We’ll protect all the small rooms and eat any threats,Sherlock adds enthusiastically.
I don’t think that’s how guarding works,Biscuit Gravy says.
It does now,Sherlock barks as he licks up a crumb I can’t see.
I’m halfway to the parking lot when Mom and Georgie intercept me, both of them in summer dresses and looking suspiciously refreshed.
“Where have you two been?” I ask as Ella gives them a happy wave.
“Spa day,” Georgie says. “Got our nails done. See?” She wiggles her fingers. They’re painted red, white, and blue with little stars on the tips.
“Ooh, how very patriotic,” I say.
“I am a patriot,” Georgie says, placing a hand over her heart with all the drama she can afford.
Mom balks at the thought. “You were once called a national threat.”
“I’ve evolved.”
Mom gives Ella a quick pat on the head. “Where are you going with the baby?”
I fill them in on Mackenzie’s emergency at The Salty Spur.
“We’re coming with you,” Mom announces.
“You don’t have to?—”
“We’re coming,” Georgie insists. “No argument allowed.”
We pile into Mom’s car, which she’s decorated with flag decals and a bumper sticker that readsThese Colors Don’t Run. The drive to Edison takes twenty minutes through summer evening traffic, the sun still hanging stubbornly in the sky like it’s forgotten how to set.
We pass through Cider Cove—flags and bunting everywhere, red, white, and blue wreaths on every door, inflatable Uncle Sams dotting lawns—and cross into Edison.
The decline is immediate.
Edison is sort of the armpit of Maine, if sweet innocent Maine had an armpit to begin with. In this case, it most certainly does.
We pass pawn shops, check-cashing places, bars with broken neon signs, and a tattoo parlor advertisingFREEDOM INK - Patriotic Tattoos Half Off.
The Salty Spur is a square boxy building flanked by a laundromat calledSUDS & DUDSand an all-night deli with a hand-painted sign that readsMEAT ME ANYTIME.
The neon sign above the bar flickersTHE SALTY SPUR—WHERE EVERY NIGHT IS TACO TUESDAY.
There are pickup trucks, motorcycles, and one pristine white SUV that I recognize as Mackenzie’s in the parking lot.
“Oh my goodness,” Mom says, staring at the building. “Are you sure Mackenzie and her ritzy friends are meeting up here?”
I shrug at the place. “That’s what the text said.”
Georgie unbuckles herself in haste. “Look at all the hot men. Hubba hubba! Who cares where those witches went? All the more man candy for me!”
A shirtless man in leather chaps—just chaps, nothing else—walks past our car.
Georgie lunges for the door handle. “Mama wants!”
Mom yanks her back. “Would you STOP? Obviously, Mama is insane!”
“What? I’m window shopping!”
