9
Cars clogged the curb in front of my parents’ house.
“Two o’clock,” Rohan said. “We’re being glared at.”
Mrs. Jepson’s curtains twitched, but not before we caught a glimpse of her trademark floral apron.
I nudged Ace. “Twenty bucks says she finally has an aneurysm about the cars blocking her curb.”
Ari snorted. “She’s been promising that for years. We’re not that lucky.”
The cedar and stained glass front door was ajar. We stepped inside, a loud hum of chatter and Céline Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” swamping us, and were immediately approached by a caterer bearing a tray of champagne.
“Why yes, thanks.” I helped myself to a flute. Ari, Rohan, and I clinked glasses. “Get Dad off music duty.”
Ari grabbed one more champagne flute. “On it.”
Two other servers circulated with hors d’oe
