Dr. Stud

There is a tiny sound on the other end of the line and after a few seconds I realize she’s crying. Or, she’s sniffling. Actually… she’s probably crying for sure. I can just imagine her pert little nose going all red like we were kids. We’d screw something up and as soon as she knew we were caught, the waterworks would start. Not that she isn’t sincere—she totally means it—but it irritates me because it’s not helpful. It gets absolutely zero done.

“How much of this does Martha know about?” I ask, though I probably know the answer.

“She thinks we’re on schedule,” Didi sniffles. “The invitations already went out.”

“Great. So I can’t delay it. Half of Naples got invited to Martha Adler’s brand-new gallery, which I am supposed to magically materialize in ten days.”

More sniffling. It’s a good thing we are two thousand miles apart.

“Joe, I am so sorry. Like, really sorry. I know I have put you in a horrible position.”

“If your leg weren’t broken, I would make you come down here.”

“And I would be on the next plane!” she wails. “Absolutely the next plane!”

Reality starts to sink in, and I get a sense that ti

me is ticking away that doesn’t have to be. I’ve got a mountain of things to do. Walls, ceiling, lighting, HVAC, flooring… Oh my God.

“I know you can do this, Joe,” she babbles encouragingly. “It’s totally the plus side of being a control freak! You’re actually really good at getting things done!”

“You’re a jerk,” I announce and thumb the call to disconnect it.

Before my hand even drops to my side, I feel guilty. I shouldn’t talk to her like that, even though she is kind of a jerk. Even though she did create this entire catastrophe and then stick me with it.

Now it’s time to get to work.

Chapter 6

Joe

Uber is, of course, not available in Willowdale.

That’s not exactly true. My Uber app knows where I am. It shows me a cute little drawing of the six streets that make up our tiny town. But according to the app, it will take three hours and fourteen minutes to get me a driver.

The tiny little cars don’t even show up on the app. They might as well be on the other side of the world.

Cursing under my breath, I leave my luggage in the hat shop and decide to walk. Frankly, it’s only like four blocks from here. I just didn’t feel like being all out in the open, right in the middle of the day like this.

Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my vintage checked-poplin dress with a matching capelet, I head out onto Main Street, hoping to reach my parents’ house without any distractions. I don’t want to see anybody, or be seen by anybody. I just want to get things done.

Willowdale is simple, like a child’s crayon drawing of a town. We have two stoplights now—which is one more than we had when I left. We have one mail carrier. We have a combination town hall/library/police station in what used to be a bank building.

We have a main street called Main Street, and we have a town square with a rather grandiose gazebo in the middle of it. It’s got spotlights and everything. The town square was renovated our last year in high school as a gift from the outgoing seniors. I remember the girls giggling over who was going to get married in it first.

All along the square are planters filled with overflowing mounds of honeysuckle and trumpet vine. The perfume is almost nauseating, but yet kind of nice too. Kind of a grandmotherly-type smell. Sort of friendly, if a smell can be “friendly.”

Walking with my shoulders hunched, I take the fastest possible steps. We should actually be getting pretty close to dinnertime, I suppose, so most people will be hopefully inside their houses. But as I glance up I see a couple walking toward me. They’re talking to each other, moving their hands in front of them, their eyes shadowed by matching white golf visors.

But just to be safe, I decide to cross the street. I dart between the cars parked at an angle and hurry across out of a Manhattan habit, not because of actual Willowdale traffic. I don’t know if anybody has ever gotten a ticket for jaywalking in Willowdale, but I would hate to be the first.

“JoJo?” comes a voice.

Using my childhood nickname can only mean one thing: this person went to school with me. My skin crawls. I cringe and look for an escape.

“JoJo! I knew that was you! What on earth are you doing here?”

I force myself to turn toward the voice and plant a big old smile on my big old face.