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“My Nonnie loved him—like love, loved—and had this big curio cabinet in the dining room full of memorabilia. And given my name, I convinced myself he was my grandpa. Mom always rolled her eyes and stated the math again, which conclusively proves that my grandfather is actually my grandfather. But as a little girl, no logic could sway me. I listened to Nonnie’s stories and decided Elvis was my grandfather, and that was why I was named Presley. For a few years, I listened to Elvis exclusively, and I had every one of his movies on old VHS tapes. Do you know how hard it was to find posters of Elvis in the early 2000s?”
I hadn’t stopped laughing since she started talking.
She smiled. “The bad thing about people knowing you have a ‘thing’ is that all anyone ever buys you is that thing. I have enough Elvis shit to fill a studio apartment.”
Priscilla pointed at her mother. “Bad word, Mama.”
“Mama can say bad words because Mama knows how to use them.”
She opened her fat little hand, palm up. “Monies.”
Presley rolled her eyes, reaching into her pocket for a quarter, which she deposited into Priscilla’s hand. With a smug look on her face, the little girl closed her fist.
“My mother started a swear jar,” Presley said. “I’ve spent a small fortune on quarter rolls.”
“And how’s that going?” I asked, still laughing.
“Cilla’s college should be paid for by Christmas.”
I wiped a tiny tear out of the corner of my eye. “That is the best story I’ve heard in weeks, and I’ve heard some whoppers.”
“Any of those from Jake?” she asked with a shrewd smile.
Just like that, nothing was funny. “You act like he talks to me. Other than the opportunities he takes to be an ass.”
“Oh, come on. He’s not that bad.”
I folded my arms and popped a hip. “Just today, when I ran into him in the creamery, he spent a solid eight minutes teasing me about not being able to eat cheese. Cheese! He was all, Are you sure you’re lactose intolerant, or have you just been milking it for years? Like I haven’t heard that before.”
One of her brows rose. “You’ve heard that joke before?”
“Maybe not that one, but there have been plenty. Where do lactose intolerant farts come from? Your dairy-air. What did the cheddar say to the ghost? I’m lac-ghost intolerant. I’ve already run out of comebacks for Jake. I only had three to start.”
“Well, what are they?”
“Dairy is an inferior culture. Sorry, I can’t handle cheesy jokes. And It’s just a curdle I have to overcome.”
“I somehow can’t imagine Jake using puns.”
“Well, he does, and they’re stupid,” I said indignantly. “He’s the worst. Did you know he almost never wears a shirt? Why does he need to be shirtless all the time? I was nearly trampled to death last week because his naked chest distracted me to the point of hazard. Someone should call OSHA.”
“Maybe he’s just trying to keep his shirt clean.”
I made an airy, defiant noise.
“But no more fighting?”
“More bickering than fighting. He told me I couldn’t get goats!”
She pouted. “But goats are so cute.”
“So cute. So I got some anyway. They came this afternoon,” I said with a smirk.
She shook her head at me with an appraising look on her face. “See? Genius.”
“We needed them for the petting zoo, and I want to sell goat milk and cheese, so he’s just gonna have to deal with it.”
“I’m sure he’ll take that really well. I bet he even thanks you.”
“You joke, but he will. When I prove him wrong, he’s going to be a groveling baby.”
“Jake? Jake Milovic? We’re talking about the same guy, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, he’ll at least tell me I was right.”
“The best you can expect is an admission that you weren’t wrong,” she said on a laugh, moving her crate to the counter. “So I brought over everything you asked for, and I packed a sampler so you can decide what you want for your next order.”
“Perfect. I’ve got a five-gallon milk can for you. I just need Mack to bring it around.”
“And with it, I will make you all the goodies. Lotions, creams, soaps, the works, specially branded for you.”
“You know, of all my partnerships, this one is my favorite.”
“I won’t tell old Regina. If she hears I’ve beaten out her scarves, none of us will hear the end of it. Come here, pumpkin,” she said to Priscilla, picking the little girl up. Presley leaned back, eyeing her shiny hands. “Did you thank Miss Olivia?”
Priscilla smacked her mouth a couple of times before saying, “Tanks, Wivia.”
“Hey,” Presley started, her voice taking a new tone, “a bunch of us are going to Buffalo Joe’s tonight. Mom is watching Cilla. You should come.”
I was ready to refuse but realized I had no real argument. I knew just about everyone from school, but that felt like a trillion years ago. I also realized I hadn’t been off the farm for fun since I’d gotten here.
