Page 22 of The Belle and the Biker

"That's prepaid. Don't lose it. You Mulberry Acres Harkwells are so careless, and there are two thousand dollars on there."

My heart leaps in my chest. I'm so excited I don't even say, "Which branch of the Harkwells am I kin to again? Could you remind me? I always forget." Because if I do, she might snatch the card from my fingers.

"Thank you, Aunt Hepzibah."

"Well, I can hardly have you running around looking like that; people would wonder if the Harkwells went broke. Why don't you run into town and buy something that fits you better? And I suppose if you must leave your dog behind…" She heaves a martyred sigh.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly impose. Thank you ever so much for the gift card." Which, of course, came with insults attached, you passive-aggressive crone.

Sugar Hill has a high-end women's boutique, but I wouldn't be able to afford more than a couple of outfits with what my great-aunt gave me. It looks as if I have no choice. It was going to happen sooner or later. I'm going to have to go to Bitter End, where Percy is currently living and where I didn't just burn my bridges, I demolished them in a nuclear blast.

I go fetch Tiddlywinks from Carlisle. Then I grab a light jacket, put Tiddlywinks in my purse, and head out the door. As I'm walking past the parlor, I overhear my aunt talking to someone on the phone. "Yes, she's heading into town now, and she'll be gone for a few hours."

I realize she must be talking to my mother, and my stomach twists. Is my mother checking in with Aunt Hepzibah because she's concerned about my welfare? Or because she wants to avoid me?

Well, either way, my mother will surely be aware that I'm back in town and she hasn't called me. That tells me all I need to know.

I take Aunt Hepzibah's old Mercedes, which I always drive when I visit. Bitter End is only ten miles away, but it's an entirely separate universe in terms of personality and culture.

The residents of Bitter End are a bunch of scrappy, cheerful rednecks and completely unashamed of the fact. The residents of Sugar Hill, founded by a wealthy merchant in 1790, are mortified that they live in a county named Swampy Bottom. It's something we just generally don't talk about. We even tried to form our own county several times but were always outvoted.

The houses in Sugar Hill are twice the size of even the nicest houses in Bitter End, and the main street of our town is lined with a bunch of very expensive shoppes. Not shops—those are common. Shoppes. There's a lot of old money in Sugar Hill. The various Harkwell families—three main branches and a few scattered offshoots—are the oldest and snootiest of the Sugar Hill residents.

Many of the Harkwells work for an investment firm founded by one of my great-great ancestors. My daddy used to until he retired; now, he just spends his day golfing, hunting, fishing, and any other activity my mother would never want to participate in.

In Bitter Hill, the Abernathys are royalty. My cousin Daisy and her family own the hotel, bridal destination, and apple orchards, which provide most of the employment for the town.

Although the Harkwells look down on the Abernathys, there's also been a good bit of intermarriage between our families over the last few centuries. There've been some major shotgun feuds as a result. Family reunions are often somewhat tense, even these days. There's one high school for the county, smack dab in the middle of the two towns. I went to an all-girls prep school, but my friends tell me that Sugar Hill students and Bitter End students sit on opposite sides of the room.

It's a crazy little county, but it's mine. Or it used to be. I carved out a certain niche here—the niche of a rich bitch who lords it over everyone else. Once knocked out of that niche, I was like a puzzle piece that no longer fit.

Meandering on little country roads, it takes me half an hour to get to Main Street in Bitter End. When I get there, I'm surprised at how hard it is to find a parking space, and I finally park in a brand-new commercial lot at the end of the street. Here it is, January, which should be off-season and packed. The once-fading downtown has been revamped. New antique-style triple-globe streetlights are hung with festive sprays of greenery, and every storefront is occupied. Groups of strangers crowd the sidewalks, and from how they dress, many of them are from out of state and even out of the country.

That's all thanks to Daisy and her husband. Daisy's husband, Chase Lancaster, is mega-rich, even by Sugar Hill standards. He's New York City rich, and his specialty is branding and marketing. He and Daisy have rebranded the whole town, including many Main Street stores. The former Silver Spoon diner is now Bitter Bites, next to a new brewery called the Bitter Brew.

I'm glad there are so many tourists here now because I'm trying to slink down the street without being recognized.

Of course, that's impossible. I only make it a couple of blocks when I look across the street and see my ex-husband Percy coming out of the Bitter End General Store. He takes one look at me and ducks back in. Does my heart good to know that he's still scared of me.

I mean, I'm Savannah 2.0—not Saint Savannah.

I've barely made another block when seeing my cousin, Harold Harkwell, and I stifle a shudder. He's a hunch-shouldered beanpole with a belly lapping over his belt, his greasy blond hair is thinning, and he's never been a friend of deodorant. My mother shamelessly refers to his branch of the family as "poor relations," which is true but not the kind of thing you should say out loud in the 21st century.

My mother, however, is delighted that some Harkwells are even lower on the totem pole than we are. My father may be descended from a common chambermaid, but Harold's people are actually—shudder—working class due to generations of bad investments and overspending. They've all moved to the outskirts of Bitter End, where they disgrace the family name by working in various unacceptable occupations and living in normal-sized houses without a single servant.

Harold, bless his heart, was never good at anything. Flunked out of high school, community college, and vocational school. Last I heard, he was unhappily working for his uncle, answering phones at his tractor repair shop outside city limits.

But today, he looks happier than a woodpecker in a lumber yard. Two very pretty girls are strolling along on either side of him, flipping their hair and giggling. And oh sweet Lord, one of them is Mimi—my sorority sister, former best friend, and the woman who broke up my marriage.

Which reminds me, I forgot to send her a thank-you note; I'll do it as soon as I get home.

The other one is Tiffanee Lee. She went to the same finishing school as me. Her dating requirements, as I recall, were "quarterback or better." What happened since then? All the eligible single men in Swampy Bottom County up and died?

I look over at Harold. Curiosity wars with revulsion. Curiosity, of course, wins, and I stroll over.

"Hello, Harold," I say.

Tiffanee Lee and Mimi instantly move closer to him in the timeless gesture of a female trying to mark her territory. They glare at each other, then turn and scowl at me.

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