and looked up at me with concern and curiosity on her face.
“Are you okay?”
“I have no idea.”
“Welcome to parenting,” she joked. But her smile faded. “Do you … do you want to be alone with her?”
“God, no. I need a spotter, Pres. Don’t ditch me now.”
When she laughed, I made the mistake of looking down at her. I stopped myself from kissing her at the last second. Because this was going to be confusing enough for Priscilla without her catching us kissing.
“Mooooommy,” her voice sang through the screen door as she approached. “Daaaaaaddy!”
I wondered briefly how many times I’d have to hear that before it quit knocking the wind out of me.
“Coming,” Presley said, letting go of my hand to make for the door.
Priscilla met us halfway with a book in her hand featuring a blue cat in a pair of Converse.
“Here.” She shoved the book at me, then took my hand in one of hers and Presley’s in the other, and dragged us toward the courtyard in the middle of the house.
Her hand was nearly as sweaty as mine, a small, soft, chubby appendage with a considerable grip. Again, Presley and I shared a look.
All of a sudden, I understood the friends with benefits directive in a new way.
It wasn’t just my heart and hers at stake. It was the well-being and world view of a little girl. My feelings weren’t as important as Priscilla’s.
And that meant we had to be very, very careful.
When we’d made it outside, we sat on a bench under the trees, surrounded by squatty palms and birds of paradise with Priscilla squiggled between us.
“It’s time to read,” she commanded, handing me the book.
“Pete The Cat: I Love My White Shoes,” I said before opening it up. Before I knew what was happening, she clamored into my lap.
She nestled against me, her back to my chest and her little head at the hollow of my throat, right where my heart had taken up residence. When I circled her with my arms, she put her tiny hand on my forearm.
And I started to read.
It was pretty funny. Pete got some new kicks, but they kept getting messed up and turned to different colors. There was a little song he sang when his shoes changed colors, but the first time I sang it, Priscilla put her hand in the seam of the book and told me I was doing it wrong.
Once corrected, we continued.
At one point, I glanced up to find Presley with a look on her face, the look girls got when they saw a puppy. Feeling more eyes on me, I looked toward the window to see all the Blum women and Presley’s mom wearing the same expression as I tried not to laugh. The voyeurs scattered on getting caught.
When the book was finished, she slapped it closed, proclaiming, “The end! Now I read to you.”
For a minute, I listened to her retelling the story on memory, since she couldn’t read, but I had to admit, her rendition was better.
Pete’s shoes were red when the Blum sisters burst into the courtyard with red faces. Poppy’s phone was in her hand.
Presley frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m real sorry to interrupt,” Poppy started, but nibbled her lip, eyeing Priscilla. “Can I borrow you two for a second? Inside?”
Presley frowned. “Poppy, this isn’t really a good time—”
“I know. It’s important.”
Now I was frowning too. “What happened?”
“Mayor Mitchell is trying to bring a Goody’s to town,” Jo answered darkly.
“What?” I shot. “Goody’s? There’s no way this town would let those big-box thieves ruin Main Street.”
Daisy shook her head. “Mitchell’s already agreed to it. There’s a town hall meeting in a couple hours.”
My mind reeled. Goody’s would decimate this town. Blankeship’s hardware store had been in business nearly a hundred years. Mariel’s grocery store would go under, and what would Mariel’s great grandchildren do? And that was just the beginning. We’d lose a dozen businesses within half a year.
I could already hear Mitchell spouting the same old bullshit everybody gave for letting Goody’s into their towns. It would create jobs! It would bring more affordable goods to town! But what Mitchell was looking for was the revenue. He wanted the tax money, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d gotten a kickback on the handshake and hat tip.
A Stetson-wearing, pressed-Wrangler Mitchell male had been the mayor of this town for seventy years, the legacy passed down from one son to the next for seven decades. Sure, there were elections. But the