“This old thing?” I pluck the front of my bespoke Italian-made shirt.
Ursula gives a girlish giggle. “You know, if I was thirty years younger, I’d give Kennedy a run for her money.”
“You wouldn’t have much competition.” I feel my expression twist. It’s not a ploy—it’s fucking hard to feel sorry for myself.
“Oh, that’s not good. Come on in and tell Ursula all about it. Betty, too. I suppose you’ll have to because she’s home.” She purses her lips, augmenting her annoyance. “Just don’t expect much from her,” she adds in a low tone. “She’s not talking to me. Again.”
“You love bugs have had a falling out, then?”
“Love bugs. You are a funny one,” she chortles, slapping my arm this time.
Ursula leads me into the good parlour where Betty sits ramrod straight in profile in a floral wingback chair, her powder blue slacks and flowered sweatshirt almost blending her into the upholstery. But for that helmet of steel-grey hair, I suppose.
“I told you I’m not talking to you,” Betty grumbles, her gaze unmoving from the TV, her brows in their default position.
“That’s fine,” Ursula returns airily. “You hang onto your snit.”
“I will.”
“Because I have other company.”
Betty’s head swings my way. “Who—oh, it’s you.” Her mouth twists but then unknots, presumably as she remembers my recent good turn.
“G’day, Betty. The crows aren’t still waking you up mornings, are they?”
And twists again. “Not yet, no thanks to her,” she grumbles, flicking a bent finger her sister’s way.
“Now, sissy, let’s not start that again.” Ursula lowers herself onto the loveseat next to me, picking invisible lint from her cardigan. “Besides, didn’t Daddy always say a person who feeds an animal feeds his own soul?”
“He also said some days, you’re the dog, and other days, you’re the hydrant. Guess which one I feel like right now? She’s been feeding the dang crows,” she adds, directing this at me.
Ursula turns her wide, watery gaze my way. “It was just one time.”
“One time we know of,” her sister retorts. “If they come back—”
“Then Roman will just wear his wig and housecoat again.”
“Maybe you don’t want to say that outside these four walls, yeah? Won’t help my street cred.”
Ursula titters, and Betty just rolls her eyes.
“Shall I make tea?”
“Not for me, Ursula. I’ve got to get back to switch the water on.”
“Are you making pasta?” A look of confusion flutters across her face.
“Don’t be a pinhead, Ursula. Can’t you see the boy has problems,” her sister mutters. Astute, Betty. Astute. “We should get out the bourbon.”
“Not for me,” I reply with a laugh. “I do have to get back, though you’re right, Betty. Not to make pasta. I couldn’t even if I wanted to because—” I inhale deeply and find it’s not for effect. “Because Kennedy has turned the water off in some cockeyed effort to get me out of the pixie house.”
“Do you think this might be her not-so-subtle way of getting you to move in with her?” Ursula asks carefully.
“She can’t do that,” Betty interjects. “They have to get married first!”
Ursula rolls her eyes. “This isn’t the fifties, sissy.” With a click of teeth, she adds, “No one gets married these days.”
“I did.” My response cuts off whatever she was about to say. In fact, it looks like it short-circuited her wiring. Not so with her sister, unfortunately.
“If you think for one minute that I’m gonna let—Ursula!” she barks, grappling with the arms of the chair. “I need my gun!”
“Steady on, Betty.” I try not to chuckle, holding up a forestalling hand. “This is Tom Ford,” I say, plucking at my dark pants. I don’t want them splattered with paint. “Besides, I haven’t married someone else. I married Kennedy. Ages ago.”
“Oh. Well, then.” She lowers herself into the chair again. “When did you get married?” she says, suspiciously in the vein of what happened to my invite?
“Almost eight years ago,” I admit. “Kennedy wanted to keep it a secret. She still does.” While I want to shout it from the rooftops. Pressing my elbows to my knees, I find myself smiling because I think I just did. As good as I can, anyway. I can’t imagine this pair will keep the news to themselves for long.
“Oh my!” Ursula’s eyes positively glisten as she claps her hands together, all smiles and wonder. “You married, and then you lost each other, but now you’ve found her, and that must be why she had the real estate agent there yesterday!”
“Yeah, but—” I turn to face Ursula. “A real estate agent?”
She nods eagerly. “Tammy Garner. She’s the best in town.”
“Why would she be . . .” Looking to move. Is she planning on running away? I dismiss the thought before it’s fully formed.
“So you can buy a family home, of course. And fill it with babies!”
“What is she up to?” I murmur, my focus turning inward. Why would she be looking to sell her home? I turn to Ursula. “I don’t think that’s her plan because one minute, I feel like we might be getting somewhere, and the next, she’s telling me she wants a divorce.”