“I didn’t know I had a date. Is my date cute?” I pause and think about that for a moment. “Never mind. What’s more important is if she can talk about history and cows.”
“Andrea can talk about cows… and maybe the history of cows.”
“Andy?” I squint at her.
“Didn’t you tell me you had a lunch date with Andy? Orshetold me.Someonedid.”
“Welcome to Paradise Springs,” I mumble. “Small town charm with all the gossip. My lunch with Andy is not a date. We’re talking business.”
“Does Andy know that?”
“Yes,” I grumble.
She pushes me in the dressing room.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy?”
“Everyone who meets me. But I know they mean it as a compliment.” She calls out from the side of the door while I kick my boots off, “Maybe if you acted like it was a date, it would turn into one.”
I open the door and pop my head out. “The last person I wanted to date put me in the friend zone and broke my heart. I’m done with trying.”
“It was for the best. I’m too bossy.”
After my business lunch with Andrea—not a date—I pick Ava up at the store to take her to May Ranch. She chatters about snorkeling and horses until we get to Meyer’s Crossing. Then, she kicks her shoes off and sticks her head out the window, like a dog, letting the hot wind flutter her hair.
When she sticks her head back in, she says, “How come your pickup truck is older than me?”
“It’s a valuable antique. Like half that shit your mother sells.”
“You’re not supposed to cuss in front of me.”
“Right. I forgot. And just so you know, when I say shit, I usually mean it as a general word for ‘stuff.’”
“Why don’t you just say stuff then?”
“Good point. I will try.”
“Remember Mom’s rule—you owe me a hot fudge sundae for cussing.”
“I thought it was one scoop of ice cream at the Cosmic Creamery?”
“Inflation.”
I glance over at her. “You know what inflation is?”
“You want me to explain inflation to you?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “Didn’t you learn about it in school?”
“The only subject I paid attention to in school was history.”
“What’s this thing?” She fiddles with the cigarette lighter. “My mom doesn’t have one of these in her car.” She bolts straight up and points to the side of the road. “There’s that lady who’s staying at Heaven!”
I slow the pickup. She’s bent over her bike.
Ava rolls her window down and waves while I pull the truck onto the berm.
She looks up, and I can tell she’s wavering on whether she can completely ignore us, even though we’ve already stopped. She finally straightens and walks over.
“This isn’t my day,” she says.
