“If that’s what she wants? Sure.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I protest, scooting my own chair back. “You want me to give that woman exactly what she wants.”
“No, I’m suggesting we give her what we want and get her out of our hair as quickly and as quietly as possible.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t meet her, Dad. I think you’re underestimating her.”
“Maybe so,” he says, “but when she contacts you again—because we both know she will—hear her out. Then we’ll make a decision together.”
Part of me balks, because it seems an awful lot like rewarding bad behavior, but I can see the wisdom in my father’s words—even if I don’t like it.
“Fine,” I grunt. “I’ll hear her out, but I’m not promising to be polite.”
A glint fills his eyes. “Whatever you say, son.” Then he grabs his plate and heads to the sink. “I’ve got a meeting with a potential new sponsee tonight. I can clean up later.”
“I’ll clean up,” I say, picking up my own plate because just thinking about Molly O’Shea has made me lose my appetite.
Dad heads out soon, and after I clean up the kitchen, Ruby and I plop on the sofa. I scan more of Molly’s website and come to the conclusion that either Molly has the worst luck dating or she’s exaggerated most of her stories, which doesn’t bode well for me.
Chapter Five
Molly
All names and personal details have been changed to protect the innocent. My friends are a modest lot. They don’t want the attention.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
What thirty-something man is a total ghost on social media?
Cal Reynolds, it turns out. The guy doesn’t even have a LinkedIn profile. He does have a business website, but I don’t jump too far down that Google rabbit hole. Because at this point he’s not looking like my best source—he’s made it very clear he doesn’t intend to tell me anything. Which means I have to find the others from the original club.
I already know where to start. Maisie is tagged in a bunch of Blue’s wedding photos on Facebook. I looked at them a couple of days ago, hoping to see something, but nothing popped out. One crucial thing has changed: I know what Hot Stuff looks like. When I go back through Blue’s wedding photos, I spot him immediately, standing with a group of four other people, one of whom can only be his father. My heart starts racing. Because…well, he is handsome, and there were seven members in the original club. Could this be the original crew, minus Augusta and Blue?
Yes, I decide, it could be. Because they fit Augusta’s descriptions in all but hair color.
Someone has helpfully tagged the three who do have Facebook profiles. Highly private ones, unfortunately.
Bear Reynolds, who’s clearly Cal’s father.
Nicole Ricci. Nicci, I mentally add. A.k.a. Jealous Girlfriend.
Dee Bowers. Lee-Lee. A.k.a. Single Mom.
The fourth man, who has a buzz cut and anxious eyes, was tagged but doesn’t have a profile. Harry Brown. Barry. A.k.a. Conspiracy Nut.
The two I need to talk to most, I’ve decided, are Nicole/Nicci and Harry/Barry. Because Nicole (“Jealous Girlfriend”) was pissed off enough to call the publisher, and you don’t have to read very far into the book to realize that Augusta and “Barry” like each other about as much as Voldemort and Harry Potter. She claims otherwise, but subtlety is not her strong suit.
Which means Harry is more likely to talk. If he’ll agree to meet with me.
It takes me all of four minutes to find Nicole’s number at work—she works in HR at a local theater company—but before I can dial it, my text alert goes off. I expect it to be Maisie. She takes her daily check-ins very seriously, and in addition to our nightly video chat, I get several daily check-in texts and picture requests, but it’s from our older sister, Mary.
I’m coming to Asheville this weekend. With Aidan, of course. We don’t like thinking of you staying in that big house all by yourself. You can expect us on Saturday morning. Did Constance give you some time off work?
My immediate reaction is annoyance. Maisie lived in this house all by herself for years, and Mary didn’t seem remotely fazed by it. She’s only worried because she doesn’t trust me. Well, I’m twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine, and very capable of dog-sitting without big-sister assistance.
I love Mary. I do. My sisters are everything to me. But there’s this weird thing we don’t talk about much, where the three of us have frequent video chats, and Maisie and I talk a lot on our own, but Mary and I never spend time alone together. It all goes back to those awful days after our parents died. The dynamic we formed as a family newly whittled down to three has stayed with us. Then there’s the six-year age difference. She’s always treated me like I’m still in pigtails despite all evidence to the contrary.
And yet…
It’s kind of weird that she’s coming, out of the blue. Mary doesn’t spend a whole lot more time in Asheville than I do, although she visits Maisie more now that she’s in Charlotte, just two hours away. Is this her way of telling me that she needs me, rather than the other way around?
So I reach for patience and write: Maisie left me and the dogs plenty of food. It requires me to eat dry pellets, but at least I don’t have to cook. See ya Saturday. Tell my glorious nephew I got him a present.
Ever the literalist, Mary responds, But you couldn’t possibly have. You didn’t know we were coming until now.
Smiling, I type, And by the time you get here, I will have found something fantastic.
Looking forward to it.
It’s only as I respond, me too, that I realize how true it is. I’ve been…lonely here. I have Ein and Chaco, and I love their company, but it’s not the same as being around other people. I’m an extrovert, after all.
Like Dad.
I shrug off the uncomfortable thought and dial Nicole’s work number. She doesn’t answer, and I decline to leave a message after the beep.
A Google search reveals Harry’s information next. He’s an actuary at an insurance company. I try Nicole again—still no answer—before dialing his number. I release a breath when he answers on the second ring.
“Harry Brown speaking, Swordfish Insurance.”
“Harry, am I glad to talk to you.”
“Oh?” he says, and there’s so much suspicion packed into that one word I know I need to act fast.
“I know Augusta’s book is a lie, and it sucks that she’s getting away with it. People deserve to know the truth,” I say in a rush, hoping he agrees. Because this could epically backfire if there’s any truth to Augusta’s description of him as overanxious with strangers and anything peripherally related to technology. “I know about Nicole’s call to the publisher. I know Augusta didn’t come up with the club on her own.” I have a sudden mental flash of Cal, of the sincerity and warmth in his eyes before he figured me out. “I want to help Cal.”
I’m surprised to realize I sort of mean it.
There’s an audible swallow on the other end of the line. “Who are you?”