he best date fell on August eighteenth. The bride wore a tea-length gown made of white satin and lace, while the groom wore the requisite black-and-white tuxedo. She promised to love Quinn McIntyre through sickness and in health, when he was trying to be good but especially when he was bad. Quinn vowed to love and honor and take care of Lucy Rothschild and Mr. Snookums as long as they lived.

The couple was surrounded by family and friends and thousands of white and pink roses. In the months leading up to the wedding, Lucy’s mother and three friends had helped her plan the big event. Except for complaining and protesting the choice of attendance dresses, Maddie, Adele, and Clare had been great help. But no matter how much they’d protested, Lucy had turned a deaf ear on her friends and ordered matching pink satin and tulle fluff for the occasion.

After a fierce game of rock paper scissors, Clare won the position of maid of honor during cocktail night. Clare being Clare, she took the honor seriously and threw herself into the job. She arranged a beautiful bachelorette party and offered Lucy her great-grandmother’s Tiffany pearls to wear as “something borrowed.” On the day of the wedding, she forgot the pearls and had to race home to get them. She made it back fifteen minutes before preceding her friends down the aisle. Ever the thoughtful and responsible person, she stood stiff and attentive as Lucy said her vows.

The wedding reception took place at the Double Tree Hotel next to the Boise River. The guests gorged themselves on beef tips, chicken cordon bleu, and, of all things, weenie mac—which the McIntyre clan scarfed like manna from heaven. As the bride and groom took to the floor for their first dance, Clare took up a position by the bar. No one noticed her drinking more than her usual two glasses of wine until she threw off her shoes and attacked the dance floor like she’d come down with boogie fever.

After bumping and grinding her way through “Hot Legs,” Maddie and Adele pulled her aside and asked if she was okay. She simply gave them her perfect Clare smile and said, “I’m fine.”

But an hour later she disappeared, and Maddie and Adele were forced to leave the reception in search of her. They walked down the long hall, passed a Dale Carnegie dinner, and peeked into a large room stuffed with men of all shapes and stripes. The room had a cash bar next to a stage with a spotlight and karaoke machine.

Looking for all the world like an escapee from prom night, Clare Wingate stood center stage in front of an Idaho Steelheads hockey banner. The usually reserved, dignified, and obsessively self-contained romance writer held a wineglass in one hand and a microphone in the other while she belted out a song about a skinny lad.

Maddie and Adele looked at each other, twin expressions of shock rounding their mouths.

“What the hell is she singing?” Adele asked as they returned their attention to the stage. “Did she just say ‘big fat fanny’? That sounds like Queen.”

“Oh my God.” Maddie gasped. “I think it’s Fat Bottomed Girls.”

The men watching the performance whooped and hollered and cheered Clare on as she went into the chorus and begged them to take her home tonight.

Together Maddie and Adele shoved their way through the crowd, two spots of pink froufrou among a throng of muscle-bound men. Something was wrong. Something terrible had happened in Clare’s world. Whatever it was, was bad. Real bad. Bad enough to force the wheels off her perfect pony cart.