Stacking the Deck (A Betting on Romance Novel Book 2)(46)

“You always did have a questionable sense of humor.” Trish rolled her eyes and sipped from the travel mug of coffee that followed her everywhere. “You know what I mean. You always shied away from letting people see how pretty you were. Especially men. And, don’t deny it. It’s true. You used your smarts as a shield. Probably still do, but I’m here to put a stop to that.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really,” Trish said, warming to her topic. “You don’t realize it, but you still dress as if you weighed twenty pounds more.”

“I don’t wear baggy clothes!”

“You don’t wear clothes that draw attention to you, either. Are you afraid you might get noticed? Heaven forbid some guy should take an interest in you. When’s the last time you went out on a date?”

Liz was about to tell Trish she didn’t need help attracting the opposite sex but decided to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t think bringing up Grant would be helpful. And, she certainly couldn’t boast about going out a lot.

“I see it as my sisterly duty to make up for not being there for your prom,” Trish continued.

“I didn’t go.”

“Why not? I did, and I was preggers at the time.”

“No one asked me.” It wasn’t the full story, but it was more than ten years ago now. No doubt, she was the only one who remembered it. Thankfully, she was no longer starry-eyed Beth Beacon anymore.

Trish gave her a stunned look. “That’s—seriously, Liz—that’s so sad!”

Trish pulled out her cell phone and starting tapping the screen. “Well, I guess we’re making up for lost time. I’m calling my hairdresser. She’s fantastic.” She started the car.

“Why do I need—?”

Trish covered the mouthpiece and rolled her eyes. “Honey, stop thinking like a post and start thinking like the life of the party, will you? Meg!” Trish hurriedly uncovered the phone as she pulled blithely back into traffic. “It’s Trish. Clear your schedule. I’ve got an emergency, and I’m heading over...”





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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RUTH PEARSON PULLED the plastic wrap off her tray of hors d’oeurves and set them on Lydia’s sideboard. She fought not to roll her eyes. Lydia had been a friend for decades, but the woman had the decorating tastes of a five year-old: the brighter, the sparklier the better. What she saw in those majolica eyesores she collected was beyond Ruth’s comprehension. Her dining room hutch looked like a Mardi Gras float.

“Ooh!” Lydia cried. “What did you make today? These look adorable!”

On the other hand, Lydia did have fine taste in food. “Mini cranberry goat cheese balls and blue cheese pops rolled in toasted almonds with pretzel skewers. My grandson, Ian, found me this website with thousands of recipes. I’m trying a new one every day.”

Lydia plucked a cranberry goat cheese ball off the plate and popped it in her mouth.

“Are we eating or playing cards?” Claire wanted to know. Claire was such a sourpuss sometimes.

June shook a box of crackers into a napkin-lined basket and set it on the table. “Both,” she said.

Claire sniffed and rearranged her cards. “I dealt ages ago. Mmm. Hand me one of those nutty ball things. They look good.”

Ruth held out the hors d’oeurves tray as Lydia and June picked up their cards.

“So,” Lydia said, eyeing the box in front of Ruth, “have you finally gotten yours hands on the wedding photos?”

Ruth patted the box in front of her. “You’ll see.”

“Only if you win the hand. You don’t get bragging rights unless you win.” June reminded them all of their unique twist on poker—the prize being the right to repeat any story heard by one’s dearest friends dozens of times without threat of groans or interruption. After all, only the very best of friends would get together faithfully each week to hear the same old stories.

“I can’t wait to see them,” Lydia enthused. ‘I hope you win.”

“Rules are rules,” said Claire. “We stretch them now, all hell will break loose. Who but a bunch of old ladies will want to see every last one of them? But only if Ruth wins.”

“Who are you calling old?” June wanted to know.

Ruth glanced down at her cards and smiled serenely. “Ante up, ladies. We’ll start by playing a round of mystery photo per Lydia’s request.”

“I just love surprises, don’t you?” Lydia said around another cranberry goat cheese ball.

All the women slid a photo face down toward the center of the table. As bidding commenced, more photos—these face up—littered the table top. “I see your record snowfall with a picture of my flooded basement…” said June.

“I’m out,” Lydia announced on the next round.

Claire turned on her. “Don’t you dare fold just because you want to see the wedding pictures! That’s like cheating!”

“If she’s out, so am I,” June said. “Truly, I’ve got a lousy hand.”

“Fine. I call. What have you got, Ruth?”

An appreciative murmur rounded the table as Ruth laid down a full house.

“That’s nothing,” Claire boasted, fanning her own cards on the table. “Read ‘em and weep, ladies. A royal flush. In hearts.”