Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(40)

“I’m the one living in an altered reality?”

“You know, you really shouldn’t drive your child to school in your pajama bottoms,” Mary-Margaret said. “For two reasons.” She pointed a finger at Holly. “One, a woman shouldn’t have a category of her wardrobe called carpool clothing. You wouldn’t invite someone into your closet saying, ‘This is my evening wear, my casual sportswear, my resort wear. And over here . . . over here is my carpool wear’? No one does that. Don’t be that mom.”

“Goodbye. I’m done.” Holly stood to leave. “Moving to Primm was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Dismay in Mary-Margaret’s eyes, both hands on hips. “Mistake? How can you say it’s a mistake to live in the Village of Primm? You’re not comparing us to Southern Lakes, are you?”

“Maybe I am.”

“But the Village of Primm is so pretty. Did you see our welcome sign? It’s so pretty. It says: Pretty People Live Here. Well, it doesn’t really say that. But it should. Primm has gazebos and flags and white picket fences. Primm has Plume!”

“So?”

“So? Southern Lakes doesn’t have Plume. Southern Lakes has pink flamingo lawn ornaments. Southern Lakes doesn’t host a Cherry Festival on The Lawn. Come to think of it, I don’t know what they host. Probably hot dog eating contests . . . with men who crush beer cans on their foreheads—I don’t know.”

“I like hot dogs.”

“But—that town is messy. Dogs have the audacity to play off leash. Southern Lakes kids leave toys strewn about. In the yard, on the sidewalks, all over driveways . . . you know what that is, don’t you? Toy litter. Have you seen their lawns?” Mary-Margaret’s eyes opened wide. “They have crabgrass. Crabgrass! And please don’t say you like crabgrass. Why would you like crabgrass? No one likes crabgrass.” She appeared genuinely distraught. “You don’t like crabgrass.” She blinked her baby blues at Holly. “Tell me you don’t like crabgrass.”

“Honestly? I’ve never thought about it before.” So what if the grass is greener on the Primm side of the fence. Crabgrass is a small price to pay for a more relaxed motherhood.

“Oh, what’s really wrong, Popcorn? Why would you choose Southern Lakes over the Village of Primm?” Mary-Margaret fingered the ribbon on her box. “It’s your sports bra, isn’t it? Feels like a boa constrictor? Probably cutting blood circulation to your brain.”

“Sorry, Mary-Margaret, but no. My sports bra isn’t strangling me. Nor is it clouding my judgment. And my name isn’t Popcorn or Chef Boyardee or some other name you picked up on aisle five. It’s Holly.”

“Then what is it, Bok Choy? What’s wrong?”

Holly glanced at the security monitors. The screens were black because she’d shut them down when Mary-Margaret waltzed in. Ella was somewhere in that darkness—but Holly couldn’t see her. She couldn’t hear her. Couldn’t touch her. Holly had no idea what Ella was doing at that moment. “Maybe I’m not feeling very welcome in Primm.”

“But why? Didn’t Penelope bring you coupons?”

“She’s already welcomed me to Primm. And I should have invited her in for a cup of tea, but . . .” Do I tell her? Do I tell Mary-Margaret I didn’t welcome Penelope inside my home because of Collette’s overachieving? Why am I letting these women get under my skin? Stupid Pinterest. Holly hated Pinterest. She plopped down. Hated Houzz too. And Facebook. Happy family photos. Instagram . . . Stories. Why was everything in your face all the time?

Mary-Margaret patted Holly’s knee. “Cheer up, little buckaroo. We moms try so hard to do so much for so many, but sometimes”—she shrugged, tossing her hands up—“we screw up. That’s all you’ve done. You’ve screwed up. Multiple times, actually. At least you don’t have to worry about leaving your car in the bus lane. Because I called a tow truck.”

“You what?” Holly sprang from her chair.

“You’re welcome.”

“You had it towed? Why’d you do that? Who are you? The Wicked Witch of the West?”

“Well, don’t yell at me! You left me no choice—it’s been sitting out there for three hours.” Mary-Margaret wiggled in her seat. “And don’t call me the Wicked Witch of the West.” She looked offended.

“I’m sorry,” Holly told her. And she was. That was mean.

“Because I’m clearly Glinda. See?” Mary-Margaret rolled her hands down the front of her outfit. “I’m wearing pink!”

“In the 1939 film version,” Holly pointed out, “Glinda is the Good Witch of the South. But in the original—in Baum’s 1900 children’s novel—she’s the Good Witch of the North.”

Mary-Margaret blinked once, but other than that, she sat perfectly still. Blank stare. Nothing on her face moved. No twitch. No flinch. No wince. Nada.

“I went to film school.”

“Whatev.” Mary-Margaret handed Holly a slip of paper. “I bumped into Officer Knapp at Primm’s Coffee Joe two hours ago. He’s supposed to work out of the Community Helper Annex but uses Coffee Joe as a satellite office. He’s in it for the parfait Joe sells with the thin blue line of blueberries. He’s very busy—not really. Not since that murder that one time. Years ago. One murder in the entire history of Primm. Still unsolved. Not really. There were two murders. One solved. One not. Or maybe there were three? Unspeakable things. Secretive little village. Anyhoo. Have Principal Hayes sign that, and then you can leave.”