Page 133 of The Oscar Escape
“It appears our young guest is a delivery truck driver,” the woman in pink explained, also digging into the bonbons before pointing toward the truck.
Aria surveyed the graveyard gals and felt her cheeks heat. “I’m not a delivery truck driver, exactly. I kind of borrowed that truck.”
“You mean you stole it,” Fuzzy Blue countered with a smirk.
“Well . . .” Aria began, stretching the syllable. She plucked a bonbon from the box and popped it into her mouth to buy some time.
“You’re in good company, doll. We stole that hot little number from the retirement community carpool,” the woman in pink replied and nodded toward the sedan parked on the side of the road.
“We do it four times a year,” Camel Beret tittered, working on her second bonbon. “They know where to find us. The authorities will be out to get us soon enough.”
“You mean the police?” Aria yelped through a bite of chocolate.
The cops might be getting a two-for-one deal.
Fuzzy Blue waved her off. “No, somebody from the old folks’ home. Probably Barry from physical therapy.”
Camel Beret perked up and filled her teacup with ninety percent wine and ten percent club soda. “I sure hope it’s Barry. He’s got a nice ass. I’d let that man physical the therapy clean outta me.”
“I can see why Lois was so happy when she broke her hip,” Fuzzy Blue mused.
Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, Aria lifted the teacup to her lips and downed the cool liquid.
“If you’re not a delivery truck driver, what do you do, doll? We always wondered about you,” the woman in pink pressed.
“She clearly likes lobsters,” Fuzzy Blue observed. “That’s quite a top. And those boots.Yikes!You going clamming later? Or were they impulse buys? Were you reading an article online about prolonging the female orgasm, minding your own business, and wham! An ad popped up for a fuzzy blue sweater. And before you know it, you’ve convinced yourself that you can’t live without it?”
As strange as this meeting was, it was comforting to know that once one reached an advanced age, the naughty-down-there parts didn’t lose any steam.
Aria glanced at her crustacean-laden top. She’d forgotten she was dressed like a lobster fanatic.
She studied the ladies. Should she tell them that she was a rock star—a major recording artist? No, she couldn’t. It didn’t seem like an honest reply. Not quite sure how to respond to the question, she concentrated on the contents of her teacup, as if the answers were hidden in the bubbly liquid.
“Are you all right, doll? Something got you misty-eyed.”
Yeah, a certainsomeonenamed Oscar Abrams Elliott.
The man had promised her the world, but it had been a lie. A lie that had her heart aching and her stomach twisted in knots.
She shook her head. She couldn’t say any of that. Instead, she pointed to the violin. “I’m a musician.” She eyed her notebook. “And a composer.”
It wasn’t a lie. After days of pretending to be upbeat while promoting her pop album and rocking a plastic smile for the cameras, these words—this true admission—was a salve for her conflicted heart.
“That makes sense,” Fuzzy Blue said and shared a look with Ms. Pink.
Aria’s gaze bounced between the women. It was time to learn the identity of these senior spritzer sippers. “You ladies seem to know me.” She zeroed in on the woman in pink. “You look familiar, but I apologize. I can’t quite place you.”
The woman adjusted her floppy hat. “I’m Agatha. That’s Martha, sporting a god-awful fuzzy sweater she bought off the internet.”
“It’s hip,” Martha shot back.
Agatha grimaced. “It sheds like a baby blue Golden Retriever.”
Martha patted the fuzzy fabric. “Well, I like it.”
Camel Beret hiccuped. Her hat slid forward as she picked up the bottle of wine. “I’m Netti, and you probably don’t remember us because you were just a girl the last time we sawand heardyou.”
“Heard me?” Aria repeated.
