turning as red as cooked beets. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll come over there and rip those tartans off your bodies so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”
“Hey!” Nana grabbed his belt and yanked him back onto the sofa. “You’re blockin’ my view.”
Erik wagged a cautioning finger at Bill. “You better watch out what you pray for, buttercup. I bet you wouldn’t be so anxious to rip off our togs if you knew our undercarriages were”—he paused for maximum effect—“X-rated.”
Gasping from the ladies. Eye rolling from the men.
A half-dozen snack-size bottles of hand sanitizer flew through the air at them. “You’ll probably need those,” said Margi.
“They’re not wearin’ no undershorts?” spluttered Nana.
“They’re being historically accurate,” Tilly asserted as she craned her neck for a better look. “It wasn’t uncommon for highlanders to go about their daily business with their undercarriages fully vented. In fact, trousers might have been considered too confining, especially if one believes certain rumors that have been passed down through the centuries.”
“What kind of rumors?” I asked.
“Typical testosterone-driven hype. The early Scots were reputed
to have equipment under their hoods that was so excessively …
manly, some of the more impressive fixtures might have ended up as exhibits in scientific museums if someone had thought to preserve them.”
“No kiddin’?” Offering Bill Gordon a contrite look, Nana seized a fistful of his shirt and propelled him back to his feet. “Sorry about the misunderstandin’. You go right ahead and rip them kilts off those young fellas. Just give me a sec to turn on my camera.”
“I’m here at last!” Mom dashed into the room all aflutter, armed with her laptop, her notebook, and a file folder full of papers. “The suspense must be killing you, so I’ll get right to it.” Dumping everything on the nearest reading table, she cleared a space for her laptop, powered it up, consulted her notebook, then took a deep breath in preparation for—
Her eyes strayed to the sudden clutter. Unable to stop herself, she trailed a finger across one of the glossy magazines she’d shoved out of the way. “Ew,” she cooed, “current periodicals.” She did a quick scan, smiling beatifically. “And they’re not in order.”
I could hear her heart go pittypat all the way across the room.
“Dinner’s in twelve minutes,” carped Isobel Kronk. “Could we get this show on the road before they start serving?”
“You bet,” said Mom, forcing her attention back to the computer. “Here we are. The results are as follows, and I’ll ask you to please withhold your applause until the very end. Team Yes We Can, formerly known as Team Five, went first. I’m thrilled to report they redeemed themselves admirably after their disappointing first try and found the cache in an astounding six minutes and thirty-five seconds.”
Isobel pumped her fist as relief and satisfaction played across her face, making her harsh features almost attractive. “What’d I tell you?” Cameron encouraged his teammates. “Aren’t you happy we didn’t give up?”
Dolly and Bernice didn’t look too happy, but I figured their sullenness had little to do with cache results and everything to do with where Cameron had chosen to sit—shoulder to shoulder with Isobel at the library table.
Mom continued her tally. “Team One, still known as Team One until further notice, went second, and they found the cache in seven minutes flat.” She offered a heartfelt smile to the group. “For those of you who are unaware, my mother is on Team One. Wave to everyone so they can see who you are, Mom.”
Oh, God.
“Nepotism!” yelled Bernice. “Blatant nepotism!”
Mom inched her gaze back to the magazines, her internal struggle between duty and desire playing out on her face until she looked as if she were about to implode. “I’m sorry. Would anyone mind if I alphabetize these periodicals before we continue? It should only take a few minutes. They’re just so … out of order.”
“Everyone minds,” shouted Dolly Pinker. “Just get on with it, would you?”
“Nepotism!” Bernice accused more emphatically. “Blatant nepotism!”
Dick Teig shot her “the look.” “We heard you the first time, Bernice. We’re ignoring you.”
Ignore Bernice? Damn. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Returning reluctantly to the business at hand, Mom picked up where she’d left off, at warp speed, in one long breath. “Teams-TwoThreeandFourfoundthethingtoo. Goodjob. We’redonehere.” She slammed down the cover of her laptop and scooped up the magazines, cradling them in her arms while she shuffled through them.
Mumbling. Confused looks. Blank expressions.
“What’d she say?” asked Stella Gordon.
“She said everyone found the cache,” Dad explained from