I was already hiding in back when she said it, but I can picture it, and I hear Flo’s voice every time I do.
I’ve had heaps of titles: billionaire’s daughter, surfer, actor, eco-resort financier, Mrs. McVey (that one came and went in a blink), but “local girl” is the one I like best. Flo doesn’t say things she doesn’t mean. She’s got my back, along with all my regulars at Flamingo’s.
Once I'm sure I’ve dodged being discovered for one more day, I go back to Cal’s text, which is short and sweet.
Thanks again.
But there’s a link to a Google doc that worries me. When I open it, my worries are completely validated.
I don’t know where or when Cal found the time to type out all of his instructions, but he wasverythorough. I’ve got hisentire family’s contact info—he’s mentioned his three brothers and sister to me—directions to the Holloway ranch, tips for how to encourage Junie to be on her “best behavior,” detailed steps for not only safely installing her seat into my car, but also how to buckle her into it, followed by a list of tactics to encourage her to stay buckled. Apparently—as of today—she knows how to unbuckle herself.
Because, of course, my one solid Junie Containment plan would be foiled.
My break—or maybe my attention span—isn’t long enough to read the entire document, but I reckon I can use it more as a reference than a book of commandments. Surely Cal doesn’t think I can remember all of it. He has to know his expectations are a bit unrealistic...right?
Then I remember, this is bullet-train Cal. His precision and reliability are at the top of the list of things I like about him, even if I’m better at rolling with chaos than certainty. Or maybe that’s exactly why I like those steadier traits in him.
So, I determine to follow Cal’s instruction booklet as best I can and sneak a few peeks at it whenever I have a sec, which isn’t often. At the end of my shift, my feet ache like they usually do, but instead of wanting a nap, I’ve got a flutter of excitement. Despite Cal’s high expectations, I’m looking forward to my afternoon with Junie.
It’ll be a nice change from my usual routine. My peaceful drives after work and nights reading Georgette Heyer can get a bit lonely. Company might do me some good.
That’s the thought I lock in on. Not the nervous excited ones about meeting Cal’s family and seeing where and how he lives. We haven’t even been on a proper date yet. Meeting the parents feels like a huge jump forward, even if I’m playing the role of nanny and not potential love interest. And, yeah, I’vewondered more than once what his home life is like with so many people around.
But I reckon he and his family live like the rest of us. Roof over their heads, fridge with nothing to eat but ketchup and jelly, unmade beds, stacks of unread books. Laundry baskets full of clothes he’s too tired to fold or put away.
Actually, if Cal’s house looks anything like his OB tote or Junie’s nappy bag, there’s nothing out of place. In fact, the furniture is probably all covered in plastic and labeled with what it’s for.Junie’s chair. Junie’s toybox. Junie’s dollhouse. Junie’s bed. Dog’s bed—I just assume Cal has a dog.Cal’s bed...
Annnnnnd, time torefocus my thoughts.
Junie and I have a fun drive ahead of us! That’s what’s important. That’s what I’m looking forward to.
After clocking out and getting a sarcasticgood luckfrom both Flo and Pearl, I walk the block to Miss Merry’s Little Lambs Preschool.
Merry Lamb is the first customer in the diner most mornings. I’ve filled up her coffee thermoses—all three of them—at least a hundred times since working at Flamingo’s and wondered every time if she drinks them all at once or spreads them out through the day. My guess is all at once—that’s how tired she looks most mornings.
I wave to the kid who delivers my groceries as I pass by Al’s Grocer and stop for half-a-sec to watch little girls’ tap dancing in the studio next to Al’s. I loved dancing at that age. I wonder if Junie wants to take lessons. Maybe she already is. I add that to my list of conversation topics for our drive.
The sounds of squealing and giggling reach me before Miss Merry’s is within sight. An empty lot separates school from the rest of the block, allowing me a view to the fenced grassy field and playground behind the school. The laughter draws me from the sidewalk across the dirt, closer to the chain-link fence.
A woman out of my sight shouts, “Orange!” and some kids start running while others stay frozen in place. The runners are all wearing something orange, except for Junie, who’s running right along with them. Miss Merry jogs into view, chasing them, her long gray braid bouncing up and down. She laughs as hard as they do, pretending she can’t catch them, but to anyone older than four, it's obvious she’s able to keep up.
So maybe she saves all the coffee for late afternoon.
Junie, though, isn’t falling for Miss Merry’s bit. She slows down enough that Merry has to tag her. Merry laughs and taps her, then asks, “Where’s your orange, Junie?”
Junie squirms. “On my panties.”
I huff a snort. Unless she’s changed knickers again and had a spare pair at school, she’s lying.
“You sure about that?” Miss Merry lifts a questioning eyebrow.
Junie’s tilts side-to-side. “Pretty sure.”
I can’t tell if she’s trying to pull one over on Merry or if she’s honestly forgotten, but Pearl and Flo’s simultaneousgood luckrings in my ears.
I catch Merry’s eye and wave. “I’m here for Junie. Did Cal tell you?”
“Hi Fran! Go through the entrance and show Brianna your ID,” she says, not breaking from her high-pitched preschool teacher voice.
