“Don’t worry, Shug. It’ll be great,” Odette assured. “I promise to keep Helena in check, too.”

Sugar raised her hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Let’s do it.”

Odette squealed in excitement. “You won’t regret it!”

Rochelle smiled. “We’re gonna get you out of your shell, girl.”

“I was never in a shell,” Sugar retorted.

Her younger sisters exchanged skeptical glances.

“What?” Sugar frowned. “It’s true.”

“Shug, can I be real with you for a moment?” Rochelle asked.

“Please, do,” Sugar agreed, a nervous energy buzzing through her veins.

“You’re kind of a recluse, Shug,” Rochelle said bluntly.

Sugar blinked, reeling slightly as the weight of Rochelle’s words hit her. “Beg your pardon?”

“I said,” Rochelle repeated matter-of-factly, “you’re kind of a recluse.”

“That’s not true.”

Rochelle shook her head. “You always find something you love and drag it back to your shell to obsess over it. When we were kids, it was the piano. Then, at nineteen, it was Lance. You stayed in that shell with him for eighteen years but occasionally crawled out to let us know you were alive. You were so obsessed with being the perfect wife. So much so that you even stayed with that asshole after he—”

Sugar’s eyes widened in shock at what Rochelle was about to utter. Was her sister seriously going to throw that in her face?

“Roc, that’s enough,” Odette interjected sharply. “Now’s not the time or place.”

Sugar clenched her jaw. “No, let her finish. Since she’s got me all figured out.”

“You stayed with that man after he did you wrong time and time again,” Rochelle continued, rewording her previous statement for the sake of prying ears. “And now that your marriage is over, your restaurant is your new shell. You barely sleep. You work yourself to death.”

“Why is everyone so concerned with how I live my life?” Sugar snapped.

“Because you’re not living it like you should,” Rochelle shot back.

An irritated Odette closed her eyes and massaged her tear ducts as the argument accelerated into nasty territory.

“That’s your opinion, Roc. You say I’m not living as I should, but you’re wrong. I am. I love what I do. It makes me happy. If you can’t accept that, then that’s your problem,” she said.

Sugar was free to do as she pleased for the first time in her life without answering to anyone. She had gone from living under her parents’ authority to her husband’s, with little room for rebellion.

At nearly thirty-eight, she felt like a child with her siblings meddling in her life now. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got.

Mallory wanted her to hire someone to manage the restaurant so she could be “the face” of it. Sullivan threatened to enforce a curfew if she didn’t get home at a reasonable time. Her sisters were obsessed with her getting a fuck buddy and partying it up in clubs.

Rochelle turned to Odette. “Can you please talk some sense into your sister?”

“Uh-uh,” Odette replied, shaking her head. “I just wanted to relax and let my feet soak before I get a pedicure, but I can’t take you anywhere.”

She gawked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Roc,” Odette said, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “Whenever we go somewhere, you argue and interrogate others like you’re in court. This isn’t court. We’re in a nail salon, trying to spend quality time together. So, don’t come for Shug’s edges and leave yours unprotected, because you aren’t perfect either.”

A silent Rochelle reclined in her spa chair, staring straight ahead to avoid her sisters’ gazes.

Odette spread her arms wide. “Now, can we get back to sisterly bonding, or do y’all want to continue this civil war? If so, let me request another spa chair away from this nonsense. So, truce or naw?”

“Truce,” they both muttered in unison.

————

Later, Sugar returned to the restaurant with a fresh French manicure and pedicure. The early afternoon crowd was impressive, yet manageable. She strolled into the lobby and greeted her day-shift hosts, Clara and Darren.

“Oh, Ms. Wallace,” Darren called after her as she walked past.

She winced slightly at her last name.

Even after nearly a year of being divorced, she had yet to change her married name back to her maiden name. She often pondered her reasons and excuses in the early hours of the morning when sleep evaded her. She reasoned laziness, busyness, and the fact that she only knew how to be Sugar Wallace, not Sugar Hartwell, were all factors for why.

However, she leaned increasingly toward changing her last name but wasn’t in a hurry.

“Yes, Darren?” She turned slowly on her heels to face him.

“There was a delivery that came for you. I left it on your desk,” Darren informed her.

Sugar blinked in surprise, not expecting a delivery today.

“Um, thank you.” She walked into the dining area, having brief tableside conversations with the patrons about their experience. No one had any complaints, which pleased her greatly. Her staff did an amazing job, and the smiles on the customers’ faces only confirmed that.

After spending some time in the dining area, she ventured into the kitchen, down the hallway, and opened the door to her office. She froze in the doorway, staring at the beautiful floral arrangement of dark pink and light pink peonies housed in a crystal cube vase.

Slowly, she walked into her office and shut the door behind her. She approached her desk and leaned down to sniff the fresh flowers.

Who in the world would send her these?

Her brain raced for an answer. She scanned the arrangement for a card and found a sealed envelope tucked among the blooms.

Sugar retrieved a card from it.

The note read:

Your name is quite fitting.

-C

Who in the devil was C? 

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