Overwhelmed, I needed to take five minutes to myself, so I’d asked Annie to keep an eye on Wilder while I snuck away to decompress.
“I heard she got knocked up by her professor, and that’s why she ditched college.”
God give me strength, I think, huffing out a sigh. Nana always said people shouldn’t listen at keyholes, but I’m not sure I have any choice right now.
“And that’s why she never said who Wilder’s daddy was.”
Is my life really that interesting? Or are they just bored with their own?
“I wouldn’t have kept him a secret.” Another voice joins the conversation, her tone highly suggestive. “Hell, I wouldn’t have let that man out of my bed.”
The three women laugh before the first voice says, “Maybe he left her.”
“That sounds like wishful thinking. Did you not see the looks he’s been throwing Kennedy’s way?”
“Maybe he’s shortsighted. Maybe I need to get a little closer and find out for myself.”
“You can’t hit on the man at his kid’s birthday party!”
I force my feet to move, muttering under my breath. I shouldn’t be surprised so many of them stayed once they realised there was gossip to be had, as well as a hot dad to drool over. But surprise isn’t so much the issue as annoyance is. Why did I think this was a good idea? Did I forget I don’t like people?
“I always thought Ed was Wilder’s daddy, and that’s why he and her sister never married. Why she left town, I guess.”
Oh, for . . . People get a life! Because mine was not a made for TV tabloid talk show!
“Oh, honey, that’s not true.” Jenner’s voice carries over the hedge, and if you know Jenner, that was his throwing shade tone. Or in other words, patronising in the extreme. While I can’t make out the other voice, it’s obviously another one of the moms.
“But I heard she poured hot coffee over Ed in High Grounds? What was that about?”
“Mainly about that man being lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut. He’s the reason the wedding was called off, not some sister wife conspiracy. Come on, can’t you see the resemblance between Wilder and his daddy?”
“But Kennedy has dark hair, too.”
“It’s in the eyes,” Jenner replies. “Both those gorgeous boys have knockout blues eyes.”
“Yeah, I did notice,” the woman replies begrudgingly.
“That is not the only thing I noticed,” admonishes a second female voice. “That man is fine! I can see why Kennedy kept him all to herself.”
“But why is he only showing up now?” asks the first woman asks. “They’re not together. Not after all this time.”
“Would you let that man slip out of your hands?” Jenner enigmatically replies. “He lives right here, so what do you think?”
I turn from the hedge feeling gleeful and all kinds of uncomfortable for feeling this way about Jenner’s embellishments. I hate that I love the way he implied that Roman and I are an item. When I sent out the invitations, I wasn’t expecting Roman to be around. I also wasn’t expecting his kind of intrigue and speculation. This kind of . . . urgh!
“There she is.” I swing around and frown at Roman’s overly loud voice. It’s a hint that doesn’t seem to take. “There’s my cheese and kisses,” he announces next.
“Shush,” I hiss. “Keep your voice down.” But then my head swings back as I ask, “Your cheese and what?”
“My cheese and kisses. My trouble and strife?” I shake my head, confused. “My missus. My wife. You,” he adds, holding out his arms like he’s expecting me to fall into them. Tempting me to?
“Are you drunk? You’re not supposed to mention that, remember?” We’d had that conversation. Yes to being Wilder’s daddy. No to confirming or denying our current relationship status.
“What are you whispering for?”
“Because hedges have ears,” I hiss, pointing at said hedge. “I can’t go that way because a group of nosy bitches are discussing the validity of Wilder’s parentage. And I can’t go that way,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction, “because I’m pretty sure Jenner was just about to tell a group of nosy women that we live in our own little love commune.” Roman chuckles, and I pull him away from the hedge. “It’s not funny. Earlier, I literally heard him telling someone ‘don’t come a-knocking if the pixie house is rocking’.”
“No one takes Jenner seriously. Especially not today. I mean, acid washed denim shorts and that T-shirt? Who the hell is Frankie, anyway? And why is he telling people to relax?”
“I think George Michael morphed into an eighties revival stage.” What that man spends on thrifting must rival his quarterly Botox.
“Yeah, but the pink legwarmers are a bit much.”
“Where have you been?” I say, eyeing him suddenly.
“I went to change my T-shirt,” he says, glancing down. “One of the mums spilt her wine on me.”