” She pursed her lips and leaned in like she was telling me a secret. “Unlike the monstrosity of a dress George Chang wore two years ago. All bust and no bustle if you know what I mean.”
I had no idea what she meant, and I was equally sure I didn’t want to know.
“In any case,” she went on, turning her attention back to her flowers, “we finalized the luncheon menus last weekend, and Rosalia has been working on the tablescape all week. It’s going to be the talk of Honeybridge!”
“Excellent! I’m happy for you.”
“Hmm. You’d know all about the arrangements, of course,” she said primly, “if you’d been home at all this week.”
Oh, lord. Here it was.
“We’ve talked about this. I’ve spent this week attempting to work, which is nearly impossible to do remotely. And it’s worth mentioning that in the past three weeks, I’ve attended both the Honeybridge Diversity Committee’s Quarterly Fundraising Planning Tea and the Friends of the Honeybridge Arts Council’s Preprandial Cocktail and Lemonade Reception, captained a boat for Team Wellbridge in the regatta, and played in two softball games in addition to accompanying you to yogaerobics, which I warned you would be a one-time-only event. That’s more than enough.”
She sniffed. “You haven’t seen your brother.”
“I ate lunch with him once last week and three times the week before.” I folded my arms over my chest.
“And Brantleigh—”
“Is a useless, spoiled child with a terrible attitude. I try to avoid him as much as possible,” I said impatiently. “Why are we rehashing all this when I’ve made it perfectly clear that my priority is—”
“Work. Yes, you’ve made that very clear.” She straightened. “But you’re not too busy with work to spend every night at the Tavern.” I sighed resignedly, and she nodded in triumph like I’d confessed to a terrible secret. “Oh, yes. I’ve heard all about it, beginning practically the moment you arrived! Imagine how I felt having to hear from Prissy Newton that you’ve been spending time with that… that…”
“Careful—” I warned.
“Honeycutt,” she choked out.
Well, damn. So much for trying to keep things quiet to protect Flynn from gossip. Not that we’d tried very hard in the past week. The whole town knew where I ate my lunch every afternoon, and they had to notice the distinct lack of animosity between me and Flynn recently. Alden and Castor had helped us with the bottling most evenings this past week, and Alden had given Flynn eyeballs at least twice over some flirty comment we’d made.
I stared down at my feet for a beat, hoping the crushed seashells would grant me patience. “I understand that you’re upset that I didn’t tell you. But I won’t hear a single negative word about Flynn, Mother. Not one. You know my feelings on the Wellbridge-Honeycutt feud. If we live in an era where anyone in town can dress like the Dowager Countess from Downton Abbey, then we sure as heck live in an era when I can… spend time with a Honeycutt without you turning it into a Shakespearean tragedy.”
“Hmph.” She lifted her chin. “Even if I had no opposition to you dating one of those Honeycutts, darling, how would you ever make it work? You live in New York, as you remind me endlessly, and Flynn does not. You’re only here for the summer.”
The way she so matter-of-factly hit on the elephant I’d been trying to ignore only served to make me more impatient.
“I’m trying to work a deal between Fortress and Honeybridge Mead that would give Flynn choices—”
Mother frowned. “Nonsense. Flynn rejected Fortress’s generous offer weeks ago.”