Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(5)

The man from the Mercedes made his way up Holly’s sidewalk, tucking a pair of aviators into the pocket of his shirt. “Beautiful day, yes, Holly Banks?”

How’d he know her name? She’d never seen this man in her life. If she had, she’d remember him: 007 type. Appeared wealthy, tan. Holly gave a swift kick to the piece of packing tape clinging to the heel of her left foot, but all that did was transfer it to the toe of her right foot.

“I’m here for Jack. Is he here?”

“Not at the moment.” Jack was at work.

“Give him this?” He waved an envelope, the edges tipped with red and blue stripes. Airmail with postage from somewhere overseas, from a place Holly didn’t recognize. “Tell him it arrived this morning.” He had a lean but athletic build, took the steps of the porch swiftly, skipping a few on his way up. He tucked the envelope into the pile in Holly’s arms, so close she could smell his cologne: clean, but with an edge. “This should get his attention.”

“Do you work with Jack?”

“You might say that.” Sly smile, long dimples on the side.

If Holly had followed her post–film school dreams of working in the industry, she’d typecast this guy onto the screen of a political thriller. International espionage, something like that.

“Then why are you here? Why not give this to him at the office?” Is Jack not at work? What’s in the envelope?

“And miss a visit to the Petunia enclave?” He waved a hand toward the co-op gardens.

Who was this guy?

“Would you mind standing on the sidewalk? My dog’s about to bark.” Holly shifted the items in her arms.

“Of course.” He left her porch, continued down the sidewalk. “Tell Jack I’m getting anxious.”

“And who shall I say dropped by?” He was bold but elegant. If he was from the investment group that bought the vineyard, if he did, indeed, work in the wine industry—he’d be red. Dry. Something muscular and full bodied. Italian. Barbaresco. Definitely Barbaresco. No—Barolo.

As if reading her mind: “Enjoy the wine.”

“Excuse me?”

“The bottle in your arms. It’s an award-winning chardonnay.” Beside the lamppost at the end of her sidewalk, he slid his sunglasses from his pocket. “That was a good vintage. You’ll find vibrant aromas of pear, green apple, and white flowers. With just the slightest touch of oak.” He slipped the aviators on, walked around the front of the Mercedes to open the driver’s side door. “Tell Jack I’m waiting for his call.” He slipped into the driver’s seat.

Moments later, he was gone.





3


Friday night



“Sorry I’m late.” Holly felt a room of on-time moms judging her as she bumped her way across a row of knees—excuse me, excuse me, excuse me—toward an available black-pleather flip-down seat in the expansive auditorium. The Primm Academy New Parent Orientation was well underway with a good showing of new parents. “Husband was late,” Holly told a mom. “I hit traffic on the way over,” she told another. Why am I explaining myself? I don’t even know these women.

Holly took a seat, then took a swig of her to-go cup of vanilla hazelnut coffee as a woman dressed head to toe in powder pink waltzed across the stage to take the microphone from Principal Hayes. To Holly’s mind, the woman looked like a tall Reese Witherspoon or maybe a blonde Alexis Bledel. She moved with the confidence of a Hollywood celebrity not yet rocked by personal scandal.

The woman seated next to Holly leaned in. “My Realtor, Penelope Pratt, told me the Southern Lakes PTA voted for term limits, so their president serves only one year and then passes the baton to another parent.” She glanced once over her shoulder before whispering to Holly, “But in the Village of Primm, a PTA president running unopposed can serve the school for years and years. So it’s more like a dynasty.”

The woman beside Holly clearly didn’t know how to whisper because two moms in front of them joined the conversation. One said, “I’m an incoming kindergarten mom, but my son’s in third grade here. Primm’s PTA is the engine behind school rankings. That woman up there strengthens the school and surrounding property values.” The other said, “It’s true. I thought about moving to Southern Lakes, but in the end, I just couldn’t do it. The whole town credits high property values to the work of one mom—her.” She nodded toward the stage. “The president of the PTA.”

“Who happens to be Penelope’s cousin,” Holly added, pointing with her vanilla hazelnut. “Penelope told me the same thing. I thought it was a sales pitch.”

“Well, I almost bought a colonial in Southern Lakes,” the woman in front of Holly said. “It was a lot cheaper, had a bigger kitchen and more closet space.”

“Me too!” The woman beside Holly covered her mouth. “I wonder if we were looking at the same house. Oh, but then our kids would be going to Southern Lakes Elementary.”

Everyone exchanged a mutual rolling of the eyes. Thank God that didn’t happen.

“Why is your shirt yellow?” one of the moms asked Holly. “I thought we were supposed to wear pink.”

“Penelope gave this—” Holly swept her gaze across the room, shocked to realize she was surrounded by shirts exactly like the shirt she was wearing—the word PRIMM in Varsity font blazoned across every chest—except everyone else wore pink. Did she miss the memo? Holly spotted Penelope at the back of the room. Penelope was wearing yellow. Penelope and Holly were the only two women in the entire room not wearing pink. Where was Team Buttercream?