Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(102)

Jack arrived.

“Jack!” Holly said. “Just in time. Do you have Anna Wintour?”

“She’s in the trunk.”

Mary-Margaret straightened her back, tried reclaiming her composure.

“Mary-Margaret,” Holly announced, “this is my husband, Jack.”

Mary-Margaret smiled a hesitant, humble smile. Extended her delicate hand to shake his.

“Jack, this is Mary-Margaret St. James, president of the Primm Academy PTA.” Holly suspected he already knew who Mary-Margaret was, but he didn’t let on. “She’s the tireless philanthropist Penelope Pratt was telling us about. Property values in the Village of Primm are strong because Mary-Margaret draws top-notch families to the area. Aren’t we enjoying our strong property value? Jack?”

Jack and Mary-Margaret shook hands, regarding each other. Holly wasn’t sure why she had said all these nice things about Mary-Margaret after all Mary-Margaret had done to her, but if Holly’s family were about to collapse the way Mary-Margaret’s family was about to collapse, Holly hoped someone would be around to at least give Holly a dignified exit.

Holly said to Jack, “Aren’t you proud that our daughter, Ella, is starting her education at the prestigious Primm Academy?” It had been a rough first week of kindergarten, but Holly needed to give credit where credit was due. “Do you know who makes everything prim at Primm Academy? This woman standing before you: Mary-Margaret St. James.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” said Jack. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Mary-Margaret said. “Welcome to Primm.” To Holly, Mary-Margaret said, “Thank you, Holly. Holly Banks. I really appreciate your kind words.” Mary-Margaret lowered her head. Dabbed a tear with her pinkie finger.

“Aw, Mary-Margaret, don’t do that.” Holly touched Mary-Margaret’s arm, giving it a little shake. “It’ll be okay.”

It was Mary-Margaret’s husband who would face charges if and when Holly handed the invoice in her pocket over to Jack, who would certainly hand it over to the authorities. But the emotional toll the death of Plume would take on the Village of Primm would forever be pegged to Mary-Margaret. It wasn’t fair, but it would be Mary-Margaret’s fall from grace the villagers would remember. Not My Love’s.

Mary-Margaret bent to retrieve her pie box from the pavement. Holly had once marveled at Mary-Margaret’s perfectly coiffed hair and diamond-studded earlobes. Now, she looked like Holly: completely average in every way. Mary-Margaret was presentable in her pink yoga pants, raspberry T-shirt, and cute white apron but also a bit frumpled at the edges, her hair an afterthought, pulled into a crooked ponytail with escaping stray wisps. Her thin nose, dotted with dried piecrust, showed she was battle worn; she had fought the good fight. Must have had one heck of a wrestle with that cherry pie she attempted to bake back home. But she sucked at baking. Holly was sure Mary-Margaret’s kitchen would never be the same. Holly knew hers wouldn’t. She was thinking about painting her kitchen walls a cherry red to commemorate the time she had spent baking pies with Greta. Crayola’s parakeet blue would look nice with cherry red. A color palette even the almighty Collette hadn’t thought of. A color palette that was uniquely Holly’s, never done at 12 Petunia Lane. A color palette that would warm Holly’s home, making it supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

Mary-Margaret pointed to the strip of grass that lined the bakery parking lot. “Oh, look,” she said. “Crabgrass.”

Holly wondered if Mary-Margaret was contemplating a move to Southern Lakes. Holly hoped not. The Village of Primm could always use the same topiary frame to raise another Plume. But the Pink Witch? They broke the mold when they made her. She was the real deal. Mary-Margaret was the mascot of Primm. A town hero. Not Plume. Plume was just a plant.

Holly wished it hadn’t been her home that, when swept up in a cyclone, eventually fell on top of the Pink Witch. Mary-Margaret had turned the sepia tones of suburbia into Technicolor. Odd: Holly thought she might miss the hip, hips, the poofs, and the “---s.” The Land of Oz just wouldn’t be the same without Mary-Margaret.

“Holly?” said Jack. “It’s time to go. We need to get Anna to her final destination.”

Holly gave Mary-Margaret’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Are you going to be okay? Can I walk you to your car?”

Holly walked Mary-Margaret to her car as Jack loaded the thirteen pies into his car. Holly figured she’d leave the smelly red Buick in the bakery parking lot until morning. After what she had seen come out of that trunk, she sure as heck wouldn’t be driving it tonight. And then: Oh, no. No! Holly covered her mouth, looked back at the smelly red Buick.

The horticulturist at the Topiary Park had said the bugs on Plume would stay on Plume.

Did that mean . . . ? Was Holly to blame for the widespread chilli thrip infestation in the idyllic little town of Primm? No. Please, no. That smelly red Buick?

“Mary-Margaret.” Holly spoke quickly, a bit stunned by what she was about to say. “The trunk. The chilli thrips.” If Mary-Margaret was an accessory to My Love’s criminal act, then so was Holly. In a roundabout way. “I drove that car all over town. I spread the chilli thrips across Primm.”

Mary-Margaret nodded, touching a gentle finger to the tip of Holly’s nose. “Yes, I know,” she said softly. Not in a mean way. But in a way that said she understood. “And when you opened your trunk, you spread them across Southern Lakes too.”