Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Once a month, my mother and her closest eleven friends get together at my mom’s house for book club. Seems simple. It’s not. I’ve heard about this club for years. I knew it was invite only, and even though there’s a waitlist a mile long, no new members are allowed to join until a current member dies. Truly, that’s what my mom said. With a straight face!
I thought she was exaggerating about this, but just a little while ago, our doorbell rang. Everyone in the group shouted at me not to answer it.
“Why in the world not?”
I ignored their protests and swung the door open to find Marie Claire—retired PTA president and current preacher’s wife—cradling a casserole dish and smiling wide.
“Madison, good to see you! You look just cute as can be in that dress.” Then she dipped her head around me to see into the living room. “Hi, y’all!”
“We’re a little busy here, Marie Claire,” Paulette Dougherty said, not getting up from my mother’s couch. I thought her tone was a bit aggressive, but it didn’t deter Marie Claire.
“Oh I know! I know! I saw you guys were over here and I was just at home tonight, not doing anything at all. Thought I could stop by with this seven-layer bean dip and—”
She was already handing me the dip when Lolly Garnett—Sawyer’s grandmother—yanked it out of my hands and shoved it right back at Marie Claire. “You know the rules!”
Then she slammed the door in the poor woman’s face.
I didn’t think Lolly had it in her! She’s got Queenie by twenty years and seems frail as a bird. She’s five feet nothing on a good day, maybe a hundred pounds.
My jaw was on the floor. “Don’t you think you all are taking this book club membership thing a little too far?”
All twelve women in my mother’s living room stared back at me as if I’d completely missed the point.
“It’s exclusive. It’s just the way it has to be,” Lolly snapped. “And besides, Marie Claire doesn’t want to join our book club, she just wants to come in here and get the 411 so she can gossip about us on Sunday. That woman loves to yap. If you’re ever curious about how a rumor gets started in this town, look no further than Marie Claire.”
The only reason I’m allowed to stay for book club (no, being a blood relative of Queenie is not enough) is because I’m living here right now. It wouldn’t be fair for my mom to kick me out for the night. I know this because I overheard the women debating whether to kick me out for the night.
“She could sit out on the curb for a while. What’s the big deal?”
Now, we’re sitting in the living room enjoying Laura’s margaritas, Pamela’s guacamole, Queenie’s melted brie, Lolly’s pigs in a blanket, and Paulette’s bacon-wrapped shrimp. My plate’s fully loaded and I’m figuring out how I could possibly shuffle things around a bit so I can fit one more shrimp when the women start diving into their discussion.
The book of the month is His Glory Ride. My mom described it to me earlier as a “fun little motorcycle book.” I took that to mean it was of a similar ilk to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
I was wrong.
“I didn’t like the way the author described Nico and Roxy having sex on the motorcycle,” Laura Pearson says.
“What’s the problem? With reverse cowgirl, she’d be able to steer AND use the throttle while in flagrante.”
“I just think at highway speeds, it would be safer, and thus sexier, if he instead took her from behind while keeping control of the Harley,” Stacey Wolfe declares.
“Well when I was dating that biker back in ’96, we used to…” My aunt Tricia goes on to enumerate all the helpful tips about optimal two-wheeled sex positions. I stare mutely at the shrimp platter as my ears start to melt off my head. No wonder they don’t want Marie Claire in their book club! She’d faint if she heard this discussion!
My phone rings on the counter in the kitchen. Thank god.
I flee from the living room like my life depends on it, not even caring that the call is from an unknown number. I’ll chat with a car warranty telemarketer if it means escaping that discussion.
“Hello?”
“Madison. Hey.”
Sawyer’s voice sends tendrils of warmth through me. I soften like the infatuated fool I am.
“Hi.”
“I’m around the corner from you. Just finished eating dinner at Cactus Cafe with my grandpa. You were the only thing he wanted to talk about.”
I smile, then realizing I shouldn’t be smiling because of what I decided earlier (Sawyer and I cannot—will not—be happening), I wipe it clean with a sigh. “That sounds nice. Tell him I said hi the next time you see him.”