“Language,” his father yells from the stove, not turning around to deliver the reprimand.
“He’s a damn adult and there’s nothing wrong with his damn language,” Beau’s very New York mother says.
Beau, clearly used to this exchange from his childhood, ignores it. “I do have to deal with the mulch people today. I’m going to be late to the rehearsal.”
“No, you’re not going to be late to my rehearsal,” Eve says.
“I have to if we want mulch this season.” Beau turns to me. “You can come with me, it should be quick, or you can leave with Mom if you want to see the setup.”
Oh no. It’s too early in the day for Beau to be giving me terrifying ultimatums. I’ll just pout into my eggs and sausage instead of deciding right away. We all finish eating and I help Beau with cleanup. More as a procrastination technique than an innate goodness or manners.
Back in the room, Beau asks me again what I want to do.
“Mulch sounds more boring the more you say it. So I’m choosing your mom over you. But I’m bringing my iPad to get some work done at the rehearsal.”
Beau shrugs. “When you regret it, remember I gave you the choice.”
Chapter Thirty
Beau is right; I regret this.
I tried to find a quiet corner of the barn where Eve is staging, hoping to do my own work while still looking like I’m helping Eve. I’ve done it plenty of times with Priya, and if I can convince her I’m helping while doing something else, I should be able to convince anyone.
I do get through enough of my email to not feel guilty for abandoning Priya before the Christmas auction, but then I make my first mistake.
I look up.
Eve catches my eye like a wild predator used to taking down large game. She stalks toward me, confident movements spelling my doom. And then, using a sweet tea voice so sugary I assume she picked it up here because no New Yorker is that nice, she asks if I could help with “just a little decorating.”
My second mistake is believing her when she says it’ll only be “just a little decorating.” Which is how I end up with a mound of dusty blankets in my arms, piled so high I can’t see over them. But I can smell them, and I can’t stop sneezing from the dust they’re pumping into my nostrils. Eve pulls me along, assigning blankets to goats, donkeys, and horses as we go. And ignoring my sneezing fits.
Then I’m standing in for a wise man at one point, so she makes me try on robes to see how the scene will look. They smell worse than the blankets, somehow.
And then she has me paint a manger.
I still haven’t seen a camel yet.
After we’re done with that, I see my chance to escape. “I should get back to work.”
“Work is so important.” Her acquired accent is getting deeper now. Does this whole family weaponize this damn accent? “But the camel is coming and it would be so helpful if you could work with him—you were interested in him at breakfast. And we just have a few more tasks until we’re ready for camel time.”
“Um.” I look longingly at my iPad in the corner. “Sure.”
Then I start painting mason jars.
“You’re a new face.” A voice breaks into my concentration while I arrange a small bouquet of flowers into the mason jars I was just painting.
“Hello.” I look up into the hazel eyes of an older woman. Christmas tree eyes. A relation of Beau’s?
“I haven’t seen you here before.” She’s not angry, but she clearly wants more information from the stranger. She tilts her head to consider me.
“Just visiting.” I’m not from the South; she’ll have to try harder than that to get information out of me. But if she needs some good conversation, I’ve met a chatty broad up somewhere in North Carolina.
She scoffs. “No one visits this small town.”
Very self-aware, this one. “I’m visiting a friend here.”
“Oh.” She sits down next to me and starts working with her own bouquet. I’ll take her help with my task. “Who’s that?”
