She gasps, then her gaze whips from the gear to the pole and back. “I bet they were going to convert it into a strip club. Please say they were going to convert it into a strip club.”
“I believe the evidence speaks for itself,” I say.
“I’m almost sad that didn’t happen. I so would have gone to a fireman-centric strip club in Cozy Valley,” she says.
“That would have brought you back? Patronizing a strip club?”
“Don’t be jealous, Knight. I just enjoy a good show.”
“Not jealous,” I say, and it’s the truth, because I can picture her there, cheering on the dancers. Mabel would go there, ironically, to have fun with friends. “Maybe you can open a combo. Bakery by day, strip club by night.”
She spins around, eyes flickering. “You’ll be my star dancer?”
I scoff-laugh. “Yes, moonlighting on a pole won’t pose any risk of injury whatsoever.”
“Excellent,” she says, then heads over to the brass pole and runs a hand down it reverently. She turns quiet, looks thoughtful. I don’t think she’s picturing the strip club anymore. “My grandmother marched in here and pitched them on a calendar. She was so…bold. I still can’t believe she pulled this off.For me.”
“It is an amazing gift,” I say.
“It sure is. It feels unreal.” As if testing the integrity of it, she walks toward the wall and raps on it. “Looks like the expensive structural work is done. It’s far enough along to be functional quickly but not too finished yet.”
“It’s got good bones,” I acknowledge. “But there’s probably not even running water, so no need to play nurse with the cat wound. I’m all good.”
She snaps out of her decorating haze. “Hey. I didn’t argue when you wanted to clean my hair.”
“Really? You call what you didnotarguing? You said, and I quote, ‘Look, I appreciate the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing you have going on. It’s on brand and all. But you don’t have to stay. I can clean myself up.’”
She gives me an overly appreciative smile. “You memorized my words. Impressive.”
If she only knew how she was lodged in my brain. “Thank you. I am pretty impressive. Which is why you don’t need to bandage me.”
She hoists her backpack strap higher. “C’mon, tough hockey player. Good news is there’s a bathroom. Which is great because one of my life’s mottos isYay for indoor plumbing.”
“What do you know? That’s one of mine too.”
“See? Good team,” she says.
I’m not ready to agree to that. Instead, I tip my chin toward her. “So, pickleball?”
She juts out a hip. “What? I don’t look athletic?”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t know you liked…playing sports.”
“Oh please,” she says with a scoff. “I don’t.”
“But you play pickleball?”
“For the fashion. The outfits are so cute.”
Does not compute. “You took it up for the clothes?”
“Of course. I have a whole collection of thrifted dresses. Some with ruffles, some in gingham, one has a super-cute preppy collared top. They’re all ridiculously adorable.”
I don’t get it. How do you play a sport for the fashion? “Do you just…model on the courts?”
“I play.Badly. Like most people,” she says, then motions to the doorway.
I leave that perplexing conversation behind as we push through an open doorway leading toward the back of the house. And yup. Strip club for sure. This room has been half outfitted as a dressing room, with makeup tables in front of mirrors framed by lightbulbs. The kitchen is on the other side, where the afternoon light streams in through a window above a big farm sink. “Not sure what the plan was—maybe they were going to serve wings and mozzarella sticks in the club?”
