Page 23 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

Carlotta ignores me as we pull into a ritzy driveway that looks more like an old English cobbled road than something that leads to a mere garage. “Ooh, is that the house?”

I look up at the architectural wonder that could double as a castle.

“I guess it is,” I say.

“Yay! Birdy party!” Lyla Nell chirps from the backseat and claps her hands like mad.

“I have a feeling it’s going to besomeparty,” I say under my breath.

I knew Venus’ sister-in-law had money,butthis house looks like it came prepackaged with its own Bravo reality show. And something tells me there will be enough drama to furnish one.

The estate is massive with a glistening white mansion with ivy curling up the pristine stone walls sitting right in the middle of it. White columns frame the entrance like it’s the actual White House, and gold-accented balloons in the shape of stars float above the driveway.

A valet in a tuxedo approaches as we park, and once he takes the minivan the three of us team up with Venus again.

“This cannot possibly be a child’s birthday party,” I mutter as Venus leads us closer to what can only be described as a mansion on steroids.

The driveway is lined with what appears to be an entire line of ice sculptures made to look like Disney princesses, along with a fancy red carpet—anactualred carpet—that stretches from the curb to the front door.

“Told you.” Venus nods toward the madness while balancing her own tower of bakery boxes. “My sister-in-law, Vivian, believes in both making memories and spending her husband’s money. Mostly the latter.”

“Will a three-year-old even remember any of this?” I ask as Lyla Nell attempts to climb me like a tree—a rather bloated tree about to have mini trees at any given moment.

“Vivian takes enough pictures to make sure everyone will remember them into perpetuity,” Venus sighs. “She does yearly photo albums. Monthly milestone shoots. Weekly Instagram posts with custom hashtags. You know the type.”

“She’s the exact type I wish I could be,” I say. “I’m sort of disorganized with those kinds of things. In fact, I’m bringing Lyla Nell’s baby book along to the hospital so I can hurry and fill it out before the twins arrive.”

She belts out a laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m the same, Lottie.”

“I don’t have any pictures of my rugrats either,” Carlotta grunts. “It’s bad enough I gotta see ’em every day.” She stops short and gasps while staring at something in the distance. “Is that a champagne fountain I spy?” she squeals with far too much glee. “Now this ismykind of children’s party. Take note, Lottie. You’ll be having a lot of these. And just FYI, I like my champs in any color.”

“Please behave,” I warn her. “We’re here as guests, not to get thrown out of a toddler’s birthday party.” Or get wasted on champagne, but that’s sort of a given on her part at this point.

“When have I ever not behaved?”

Honestly? She looks genuinely curious.

“Would you like the list chronologically or alphabetically by offense?” I shoot back and that seems to have silenced her into admission.

I hold Lyla Nell’s hand while Carlotta balances those boxes from my bakery—or at least the ones that survived her snack raid on the drive over.

“My kids are already here,” Venus says, leading us up the walk. “My girls just adore Lyla Nell. They’ll be thrilled to dote all over her.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I say. “Lord knows I can’t chase after her.”

To our right a catering truck, a live pony wearing a gold tiara, and a man dressed as an actual leprechaun stand ready for whatever level of insanity is about to unfold.

“Thisisa party for a three-year-old, right?” I ask, just to be sure. Maybe she’s been sayingthirty-year-old all along and my pregnant brain just heard what it wanted to hear. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Venus groans. “She’s three going on CEO of a luxury cosmetics empire. My sister-in-law takes competitive parenting to new and terrifying heights.”

Carlotta claps her hands. “I love it. This is exactly the level of ridiculousness I live for.”

Before I can beg her to refrain from speaking for the next few hours, abutler in a full tuxedo nods our way and opens one of the massive double doors to the castle in front of us.

“Welcome, ladies,” he rumbles. “You can find the bar to your right.”

Carlotta grins. “I’m going to need three martinis and the name of whoever owns this palace so I know who to sue in the event I have an unfortunate, fortunate fall. And I do foresee Lady Luck smiling down on a potentially broken leg tonight.”

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