CHAPTER 42
Snickering over the Pamela-Sheila photographs is the most fun Lary has had since she can’t remember when. The early Friday morning air is as heavy as wet wool. Becks and Pumpkin are on the balcony with her, hooting with laughter while they pick up snapshots, one after another. Hilarity makes it impossible not to spill their Cape Coders, a tangy mix of vodka and grapefruit juice.
“So, Becks, now that you have your cast off, have you set a date yet?” Pumpkin holds a particularly explicit photo inches from her face.
“A date for what?” Becks sifts through the pile for another goodie.
“Your wedding, you pickle head.” Lary closes her eyes, leaning back to smell the geraniums mixing with gasoline fumes and pollution drifting up from below.
“Oh, that. Hmm. What’s the rush?” Becks s
