Everyone murmured their congratulations, except for Colin, who was still stone-faced with anger. If Marybeth noticed, she didn’t say anything.

“We’re so in love,” she gushed. “So madly in love.”

“Tell us all about him,” Rochelle said.

But Marybeth just smiled coyly.

“No, not yet. I’ll save that for next week.”

Ashley sighed, exasperated. “It’s just like you, Marybeth, to keep us waiting all week.”

“Oh, don’t be such an old gwouch,” Marybeth said, pursing her candy red lips into a perfect pout.

Ugh. Colin was right. She really was Shirley Temple on uppers.

Pardon me while I fwow up.

Soon after Marybeth’s announcement, the last of the margaritas was slurped and the meeting broke up. Pam started clearing dishes from the coffee table, and the rest of us joined in.

“Really, girls,” Rochelle said. “I can clean up myself.”

“We know you can,” Pam said, “but you’re not going to.”

I helped the others in the kitchen and then excused myself to go to the bathroom.

I was heading down the corridor toward the bathroom when I saw Colin in the dining room, talking on his cell phone. Snoop that I am, I stopped to listen.

“I’d like to kill that bitch,” I heard him hiss. “She promised she’d make me her partner.”

So. That explained why he’d been so angry.

It’s funny, I thought, as I sniffed the triple-milled French soap in Rochelle’s guest bathroom, except for Rochelle, there wasn’t a single person in the PMS Club who was happy for Marybeth.

For someone who preached positive thinking, she sure managed to stir up a lot of negative energy.

After thanking Rochelle and assuring her once more that her guacamole wasn’t too spicy, we headed for our cars. It was quite an impressive assortment. Doris drove an Audi; Colin, a BMW; Ashley, a Jag; and Marybeth, a Porsche. (True, Colin’s BMW was at least ten years old, but it was a BMW.) Clearly Pam and I were the low-rent members of this group.

Colin bid us all a curt good-bye and got into his car.

“Nighty-nite, Colin,” Marybeth waved.

“Nighty-frigging-nite,” Colin muttered. Only he didn’t use the word frigging.

“What’s wrong with him?” Marybeth said, all wide-eyed innocence, as he drove off. “Oh, well. Whatever it is, he’ll get over it. He always does.”

Then she hopped into her silver Porsche, waved good-bye to us with two limp fingers, and sped away.

I watched in amazement as she roared down the street, tires squealing, rubber burning. I’d seen more conservative driving at Indianapolis. She sure as heck wasn’t getting any Good Driver Discounts.

“The woman is an accident waiting to happen,” Pam said, shaking her head. “I’m surprised she hasn’t wound up in a ditch somewhere.”