Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(41)

“Thank you.” Holly looked at the piece of paper.

“Do it fast. There’s a wrecker out front.”

“You’re joking,” Holly said matter-of-factly.

“Not joking.”

Frock her. Holly made her way toward the door. Towed? If the Village of Primm was Oz, then Holly wanted anarchy. She wanted to be Dorothy so she could snatch the Tin Man’s ax and hack a few bricks loose from the yellow brick road, then hurl them at the Pink Witch. Holly hadn’t told Jack she hit the bus yet—and now her car was being towed? Towed?

Wait. Mary-Margaret was laughing. She’s playing me. The Pink Witch is playing me.

Holly reached up to press the vein in her neck. Still couldn’t find her pulse. I’m dead, right? This is just a dream? And then she realized if she was dead—and Mary-Margaret was sitting beside her—then she didn’t make it to heaven. She was somewhere else.

“Am I in hell?” Holly asked.

“No, silly.” Mary-Margaret brightened. “You’re in the Village of Primm!”

“Why do you do this to people?”

“You really want to know?” Mary-Margaret confessed, “I’m bored.”

“I’m leaving.” Holly got up to leave. “I’ve been here long enough.”

“Sit down,” Mary-Margaret urged, lifting the gift box to present it to her. “I went home this morning and baked you a batch of my special peanut butter cookies. And here they are. Have one. Have two! It’s a secret St. James recipe, and I want you to have them. They’re called peckled peanut butter cookies. Because they’re peckled with love. My husband, My Love, loves them. They’re still warm. Try one.”

Holly took the box. She’d been wondering what was inside . . .

“It’s all yours.” Mary-Margaret pointed to the elaborate packaging. “All of it. It’s all yours.” She reached over to untie the ribbon for Holly. Lifted the lid, handed Holly a cookie.

Holly took a bite. It was good. Really good, in fact, and Holly was hungry.

“Our friendship got off to a bad start. I want to start fresh,” Mary-Margaret explained. “Fresh like fabric softener. You and me, me and you, you and Mary-Margaret St. James, starting fresh. Fabric softener fresh.”

The cookies were scrumptious.

“Tell you what.” Mary-Margaret dipped her hand into the box to give Holly another one, which Holly promptly ate because the cookies were so dang good and she was so dang famished. “I’ll be lilac. The scent of lilac suits me. It’s elegant. You?” Mary-Margaret handed Holly a third cookie. “You can be lavender. You’re definitely more lavender smelling. Of the two fragrances, lavender is more generic.”

Holly looked at Mary-Margaret through lowered eyelids.

“Generic is good,” Mary-Margaret assured Holly. “Think of pharmaceuticals. Everyone wants generic. It’s cheaper. Anyway, stores sell candles in both fragrances, but trust me—there’s a huge difference between lilac and lavender. Huge!”

“Actually,” Holly said between bites, “they’re essentially the same.”

“Oh, no. That’s not true. Lilac is much higher end. Lilac is couture,” Mary-Margaret explained. “And you’re spitting. A bit. You’re spitting cookies as you talk.”

“But they’re fragrances,” Holly pointed out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “How can one smell be more expensive than the other? That’s ridiculous.”

“Trust me. The next time you’re in a store, you’ll think of this conversation, and you’ll buy lilac. I know you will. Power of suggestion. Mary-Margaret inside your head. Peekaboo! You’ll hold both candles in your hand, and you’ll start to think: they’re both purple, so they’re the same, right? But then, all of a sudden, you’ll find yourself second-guessing it. Moms do it all the time. The pictures on the candle labels. Which is prettier? The lilacs? Or the lavender? You’ll take a sniff. Lose precious moments of your life over this huge decision. Your child will urge you to hurry up, but you’ll stand there, frozen in the aisle, wondering which purple is the better purple.”

“No I won’t. Purple is purple.”

“And then I’ll pop into your head and say peekaboo!” Mary-Margaret giggled. “It’s me, Mary-Margaret St. James! I’m inside your head!”

Holly pressed another cookie into her mouth.

“Wow, Lavender, you’re really hungry.”

“Don’t call me Lavender.” Holly waved a finger at Mary-Margaret. “Don’t do that. I don’t want to be a Bree-with-an-E. I hate nicknames.”

Mary-Margaret handed Holly another cookie. “Wow. Look at you go! You’re like the Cookie Monster. ‘Me eat cookie. Nom-nom-nom.’ No, really. It’s okay. Eat! I’m accustomed to watching people gorge themselves on my baked goods. Wow. Your stomach is growling. Did you eat breakfast? Because it’s past lunchtime. How’s your blood sugar? Should I be worried? Lavender.” She placed her hand on Holly’s knee. “While you’re busy eating the entire box of cookies, I thought I’d tell you your good news. I signed you up.”

“Signed me up?” Holly asked. “For what?”

“For the PTA, silly.”