Her smile has more than a hint of pride in it. “I told Abe I had a good feeling about this. You’ve got the perfect disposition to be the person people deal with when they go to the precinct. Paying tickets and fines is a hassle, even in a town this small. Having someone kind at the front desk will ensure it continues to be the not-totally-terrible experience it was while Felicity was there. Honestly, the rest of the people who applied were either a terrible fit or completely unqualified.”
“Were there a lot of applicants?”
Millie shrugs and looks out at the water. “The applicants there were didn’t fit. We’re lucky Chief Jameson takes his commitment to the town seriously. Frankly, as time was running out on Felicity being there, many of us were worried he’d wind up being forced to hire someone completely unsuited to the department. No matter how hard we try, there are a few bad eggs in every community. The idea that Eleanor Ramsey’s daughter might’ve somehow finagled her way into a position of any power in this town was almost more than any of us could bear. She’d have made going to the department to pay tickets or talk to the chief a miserable experience.”
I wince. “Rita Ramsey moved back to the island?”
A bunch of the island locals may or may not have unofficially thrown a party when she moved to Austin to live with Ronald, a summer renter she got involved with almost five years ago. Ronald was a balding, tubby, hairy, rude, incredibly entitled swine whose summer uniform was a bright red banana hammock bathing suit that showed way more of little Ronald than anyone in their right mind would care to see. He rounded the ensemble out with a pair of Fendi slides and a towel with a Porsche logo embroidered on it. Oh, and he always reeked of cologne. Most women would’ve steered clear of him, but Rita was all-in the minute she saw his bright yellow McLaren.
It wasn’t too much of a surprise, considering Rita has always been odd. Snagging a rich guy was worth selling herself out, I guess. I know that sounds harsh, but honestly, she sucks. Short-tempered and easily provoked, she gets off on creating conflict. At twenty-six, she’s a year older than I am but has looked at least five years older than me since the minute she grew boobs and started wearing low-cut tops. Her momma’s motto is if you’ve got it, flaunt it, which Rita definitely took to heart.
The summer I was fourteen, we worked together at the church as assistants during bible camp, and she made my life miserable. Three other girls and I busted our butts, while Rita sat on her ass, barked orders, called us horrible names, and then took all the credit whenever the bible study teachers would thank us for our work. That, I could’ve dealt with—begrudgingly—but her referring to me as “A-cup Ashley” was a bridge too far. There are two people in the world I truly dislike. Rita shares top billing with Hadley.
“She moved back a few months ago and she’s been raising hell ever since. There isn’t a lick of class or couth in that girl,” Millie grumbles.
I shudder as memories of things Rita said and did to me play out in my head. “Not only is she classless; she’s cruel. She went out of her way to make me feel like the fattest, most flat-chested, ugly buffoon on earth.”
Millie grimaces. “That’s just wrong. On your worst day, you’re one hundred percent more beautiful than Rita Ramsey will ever be.”
I let out a startled sound. “Well, that’s not true. I’m plain and she’s… well, not.”
Cocking her head, Millie studies me with an expression of alarm. “Nonsense! Do you really not know, child?”
“Know what?”
“Rita is—at best—a seven, and that drops down to a four real quick once you factor in her atrocious personality. She gets attention, because she puts all her wares on display. She’s like a flashing neon sign. On top of that, there’s not a lick of mystery to that girl. Everyone in this town can make an educated guess about what size brassiere she wears, and that includes Pastor Ed, who goes out of his way not to look. You can’t compare yourself to her, because you’re heads and tails above her. You’re a nine that jumps up to an eleven real quick once your sweet personality is added into the mix. You aren’t just stunning on the outside, Ashley. You’re beautiful inside, where it matters the most.”
It’s sweet of her to say, but it’s not accurate. I’m not saying I’m a wildebeest or anything, but in comparison to all of the Botox having, perfectly capped teeth, super slender and toned—not to mention big-breasted—beauties Los Angeles is darn near overrun with, I’ve always felt like a Janet Wood in the Chrissy Snow world of Three’s Company. I know I’m nowhere near fat, but like a lot of women, I sometimes fantasize about being smaller. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to be done for it. I can diet until the cows come home, but I will always, always have an hourglass shape, and unless I’m willing to eat nothing but bacon or salad, I won’t go below a size eight. The one time I did a low-carb diet and dropped down to a size six, I was miserable as hell. I like chocolate. A lot. Until they find a diet that allows me to drink a cup of hot chocolate and eat a peanut butter cup—or two—each day, I’m not interested. If being skinny means being miserable, count me out.