Page 41 of Maid of Dishonor

“Let’s not talk about me,” she says, and both her face and her voice warm at the change in topic. “Tell me what you’re up to this week.”

I sigh. “Well, Carter’s cousin is pregnant and engaged, and she needs some help with the wedding. So we’re doing that.” I definitely do not mention that we’re trying to stop the wedding.

“Carter’s cousin,” she says musingly, her brow wrinkling. “Have I met her?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. She’s…a little lost right now, I think. She says she wants to get married, but she doesn’t seem too excited, and she constantly complains about the fiancé. And I wonder if she’s not just rushing things because she’s pregnant. I mean, maybe I’m wrong,” I add quickly. “But that’s the vibe I get. So we’ll see.”

My mom nods. “And what else are you up to?”

“I’m hoping to get some organization done for my classroom soon,” I say with a shrug. “The seating chart for my first graders didn’t really work that well last year. I think I’d like them in groups.”

She nods again. “That’s how most of your classrooms were in elementary school.”

I nod, too. “Yeah, I remember. I just had so many problems last year with keeping kids on track. I’m thinking small groups, though. I’ll see how it goes. I can always drag Carter in to help me rearrange desks in the middle of the year if I need to.”

“How’s that boy doing?” she says, her voice affectionate.

“He’s fine,” I say with a shrug. “Stressing about his cousin’s wedding.”Also we kissed and we flirted and now I’m in a weird headspace, I add mentally. “I’ll bring him with me next—”

But I break off as I hear the unmistakable sound of a partially deaf eighty-two-year-old woman. Like the loud honking of a goose, Winifred’s voice reverberates down the hall.

“You’re a cad, you old man,” she says. Or rather, she broadcasts. Because I’m pretty sure everyone in a five-mile radius can hear.

The footsteps come closer, and I frown, looking at the door. I stand up, wheel Mom around so that she can see, and then poke my head out into the hall.

There stands Winifred, engaged in what looks to be a lovers’ quarrel with a bald, stooped little man—Boris, if I had to guess.

I suppose, based on how much I was hearing about him, that I expected someone a little more…well, just a littlemore.The old man version of a linebacker or something, with a full head of silvery hair. But Boris is roughly Wini’s height. His glasses hook over his time-stretched ears and perch on the end of his nose, and his skin is spotted with age. His spine curves over, and his weight is supported by a scuffed cane.

“Hi,” I say cautiously, because I have been on the receiving end of Wini’s wrath—just once, when her mail accidentally came to me and I threw away herSouthern Livingmagazine by mistake—and I have no desire to put myself there again. “What’s going on?”

Winifred blinks owlishly up at me. “Samantha?” she says—like it might secretly be an identical stranger or something.

“Yep,” I say, looking back and forth between her and Possibly Boris. “I didn’t know you had a speed dating thing today.” Then another, more horrifying thought occurs to me: “Winifred, did youdrivehere?”

Because I’m not sure I feel safe on the roads knowing Wini might be out there. I mean, there’s a car in her garage, but I don’t remember the last time I actually saw her use it; her friend always comes to pick her up for speed dating and book club.

“Of course I did,” she says, sounding haughty. I can tell she tries to straighten up to look more regal or something, but she’s just so stooped that it doesn’t really work. “And there’s no speed dating today.”

“Right,” I say, genuinely concerned. “Okay. Well, do you think maybe you’d like some privacy for your—er—” I gesture back and forth between her and Possibly Boris. “For your conversation?”

“No,” Wini says. She folds her arms stoutly and sniffs. “Let the whole world know that this man is a two-timing old cheat—”

“Aw, now, Winifred,” the man says, his voice pleading. “You know you’re the only woman for me—”

But Wini isn’t done. “And I’ll have you know, Samantha, that this isyourfault.” She rounds on me. “I told you I’d go on one date with this bozo, and here I find him playing cards withMiss Hattie Mae.” Her nose wrinkles at the name, and her voice is still far too loud to be polite.

“I mean,” I say reasonably before I can stop myself, “playing cards isn’t really cheating, Wini—”

“Strip poker!” she shouts.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

Don’t picture it, don’t picture it, don’t—

But it’s too late, because the whole subject is as fascinating as it is horrifying—the train wreck you can’t look away from. The image of two octogenarians playing strip poker is now in my head, along with all the logistical questions it poses. Can they dress and undress themselves? Do they use a shoehorn to take off their socks and shoes? Do dentures count as something to be removed?

My eyes swing to Boris despite my best attempts to avoid it, and what do you know—that sly old dog has a grin on his face and a wicked twinkle in his eye. An old cad, indeed.

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