My mouth falls open at the blatant, albeit silent, threat. Both women before me look to be around their late forties, on the pretty side, and a little on the snotty side, too.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, and I can read minds. Not every mind, not every time, but it happens, and believe me, it’s times like these I wish I had the power to shut down the internal show. I can read the minds of animals, too, and trust me when I say they typically have better things to say.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” I offer a tight smile to the two bleached blondes before me, each in her own strappy sequin gown, the first one in pink, the second in red. “My name is Bizzy. I’m the owner and manager of the Country Cottage Inn. If there’s anything at all that either of you need, please let me know, and I’ll be happy to accommodate it.”
That whole owner thing is still rather new to me. Up until this past December a wealthy earl from England owned this palatial estate. And well, when he met his untimely demise, he left this place to me in his will.
The inn has always been my baby, and so I’ve never been more thrilled to receive anything in my life. But I’ll admit, it’s been a daunting task taking care of this place from a fiscal point of view now that the fate of the inn lies solely in my hands.
Macy grunts my way, “Bizzy is my younger, far too straitlaced sister,” she says, hitching a creamy blonde lock behind her ear.
Originally, Macy had black hair, much like my own, but she decided to bleach her locks about a decade ago and never looked back. She wears it in a bob that curls around her neck, and the way her tresses frame her face they make her blue eyes pop.
Macy is just a year older than me, but we’re light years apart in every capacity. She’s a feisty maneater who happens to run a soap and candle shop just down on Main Street. But believe me, she’s not all that in love with her current occupation. My mother sort of handed her the reins of that establishment years ago, but it keeps her in beer and pizza so she’s sticking with it.
However, it’s that whole maneater aspect that landed us in this casket predicament to begin with.
The blonde in the shimmering pink dress extends a hand in my direction, right over the casket, and I’m quick to shake it.
“Bobbie Buckingham”—she laughs as she says it—“so great to meet you. And we can’t thank you enough for allowing us to host the event here for free!”
Judging by that look of delight in her eyes, I guess I’m not such a jerk anymore.
But nevertheless, I take a moment to scowl over at my sister. The ballroom is a huge money generator for the inn, and it’s in high demand to rent at any time of the year, especially during February—a month made for ballrooms—but Macy took the liberty to not only give these two women one day’s worth of free run of the place, but two. The second of which is later in the month, Valentine’s Day to be exact.
Macy had better fork over enough bubble bath to last a lifetime in hopes to make up for this financial debacle.
The second blonde, the one in the red dress, gives a frenetic nod. “And I’m Lacey Lovelace.”
Her eyes are a shade darker than the first blonde’s, more of a navy, and she seems more soulful, more trusting than the first—even if she did threaten to haul me out of here by way of security. Little does she know, the so-called security guard is also the handyman around here, who also happens to be my ex-husband of one day, Jordy Crosby. In fact, my ex-husband and my current husband just so happen to be less than five feet away watching the whole funeral fiasco play out.
“Nice to meet you both,” I say. “If you have any questions about—”
Before I can finish, an older woman singing my name over the moody instrumental music bleating through the speakers interrupts us.
“Bizzy!” She stretches my name out for a mile before nearly landing in the casket herself.
“Georgie.” A genuine laugh gets caught in my throat. Georgie Conner is an eighty-something-year-old hippie artist who was once quasi-related to me. Her daughter, Juni, was married to my matrimony-loving father once upon a time. But they’ve since parted ways, and I like to say that I got Georgie in the divorce. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Georgie has shoulder-length, gray, wiry hair that loves to rise above her head like a storm cloud when she’s frazzled—much like the way it’s doing now. She’s donned one of her signature kaftans in pink with tiny red hearts printed all over it. Her eyes are a peculiar shade of lavender, and she sheds the smile of a deviant far too easily—just like she’s doing now.
“What’s going on indeed.” She narrows her eyes at the woman across from us. “Why, you’re only hosting the two biggest names in the relationship game, and you didn’t bother to tell me. Everyone knows Bobbie and Lacey are the besties with the best advice.”
My lips twist at the cheesy tagline—and yes, it’s the official tagline of their purported brand.
“I listen to your podcasts every week!” Georgie grows more animated by the second. “I just took the Perfect Pairing Personality Quiz, and I’m a nine—a natural peacemaker. I always knew I was a lover, not a fighter.” She looks my way. “You’d be a one, Bizzy. That’s a perfectionist who doesn’t know how to have any fun.”
Macy chuckles. “You know her well, Georgie.”
Before I can respond, an arm glides over my shoulders. “I know her well, too.” Emmie winks my way. “And I say my bestie is off the charts. She not only
