Greta shook her head. “It’s probably silly, I don’t know. I was just thinking about what you said about seals and how you were looking for something unique for the packaging that maybe wasn’t glitter. What if you closed the boxes with beeswax seals and imprinted them with the name of the business? You could make business cards for the lemonade too and put them in the boxes with the cakes. Or stick them into the seal? Then people would smell the beeswax every time they opened the box to eat the cake and be reminded.”

She trailed off because both Helen and Veronica were staring at her with wide eyes.

“Yes,” Helen said.

“Fuck yeah,” Veronica agreed. “This is correct. Because we’ve talked about wanting to sell that damn lemonade for two years but we haven’t done it yet. It’s sweetened with my honey, so that’s the connection. And I’ve been selling my beeswax to local chandlers, but I’d make way more money making the candles myself and selling them. They’re pretty easy to make, and wax is the biggest expense. Damn. Yup.”

“Too bad you don’t put candles in a king cake,” Helen said.

“What if you made king cake candles?” Greta offered. “I think it’s kinda gross, but people love those candles that smell sweet.”

“Oh, damn,” Helen said, nodding. “We could be like, ‘Do you wish you could get king cake all year round? Now you can!’”

“Write this shit down,” Veronica said to Helen, who was already scrambling for a pen.

“I wonder if there’s a way you could reuse honey jars to make candles in, or candle jars to put lemonade in,” Greta mused.

“Maybe we can,” said Helen. “I’m writing it down.”

“I could grow lavender and other herbs and flowers you could flavor the lemonade with or put in the candles,” Greta said dreamily.

She realized she must be pretty high, because the notion of moving to New Orleans and growing lavender for a business with two people she’d just met filled her with pure elation.

Chapter 17

Greta

Shortly before 7:00 a.m., Greta approached the gate of a lavish home in the Garden District, checking the address on her phone for the third time.

She was here as Muriel’s guest, but she didn’t see Muriel anywhere. In fact, the only people about were a few kids scampering for a school bus.

Just as she had decided to slink away unnoticed, Muriel strode elegantly down the street in a red wool cape and flowing teal pantsuit, a group of equally well-dressed seniors following in her wake.

“Greta, dear.” Muriel kissed her cheeks. “I’m so glad you could make it. I’ll introduce you to everyone inside. Come along.”

Then she swept through the gate and up to the front door, the rest of the flock following in a colorful vee.