Chapter One
It is a truth universally acknowledged that everyone lies.
I don’t say this to be judgmental. Lying is part of the human psyche. Even my perfect, older brother Sebastian, a priest and the pastor at St. Perpetua’s Catholic Church here in Whispering Bay, resorts to the occasional fib.
“I left the rectory ten minutes ago. The traffic is murder,” Sebastian said just the other day when he was late meeting me for dinner.
“You’re not even in the car, are you?” I shot back.
Sebastian let out the sort of long-suffering sigh he’d mastered long before he’d thought of becoming a priest. “Cut me some slack, Lucy, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Most people can see through those kinds of lies. Those are the easy ones. The thing is, I can also see through the trickier, more deceptive lies as well, which sounds like a good thing, right?
Not necessarily.
When I was five, a brand-new set of paintbrushes went missing in my kindergarten class. Our teacher, Mrs. Jackson, tore apart our small classroom looking for them. Eventually, she asked us kids if we knew where they were. No one admitted to anything, but there was something odd in Brittany Kelly’s demeanor. Some small tell that went unnoticed by everyone. Except me.
After class, I went to Mrs. Jackson and told her that I thought Brittany had taken the brushes.
“How do you know this?” she asked.
My naïve five-year-old self shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do.”
“Lucille McGuffin,” she said, using my full name like she meant business. “It’s not nice to accuse someone without proof.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you sure you didn’t take them?”
A week later, Brittany admitted to taking the brushes.
Now, did Mrs. Jackson ever give me credit for exposing the culprit, or apologize for accusing me? Nope. All I got for my honesty was a letter sent home to my parents telling them that I was a tattletale, and even worse, Brittany Kelly as a lifelong enemy (and believe me, over the years she’s made me suffer).
By high school, I’d pretty much concluded that despite what people said, no one really wanted to know if their boyfriend was cheating on them or if the real reason they’d been excluded from the math club was because they had bad breath.
How I was chosen to receive this “gift” is a mystery. If someone up there wanted to give me special powers, why couldn’t I have been born with the ability to pick winning lottery numbers? Or a perfect nose? I’d kill for a cute little button nose. Or better yet, a metabolism that allows me to eat all the muffins I want without gaining weight.
Lies are a daily occurrence in everyone's life, and I just have to live with them as best I can, which for me, means to smile and ignore them.
Take right now. I’m currently being lied to by Abby Delgado.
“Lucy, you know I didn’t order this.” She looks with disgust at the sandwich I’ve just delivered to her table. “When have you known me to like tuna?”
Abby is kind of a character. She’s a member of the Sunshine Ghost Society, an organization that communes with the dead. Or so they say. She’s a regular customer here at The Bistro by the Beach, the café I co-own along with my friend, Sarah Powers.
Sarah and I are the perfect team. She makes incredible comfort food and I make the best muffins in town, which might sound like I'm bragging, but everyone says so, so who am I to question them?
A couple of weeks ago I sent an audition tape to the Cooking Channel for a chance to appear on Muffin Wars. Think Cupcake Wars, but with muffins. I still haven't heard from them, but if they pick me, it would be excellent for business.
But back to Abby. Claiming that I’ve mistaken her order is a trick she plays once a month, and it always gets her a free lunch. Not that Abby can’t afford to pay for her sandwich. Secretly, I think she gets her kicks by thinking she’s pulled the wool over my eyes.
“I’m pretty certain you ordered the tuna,” I say with as much tact as I can muster.
Abby’s blue eyes widen. It’s the first time I’ve ever challenged her, and I think she’s shocked.
I'm shocked too. I have a rep for always being upbeat and avoiding confrontation. Typically, on any other day of any other month, I'd apologize and offer to get her the right sandwich. But tomorrow is the grand opening of the town's new rec center. Sarah and I are providing muffins for the event. It's a big job for us, so we stayed up all night baking. I'm tired, my feet hurt, and frankly, enough is enough.
“Maybe Abby is getting dementia,” says Betty Jean Collins from the next table.
Betty Jean is a regular here too. She comes in most mornings with the other members of the Gray Flamingos, a local citizens activist group for the retired bunch. Betty Jean is originally from Boston and came to north Florida a few years ago to escape the cold. She’s been divorced a bunch of times and is a rabid Red Sox fan, as well as a prepper. She lives for disaster and is not-so-secretly bummed that we haven’t had to evacuate for a hurricane this year.
Sitting beside her is the president of the Gray Flamingos, Viola Pantini, and her boyfriend, Gus Pappas. Viola and Gus are two of my favorite customers. Viola is a retired schoo
lteacher who now runs a yoga class for the active and mature adult (she hates the word seniors), and Gus owns a plumbing company. He’s also a member of the city council. They’re both widowed and have been dating for a couple of years. The whole town is hoping they’ll get married because not only would that mean a party and free cake; everyone agrees that they’re perfect for one another.
“Dementia?” sputters Abby. “My mind is as clear as day, Betty Jean Collins!”
Before Betty Jean says something back that might cause a rumble, Viola intervenes to make peace. “Abby, will you be going to the big grand opening of the rec center tomorrow?” she asks sweetly.
“Naturally. Isn’t the whole town?”
A few years ago, the town's old senior center was demolished to make way for a new state of the art twenty-first-century community rec center, making Whispering Bay the envy of every small town in the Florida panhandle. Add to that the beautiful beaches, top-notch schools, and almost no existent crime rate, and Whispering Bay isn't just the Safest City in America (the town's PR slogan), we're just the best place to live. Period.
The big grand opening celebration will include free food, games, tours, and a much-anticipated costume contest. The costume theme is sixties beach movies, which is perfect for Whispering Bay since we’re a beach community and the sixties is the decade that half our population considers their heyday.
“Are you going in costume?” I ask Abby.
“Naturally,” she sniffs. “I’m going as Annette Funicello.”
Rats. “Me too.”
Going as the most famous actress from the sixties beach movies era probably isn't the most original idea, but to hear that Abby is also going as Annette is a little depressing. Although to be honest, I can't wait to see how she plans to pull that off because I've never seen her wear anything but tweed skirts and pearls. It's like she dresses as if she lives in the Scottish Highlands instead of a laid-back beach community.
“How about you, Betty Jean?” I ask. “Are you dressing up?”
Before Betty Jean can respond, the door to the café opens and her face lights up faster than a flea on steroids. Since we’re not in the throes of a natural disaster, this can only mean one thing. A man has just walked into The Bistro.
Betty Jean is eighty but to call her a cougar would be underwhelming. She’s more like a T-Rex, or a raptor. To her, anything male, still breathing, and under the age of sixty is fair game.
I glance over to see who’s come in. It’s my brother Sebastian and his best friend, Will Cunningham. Sebastian is wearing his collar, but even if he weren’t, he'd still give off the priest vibe.