“What is going on here?” I said.

“Charlotte Eliza Rosen, will you make me the happiest man on earth and please, please marry me?”

I shifted Leno into my right arm and gave Decker my left. He placed the two-carat perfect emerald-cut diamond on my left finger, then stood up to kiss me on the lips. I nuzzled my face into the crook of his neck and started to stream tears of joy.

Back in my car, as I twirl the ring on my finger, I put my hands to my face and feel those same tears make an appearance. They are tears of relief. Relief that the good memories are not all gone.

Chapter 22

She’s clipping the stems of a dozen white roses over the farmhouse sink in her kitchen. And for the record, it looks like Alexa let her down with changing the security code on her front door because entering the Austin house in the middle of Debbie’s Monday afternoon neighborhood pool party was as easy as cutting through room-temperature butter.

“That’s him on the diving board, isn’t it? That’s Aiden? Decker’s son?” My question is fired at point-blank range and cancels out the sweetness in the summer aromatics that previously occupied Debbie’s kitchen: SPF 30, freshly squeezed lemonade, and the beginnings of a robust floral arrangement. I’ve never spoken to Debbie like this. My interactions with her have only ever toggled between wanting to be in the good graces with my husband’s mom, and wanting to be in the good graces with my late husband’s mom. In either situation, there hasn’t been much wiggle room for me to suddenly sport a confrontational personality. But by now, I’m ready to get to the point. It’s not like I have any allegiance to Gemma, but I agree with her on one thing: no more lies.

She turns to face me, finally. The touch of rosiness normally seen in her cheeks is void. She’s gone pale and her lips are separated as we both wait for words to fill them. For the first time since I’ve met her, Debbie is speechless—lost and confused. I know those emotions well and we won’t get anywhere if she stays stuck like that. I decide to tone down my incorrigibility.

“Let me back up.” I prep for an explanation. “I talked with Gemma. For quite a while, actually. Was no one going to tell me that Decker had a son?”

Debbie lets out a defeated sigh, positioning her hands on the kitchen island for stability.

“It’s not what you think, Charlotte,” she says softly, refusing legitimate eye contact while leaning over her gigantic marble kitchen island.

“What’s it, then? Because I’ve really been trying to figure this out.”

“Well, no one told you to go play detective. And now look. This is not how we wanted you to find out,” Debbie says, standing up tall in an attempt to reclaim her signature status.

“Please don’t do that,” I say. “The urn coming back to me has nothing to do with you being exposed as a liar. And a thief, too.”