“Dada, ogurt,” she replies, reaching for Max, who pulls a yogurt tube out of the diaper bag hung on his shoulder.
I kiss the little squirt on the forehead, pass her back, and continue on my way, because I don’t like how some of Cooper’s other retired teammates are huddling together near the Scuttle Putt miniature golf entrance.
And I silently high five myself when I successfully collect a half dozen more glitter bombs that I deposit into a repurposed mail collection box.
Waverly’s team bought a dozen to put around Shipwreck since they’re one way in, no way out without the keys. Though, of course, they were coated with pink sparkle paint first.
As I’m continuing on my rounds, chatting with friends and contemplating a dinner break, I bump into the bride and groom and hug both of them.
“Your dress is gorgeous,” I tell Waverly.
“Almost as pretty as she is,” Cooper agrees.
And Waverly Sweet, one of the most famous musicians in the world, blushes at the compliments.
“Have your security teams do a thorough sweep of your house before you get too comfortable,” I murmur to them. “I’ve heard rumors.”
Cooper’s eyes light up. “Really?”
“It’s you. Half the people here want to prank you, and all of them want to do it with glitter or things that make noise.”
“Fantastic.”
He’s smiling so big that it’s impossible to believe he’s faking it. Tillie Jean told me once that game loves game, and Cooper loves being pranked as much as he loves giving prank.
I lift a brow at Waverly. “You knew what you were getting into…”
“I did, and I do,” she agrees. “And you know what? Life’s much more fun the Cooper way.”
Someone calls Waverly’s name, and the happy couple links hands, thanks me again for being on glitter bomb patrol, and heads toward the dance floor that Waverly’s crew installed in the town square. During the Pirate Festival every summer, we bury fake treasure and let the festival-goers dig for pirate loot in the town square.
I love my adopted hometown.
Supposedly Cooper and Tillie Jean’s great-great-something-grandfather was a pirate named Thorny Rock who gave up life on the high seas as the authorities were closing in. He docked in Norfolk, loaded his treasure up on a covered wagon, and drove inland until he found a great place to bury his loot here in the Blue Ridge Mountains. He founded Shipwreck to be near his treasure, and now I live in a place where it’s all pirate, all year round.
There’s an added bonus that Cooper’s spent his entire baseball career talking up Shipwreck, so celebrities are here on a regular enough basis that the number of famous and important people in town today almost feels normal.
It’s fun.
One of my neighbors waves at me as colored spotlights flicker on over the town square. “What’s your glitter count?” he asks.
“Twenty-two, but fourteen of those came from the Berger twins.”
“I got three more off them myself. And I took three from Libby Rock.Libby. Can you believe that?”
Believe that Cooper’s mother would launch a glitter bomb at the last of her three kids’ weddings, against Cooper?
I giggle. “Yep.”
He giggles back. “She’s hashtag goals.”
“Nobody says hashtag anymore, Grandpa,” a teenager mutters as she passes by.
“They do when they don’t want to rot their brains.”
The teenager gives him a look. “It’s calledbrain rot. Notrot your brain.”
He smiles broadly back. “Wait until you’re my age. The kids’ll be talking a lot worse than you do. You’ll probably call it diarrhea mouth.”
