3. Lottie

LOTTIE

“ W hoa, what’s happening?” I gasp, clutching my sister’s arm as we take in the fact just about every female in Honey Hollow has shown up right here in the conservatory of my mother’s B&B.

The conservatory itself is a room made entirely of glass, and right now it looks like a winter wonderland with the snow on its roof and the twinkle lights strung up overhead like a canopy of stars.

And the gifts!

There seems to be a mountain of them, all unwrapped, all in multiples too great to count. There are more cribs, bassinets, baby bouncers, highchairs, and playpens to outfit a small country, let alone Meg and Sam.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Lainey groans as she points to a glittering pink banner strewn across the back that reads, Happy Baby Time, Sam, Meg, Lainey, and Lottie!

“Oh no,” I groan right along with her.

I specifically told my mother I didn’t need or want another baby shower, and Lainey did the same. We both still have babies more or less and all of the thousands of items that go along with them.

Mom trots over along with a very pregnant Meg and Sam.

“Oh yes,” Mom sings as she waves a hand around at the place. “This shower is for all four of my girls.”

Meg is our sister, of course, but I’m assuming she’s counting Sam in on that familial equation because my mother happens to be dating Sam’s father.

Mom looks posh in a hot pink pantsuit and her lemon-colored curls bouncing over her shoulders. She’s north of fifty, way north, but you wouldn’t know it.

Mom is gorgeous and youthful-looking and impeccable in just about every way, which is more than I can say about Meg and Sam. Both look bloated, perennially hungry, and downright exhausted. Sort of the way Lainey and I are feeling ourselves these days. Especially the hungry part. And the tired part. And the bloated part, too.

“Mom, you did not need to do this,” I say, craning my neck past her to make sure the dessert table is set out with the sweet treats from my bakery, and that the crepes station is moving and grooving. And much to my delight, both look to be in shipshape.

The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery is just as much my baby as Evie and Lyla Nell—and these twins in my belly as well.

“Yes, Mother,” Lainey snips. “I really wish you didn’t include me. You know how I feel about all this consumerism.”

“Calm down,” Meg grunts our way. “It’s just a little baby shower. And whatever you don’t want, you can ship off to a women’s shelter.”

Meg is tall with harshly dyed ebony locks that she wears spun in a beehive. She’s dressed in a black tent, and I can see her combat boots peeking out from underneath. Meg has always embraced the Goth lifestyle, right down to owning every necrotic shade of lipstick that has ever existed.

She makes a living down at a strip joint teaching the dancers their money-making moves, and she’s recently gotten back together with her longtime boyfriend, Hook Redwood.

Hook is such a great guy, and he’s firmly committed to raising Meg’s baby as if it were his own. I couldn’t be happier for both of them—all three of them.

“I’m not sending anything off,” Sam is quick to say while holding her belly tight. “Jed and I need all the help we can get. He’s having a hard time finding work.”

I make a face at the mention of Jed Silver. He was the original reason for this party to begin with, seeing that he impregnated two of the four of us, and the party was originally intended for Meg and Sam.

The room buzzes with laughter and the clinking of glasses as if this was the party of the year, and judging by the open bar and the thick forest of bodies streaming in that direction, it just might be.

There’s also a sign strung up above the bar that reads, Due to the invasion of storks, all drinks are flying virgin!

Soft rock music kicks on and the chatter in the room rises an octave to accommodate for it.

“Look at us,” Meg says, standing with her hands on her hips and her baby bump proudly on display. “Four hot mamas!”

“Oh, let me get a picture,” Mom says, fumbling with her phone. “Line up, girls.”

We do just that, and soon it feels as if every phone in the room is pointed in our direction.

“Smile for the camera, future mommies of Honey Hollow,” Mom calls out, and soon we’re hit with a thousand flashing lights.

Once we’re sufficiently blinded, Carlotta ambles over with a crepe in hand.

There are two main ways to eat a crepe, rolled or folded in quarters, and I told the girls manning the crepe station that they should ask the guests how they prefer them.

Carlotta apparently prefers them three at a time and eating them like a pizza, which would be fine if they didn’t have hazelnut chocolate gushing from every angle.

“Good going, Lot,” she grouses my way. “Now the house is going to look as if you looted every baby boutique on the Eastern Seaboard. And just for the record, none of this junk is going in my room.”

Carlotta is my biological mother, and believe me when I say, I’m thrilled over the fact she abandoned me on the ice-cold floor of the Honey Hollow Fire Station when I was just hours old. But as of late, she seems to have taken up residence in my home.

Sam moans just looking at Carlotta’s crepe concoction. “ Ooh , those crepes look so good. I’m going to eat them all.” She turns and waddles off without so much as a goodbye.

“Not if I beat you to ’em,” Meg calls out as she takes off after her. “And I’m cutting in line.”

“Wait,” Lainey calls out. “If anyone should be cutting in line, it’s me. We all know my bladder is only half the size it should be.”

