Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(39)

Mary-Margaret lowered herself to perch on the chair beside Holly. On Mary-Margaret’s lap sat a thick ivory pastry box, the edges of its scalloped lid embossed in pink. A soft brown ribbon was tied gently around a flower of some kind. An orchid, thought Holly.

“It’s a Paph. pinocchio lady-slipper orchid blossom in full bloom,” Mary-Margaret told her.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Holly cleared her throat. “I knew that.”

Slipped beneath the satin ribbon, just below the orchid, was an ivory calling card with embossed initials in the same soft pink found on the scalloped edges of the box: M-M St. J. Ugh! Even her monogram is high maintenance. M-M St. J.? Imagine texting that. Your thumbs would cramp. But Holly had to hand it to her: moms wrapped a lot of gifts over the course of a lifetime, and even on their best days, most packages didn’t look like that. Paph. pinocchio lady-slipper orchid blossom? In full bloom?

“How are you? Feeling overwhelmed today?” Mary-Margaret asked, placing a hand on Holly’s leg.

Holly started to say something about the spilled coffee and lack of paper towels:

“---.”

But poof! She disappeared from the conversation when Mary-Margaret said, “You’ve gone all morning without a bra. Haven’t you?” Mary-Margaret’s eyes spanned the width of Holly’s faded college T-shirt. “That’s too bad. ‘The twins need support!’ I always say.”

Holly informed her she was wearing a bra—a sports bra.

“A sports bra?” Mary-Margaret acted a bit startled. “But that’s not a real bra. That’s an ace bandage with straps.” She played with her soft brown ribbon for a moment. “But women love them! My gosh, do women love them.” Mary-Margaret shrugged. “Women wear sports bras even when they’re not working out. Why is that, do you suppose? Why do women dress to look like they’ve just worked out? We all know that’s a big fat lie.” She reached into her handbag to retrieve a lipstick. Reapplied. “Do you remember the song ‘Dancing Queen’ by that Swedish pop group ABBA? I picture you as the dancing queen, twirling around topless, but wearing your sports bra—so incredibly happy to be wearing a sports bra! Maybe you’re even spinning around, waving a long, flowing scarf behind you. I see that. I’m picturing that right now.”

What the hel-icopter is she talking about? ABBA? Seriously?

“Do you know the song? ‘Dancing Queen’?” Mary-Margaret asked. “I love disco. It’s coming back. I’ll sing it for you.”

No, Holly pleaded. But once again, Mary-Margaret ignored her.

“Wooo-hooo-oooo!”

Holly covered her ears. What’s wrong with this woman? Is she on drugs?

“---?”

Mary-Margaret’s shoulders slumped. “Of course I’m not on drugs. How could you say such a thing?” Now she was pouting. “At least I’m not wearing a sports bra,” Mary-Margaret added. “Sports bras aren’t real bras. They smash your ta-tas until your ta-tas aren’t ta-tas anymore. They’re blah-blahs. Imagine the bumper stickers: Save the blah-blahs? That’s ridiculous. But don’t you worry . . .” She leaned in to wink, flashing her pearly whites. “Wooo-oooo-oooo!” and began to sing. “Dancing Queen.” Of all songs. “Wooo-hooo-oooo!”

Holly couldn’t take it anymore. “Stop singing!” she hollered. “Oh, for the love of God, STOP SINGING!”

“My goodness.” Mary-Margaret straightened her back. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you speak up for yourself. And not just a little bit. You really let me have it. Odd that it took my singing a song by a Swedish pop group to bring it out of you, but okay . . .”

You’d think Holly would have something pithy to say after yelling at Mary-Margaret, but she didn’t. The two women sat in silence for quite some time.

Holly could hear birds chirping outside of the annex. Birds. Imagine that.

Eventually, Mary-Margaret leaned over to whisper, “My Love owns the most extensive collection of singles and LP microgroove vinyl records this side of the Mississippi.” She counted using her fingers. “My Love owns an Elvis Presley first commercially produced single in mint condition. The Beatles’ ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ with the WMCA Good Guys promotional picture sleeve printed on the B side. In his ABBA collection—in unopened, pristine, original packaging—My Love owns the ABBA Gold 1992 and 1999 Australasian editions.”

Mary-Margaret brought on the big smile: “We fell in love listening to ABBA . . . ‘Dancing Queen,’ ‘Fernando,’ ‘Waterloo,’ ‘Mamma Mia,’ ‘Take a Chance on Me.’ His ABBA collection jumped in value thirty percent when ABBA was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

As Mary-Margaret’s smile faded, she strummed her fingers on the top of the pastry box, presumably singing the words to a distant ABBA song in her mind. “I think ‘The Winner Takes It All’ is so sad. Don’t you think it’s sad? I think it’s about divorce.” She went somewhere in her mind, losing herself in thought. “Oh, for goodness sake. Forget all that!” Snapping out of it, Mary-Margaret waved a flippant hand in the air. “I think you should call everyone in the school to apologize.”

“Apologize? For what?”

“For the bus. You drove like Princess Peach in Mario Kart high on golden mushroom speed. This isn’t a video game, you know. You shouldn’t live your life in an altered reality. It’s not healthy.”