Her eyes widen. “Are you making your crust from scratch?”
“Who said I’m planning on a flour-based crust? Maybe it’s graham crackers.”
Her gaze drops to the cart, then lifts again. “I don’t see graham crackers in the cart, and Maisie doesn’t have any.”
I waggle my eyebrows at her. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
“Why are you buying so many eggs?” she asks, seeing my three cartons. “My recipe doesn’t call for that many.”
“You suddenly sound less confident that you’ll be awarded Star Baker,” I quip.
She points her finger at me like she’s found a rat in a corner. “Ah-ha! I knew you’d seen The Great British Bake Off.”
“Who hasn’t?” Then I push the cart to the checkout.
We get a late start on our baking, so the tarts won’t have enough time to properly set, but we don’t care. With the dogs as our witnesses, we spend the next couple of hours making our crusts (well, I do) and our custards, which takes two attempts for Molly since her first batch curdles.
“Who am I kidding? I could barely keep a sourdough starter alive,” she grumbles as she dumps the first batch into the trash. Chaco paws at it hopefully. Ein grunts.
“It would have thrived better if you’d named it,” I say with my arms crossed over my chest.
“I did! His name was Fred.” She winces. “I killed him before I left Seattle. As in actually threw him in the trash.”
I purposely keep my face devoid of emotion as I say, “Huh. I remember you saying something about that. You supposedly got fired over that starter, didn’t you? Did you kill him in a vengeful rage?”
Her cheeks twitching with barely contained laughter, she says, “I already feel bad enough, okay? Don’t make it worse.”
“No, you don’t,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “I don’t see a single sign of remorse.” Lowering my voice, I add, “I might have to make a citizen’s arrest.”
Her eyes light up. “Will handcuffs be involved?”
I eye her carefully, then smile. “Seeing as how I don’t own a pair, perhaps we’ll come up with some other way to restrain you. For official purposes, of course.”
She sends me a coy look. “Promises, promises.” But in what I’m beginning to realize is true Molly O’Shea fashion, the humor slips a little and she turns serious. “Actually, there’s more of a story to that. Believe it or not, I’m pretty sure not even Constance would fire someone over sourdough.”
Then she proceeds to tell me about the owner’s grandson trying to blackmail her friend into giving him a blowjob.
I try to rein in my rage, because I hate when assholes with power think they can just take what they want without consequences. But I’m amazed by Molly’s fearlessness. She had to know she was risking her job by writing that story, yet she did it anyway, out of the need for some type of retaliation for her friend. I admired her before, but now I’m in awe of her determination to protect people she cares about. That’s something else we share.
She makes another joke about starting a sourdough bakery to compete with my father, in honor of Fred, of course, then says, “This custard isn’t going to make itself.”
“Let me help you this time.”
When she opens the fridge and beholds the many cartons of eggs I bought, she swats my arm. “You purposely bought those because you thought I’d fail, didn’t you?”
“I was preparing for all contingencies. I want to win this fair and square.”
Of course, it’s not really fair if I’m making the custard with her every step of the way, but neither of us comment on it.
The morning and early afternoon fly by. Our tarts are in the fridge, and Molly and I have showered together again—and inspected the tile again—and it’s almost time to head to the Cluster to go to the meeting, but it occurs to me that I only have my dirty T-shirt from yesterday.
“I have a solution for that,” Molly says, then returns a few seconds later with a shirt in hand. “This is Jack’s, but I think it will fit you. You’re both about the same size.”
I take the short-sleeve button-down shirt and slip it on, but Molly takes over with buttoning.
“You look great,” she says with a soft smile.
My stomach does a flip as I stare down at her. “So do you.”
She’s wearing an olive-green sundress today that makes her hazel eyes look like emeralds.
She gives me a soft kiss, then stares up at me with an adoring look that steals my breath.
“So let’s go,” she says. “It’s time for me to kick your ass.”
I burst out laughing, because it’s so typical Molly, and I love every minute of it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Molly
Winning is winning. However you do it. So win, friends, and enjoy the spoils of your victory. No one, and I mean no one, should pride themselves on being a loser.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
This is what I’ve been working toward ever since I saw that paperback sitting beside my sister’s bed. No, before that. I wanted an in to the Bad Luck Club from the first moment I heard its name, before I even knew Cal existed. Or Bear. Or their charming home in the mountains.
So why don’t I feel more excited? Why do I care more about my arguably shitty fruit tart than I do about sitting in on this meeting? Why would I prefer to sit down with my notes about Mrs. Dahl so I can sketch up something to present to her and Agnes?
Because you don’t want to leave Asheville. You don’t want to finish this story for Rogue Word because then you won’t have an excuse to stay longer than another two weeks.
Mary texted Maisie and me last night to say she’s already found four jobs to apply for in Asheville and, Mary being Mary, sent me three listings for writing jobs that sound absolutely, soul-crushingly awful.
And yet…
I wonder if I could stay, on my own terms. If I could cobble together a life for myself the way Tina has. A life where I make my hours and choose my work.
It’s tempting. In many ways it would suit me. But I can’t bring myself to walk away either, and not just because I used to daydream about working somewhere like Rogue Word in between writing nonsense articles and quizzes.
I feel a deep-seated need to tell this story, because I understand why Cal and Bear started the club, and I feel the same righteous fury that has motivated Bear and Harry and Nicole and Blue to talk to me…and also the loyalty to Cal that’s held them back.
Either way, I have promised Kate Jeffries a draft of my article tomorrow morning. According to the email she sent me last night at midnight PST—yes, she was working at midnight on a Saturday—there’s another contender for the editor job. I’m not sure if the mystery second contender exists or if she just wants to light a fire under my butt because she’s impatient for results beyond the tantalizing bits and pieces I’ve sent her over the last week, but I agreed to send her a draft bright and early in the a.m.
It’s solid, this story, both because people love it when liars get their comeuppance (sorry, not sorry, Augusta), and because the real rules are compelling. They’re charming as hell, just like the two men who wrote them. Father and son. I’ll be able to say that much without revealing their identities. Harry doesn’t want to go public either, which is fine, but Nicole and Blue have both confirmed that they will, via the group text. With any luck, at least one member of the current club will do the same.