Jean, however, looked like she was enjoying torturing us. “Doesn’t matter how much brain damage you give yourself,” she said to Myra. “She’ll still find you something to do for eight hours.”
“I hate you,” Myra mumbled.
Jean laughed and patted Myra on the head.
“When’s the next thing?” Myra sighed.
“It’s a fundraiser,” Jean sing-songed. “Want to guess what it is?”
“No.”
“Canoe jousting?” I said.
“Not this time. C’mon Myra. Guess. It involves pancakes.”
She shifted her head to the side and cast a suspicious gaze at Jean’s grin. “Is it a cook-off? A pancake breakfast? That wouldn’t be terrible.”
“Boring.” Jean practically glittered with excitement. “Cakes on Skates!”
I heard the words, but couldn’t make them fit together in my head.
“Skates?” Myra said. Was that actual interest I heard in her voice?
“Breakfast delivered to your door by people on skates. Costumes encouraged. She’s got Hogan on board, so there will be cake donuts and cake cupcakes and cake cake, but he’s got four kinds of pancakes he’s going to whip up too.” From the smile on her face, you’d think the man had invented breakfast pastries.
“Why skates?” Myra asked.
“It’s also a contest.”
We waited.
“How many deliveries a skating team can make. How many times a skater drops their delivery. How many tips they can get out of the delivery. Who gets back to the finish line first. That kind of stuff.”
“Tell me Bertie already has judges.”
Jean shrugged. “Who knows. You still have your old skates?”
“No.”
“I do,” Myra said.
“Good job, pack rat.” Jean patted her shoulder. “You might want to loan them to Bertie so she can find some chump to sign up for deliveries. Unless you’d like to do the skating? Rebecca Carver will be doing it.”
At the name of her old high school rival, Myra’s face shut down into a scowl. “What’s she doing back in town?”
“Slumming? Walking around in her Jimmy Choos, despairing about our lack of diamond-coated puppy baths and pills that make you poop gold? What? That’s a real thing. Look it up.”
Myra, who was still head-down on the table, rocked her head back and forth, having given up on the conversation.
“I got nothing,” I said. “I’m out. It’s been a long day and I want some sleep. See you two tomorrow.” I threw a five on the table because even though Piper wanted to comp us our pie and coffee, she deserved a tip.
Myra said something that almost sounded like, “Gold poop pills. Brings a whole new meaning to gold digger.” Jean laughed again.
I left them to it and pushed out into the cool, wet night.
I liked summer. I liked the ever-shifting coastal weather that brought us days of lukewarm fog, or nearly gale-force winds, or crystal clear sunshine stunners that made everything feel right in the world.
And sure, I liked the cool wet of autumn, winter, and spring in Oregon too.
