“Great minds,” he said with faux solemnity, and moved over to the desk where Mom was chatting with Mace Abbot, the hotel owner, about the sights in the area.
“Thank you both for the compliment, and yes, Marla shears sheep and alpacas and some goats.She’s a marvel, and I don’t just say that because she has a platonic crush on Fang.”
The man himself, who moved over to join our conversation circle, gave a little roll of his eyes before he wrapped an arm around my waist.I leaned into him.“It’s just because I’m a vet who specializes in sheep, and am madly in love with a woman who would geld me if I so much as flicked an eyelash toward another female.How’s your farm going, Iain?No signs of fluke your way?”
“None, thank the lord,” Iain said, and the two men moved to the side where a couple of love seats sat, immediately going into sheep-chat mode.
“Why is Iain limping?”I asked Kathie when she waved Iain toward the seats and headed for Mace.
“Knee surgery.Tell you about it later.Hello, we’re the MacLarens.We have two connecting rooms.”
“Dad fell off the mountain,” Clara said, not glancing up from her phone.
“That sucks,” I answered, eyeing her.I figured she was just another teen addicted to her phone, but she looked up at that and blinked at me.“You look good.How’re the goats going?”
“Excellent.This year, we’ve tried a new formula, and I think it’s going to be a success.Mum said it would be nice if I did a soap for you and Fang.”She tapped on her phone and held it up to me, displaying a photo of a bar of soap.It was a pale cream with two pink fingers poked up in the peace sign.
“Oh, cool,” I said, pleased by the gesture.“That was thoughtful of you to go to all that work for us.Did your mom tell you that I used to always flash the peace sign when I was around your age?”
“No,” she said, looking back at her phone.“It’s you and Fang holding hands.Or rather, it’s your arms holding hands.”
“Oh, gotcha,” I said, feeling like a boob.I studied the soap again.“That is a very sweet gesture.Thank you.”
“We brought you some,” she said, before turning to join her dad.“It’s called Emily and Fang Get Married.People on Insta are crazy for it.We’re on our fourth batch.”
“Mom,” I said quietly when my mother paused next to me, tucking her wallet and passport away in her bag.“Please tell me I was never that eccentric.”
My mother may be the queen of diving into her interest du jour with a focus that leaves her unaware of everything else, but she’s not stupid, nor does she lack anything when it comes to astuteness.“No,” she said, giving the lobby a quick once-over.I relaxed.“You were far, far worse.”
“I was not!”I protested, wanting to be outraged but not quite able to pull it off.
“You most definitely were, and before you argue the point, please recall your twenty-first birthday when you presented your father and me with copies of what you referred to as your biography to that point.”
The memory of the book I’d pulled together containing a series of emails, texts, and journal entries of my late teen years—and the adventures that had happened to me—rose with horrible clarity.
“That was more than ten years ago,” I said, refusing to acknowledge the memory.
“And there’s the fact that even at the pinnacle of your shenanigans, you didn’t make money hand over fist, like Clara.Fang, dear, did you see a striped bag the size of a bulldog—oh, thank you.”
“I shenaniganned in poverty,” I told Fang when he returned to my side.
“Really?”he asked, his forehead wrinkling.
“OK, it wasn’t poverty, but I’m not going to be a millionaire at fifteen as evidently my cousin is,” I said, ignoring grammar to make my point.
Fang’s brows rose above the forehead wrinkles.“The goat’s-milk-soap market is doing that well?”
“Evidently.”We both turned when a short burst of music came from the parking lot.
“Oh lord,” Mom said, passing a dramatic hand over her brow.I made a mental note to ask if she’d joined up with another production by the local drama group.“It’s Brother.Emily, I meant to warn you, but I hoped he’d get better.”
“What’s wrong?”I asked, fear hitting me in the same spot in my stomach that went cold and clammy.“Is Brother sick?”
“No.It’s far worse than that.”Mom turned her head in what I’m sure she thought was expressing a form of noble martyrdom.“He’s become Detective Inspector Mortimer of the CID.”
“Huh?”I asked, my stomach happily returning to its normal—if a bit empty—warm state.
“It’s the tour,” Mom said, diving into her bag again.“It’s his persona.”