I don’t know about that as a medical fact, but it’s the reason Lainey gave us when we discovered she’s been trekking around in adult diapers, which she effectively calls her pee pants . Honestly, the woman is brilliant. I can never seem to beat my bladder to the punch when it comes to racing to the nearest restroom. I might need to look into pee pants myself.

“I’d better go after them.” Mom sighs. “I’ve seen your sisters when they get hungry and it’s not pretty. The last thing we need is a riot taking place.” She takes a step away before stopping cold and lifting a finger my way. “Don’t you dare cause any trouble.”

A whole river of words tries to crawl up my throat at once and I gag.

“Or you either.” She’s quick to admonish Carlotta as well before taking off.

Before either of us can properly insult my mother for the blatant dig, a long-haired, hippie-looking woman clad in a long denim skirt and frumpy blue sweater stalks our way. Her hair is pulled back into a long rope of a braid, reminiscent of a noose, and she has an entire army of baby blue bobby pins stabbed into her scalp.

“What are you doing here, Francine?” Carlotta takes out her ire on the woman at hand.

Francine Dundee is Carlotta’s longtime nemesis. I think they went to high school together and that’s where their ongoing feud started. Nevertheless, other than their alma mater, they have nothing else in common.

Francine has been happily married for forever and a day and has seventeen kids and umpteen grandkids to show for it. She’s a pearl-clutcher who doesn’t believe women should wear pants or ever cut their hair, thus the reason she and her daughters all look as if they belong to some spooky cult. Not that long hair, or even long skirts for that matter, are spooky in general, but once you see them en mass, paired with an entire tribe of matching faces, it’s sort of a disconcerting look.

“I was invited.” Francine offers a tight yet sweet smile my way before turning to Carlotta and that smile slides right off her face. “And hello to you, too, Carlotta Lemon, the woman who only needed two tries to get motherhood almost right.”

“And here we go,” I mutter mostly to myself and one of the babies gives me a kick as if they agreed—or maybe it’s trying to tell me to make a run for those crepes myself. I’m so hungry I could gobble up everything on that dessert table and lap up the batter for the crepes as well. Although I doubt anything is left now that Meg, Sam, and Lainey have hit the station.

“Is that all you got, Francine?” Carlotta huffs back at the woman. “Those are big words coming from a baby factory who’s doing her best to populate Honey Hollow singlehandedly. What are we up to now—fifty-seven? What are you still doing in this town, anyway? I’d thought you’d have started your own village by now.”

“My own village?” Francine looks mildly amused. “Well, if I ever do start one, feel free to visit. You could be the token idiot.”

“You’re the only idiot I see.” Carlotta’s voice hikes to hostile levels?—

not an anomaly in and of itself.

“At least I know how to raise a child,” Francine shoots back. “Not all of us can drop ’em off at the firehouse and call it parenting.”

“Touché.” Carlotta gives a sharp laugh—mostly because she’s not embarrassed by that whole dropping me off at the firehouse bit. “But at least I don’t need a playbook to remember all their names. Who’s the idiot now?”

By “all names” she means just two, and oddly, Carlotta doesn’t need to remember much when it comes to my biological sister, Charlie, or me, because she named us both Carlotta. My name was pinned to me on a piece of paper, and my mother was kind enough to keep it, albeit never calling me by it once. Instead, she gave me the nickname Lottie and, well, it’s still sticking.

“Go on now, scat .” Carlotta thumps her foot on the ground as if to spook the woman. “You’re a crazy ol’ loon and you know it!”

Francine leans toward Carlotta until they’re nose-to-nose. “If I were you, Carlotta, I’d take that back. I’m in no mood to have anyone besmirching me or my good name. I’m so sick of you, I could just kill you.” She stalks off, and before Carlotta can fire off another prickly comeback, a giant white bear lumbers in our direction.

“Oh, good grief, what now,” I say as the white furry beast stands on its hind legs and towers over us at least ten feet tall before bellowing out a roar. “Geez, that thing is scary,” I say as it turns its head for the dessert table and trots that way. “Whoever my mother got to put on that costume sure is tall,” I muse. “And what the heck does that have to do with a baby shower, anyway? I’m shocked half the guests aren’t screaming by now.” I tick my head to the side. “Or taking selfies with it.”

Deep down, I know both of my daughters are going to love that thing. Leave it to my mother to make this a baby bash to remember.

“Uh—Lot Lot?” Carlotta steps in close. “I think the reason the women in this glass castle aren’t screaming their heads off is because they can’t see the thing. That’s not some person in costume. I think it’s the real deal ghost of a polar bear.”

A breath hitches in my throat as I turn its way and, sure enough, that white grizzly beast up and disappears in a vat of baby blue stars.

“It’s a ghost, all right,” I mutter. “And that can only mean one thing. We’re in for a killer good time.”