Page 3 of Her Wicker Guardian

He’s quiet just long enough that I know I haven’t answered correctly.

“Fine,” he says, and ends the call.

I keep the phone against my ear for another second before lowering it. Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I don’t want to turn around because I already know what I’m going to see.

When I finally do, four women are making heroic efforts not to look at me.

Laura is studying the arch with an intensity it has not earned. Blair is brushing dirt from one sleeve. Shannon has found something extremely important to do with a trash bag. Janet is rearranging items in her tote.

They heard me.

Maybe not the words. But they heard enough.

I walk back under the pavilion and set my phone facedown beside my gloves. Nobody asks if I’m all right, which makes me want to hug all four of them and run away at the same time.

Shannon ties off the trash bag. “So.”

Blair points at her cup. “If you say cleanup, I’m leaving.”

“I wasn’t going to say cleanup.”

“You were thinking it.”

Laura takes another sip of wine. “She was absolutely thinking it.”

Shannon ignores both of them and looks around the group. “We’ve spent four Saturdays getting stabbed by shrubbery together. It seems stupid to go back to waving at each other in the grocery store.”

Janet stops packing. “What are you proposing?”

“Lunch. Once a month. First Saturday.”

Blair narrows her eyes. “Are there assignments?”

“No.”

“Crafts?”

“No.”

“Willow?”

“Absolutely not.”

“That last one should be in writing.”

Laura smiles. “I’m in.”

“So am I,” Janet says.

Blair lifts her cup. “Me too, provided the no-willow clause is enforceable.”

Four faces turn toward me.

For one ridiculous second, my throat tightens.

Trent is waiting at home. I’m already later than I said I would be. I should collect my purse, say goodbye, and get moving before another twenty minutes becomes something I have to explain.

Instead I hear myself say, “First Saturday works for me.”