Page 25 of Sweet and Salty

“We all spoil him.” Frannie takes a sip from her beer. “He deserves it, after everything Magdalena put them through.”

We look at each other and nod. The one thing we all consistently agree on is that none of us are as bad as Magdalena.

“Just don’t mention her name when Rory gets here,” Mom says. “I’ve got to stir the black beans.” She walks down the hallway toward the kitchen with its large blond hardwood island and the knotty pine table with matching chairs.

Frannie and I turn left from the foyer, past the staircase with the photographic evidence of our childhoods on full display, and into the living room.

“So, how’s everything going?” Frannie takes a seat on the low couch, sinking into the cushions we used to jump on beforeour moms yelled at us to stop. Mom keeps saying she’s going to reupholster them, but with how much she still works and takes care of Davey, it’s fallen to the back burner.

I make a mental note to email all my siblings separately about the potential for a surprise birthday gift for her. Mom’s birthday isn’t until September, but something like that has to take time.

“Mama Bear, pay attention to meeeee,” Frannie mock-whines, drawing my laughter.

“Chill your beans, Frannie Bananie.”

“Ugh, I hate that nickname.” Her mouth twists in a smile of tolerance. “Don’t say that around any of the search and rescue guys.”

“Any guy special?”

She rolls her eyes. Whereas I am doomed to a life of serial monogamy with man-children who can’t be honest or commit, Frannie prefers the once-and-done technique. As she always says, “We both get what we need, and no one gets hurt.” She doesn’t seem to mind the solitude. I should really take lessons from her. I’ve been single less than a heartbeat and it’s going terribly.

“You know how it goes. I’m never in one place long enough for anyone to want to hang around.” There is a new tinge of bitterness in her tone. “I’d rather talk about you. I saw you got Frosting Monkey back off the ground. That’s fantastic.”

“It is. I’ve only posted twice this week, but I’ve gotten multiple messages from fans saying how glad they are that I’m back. I kind of forgot I had fans.” It probably helps that I posted several self-deprecating stories about how bad relationships could be. There’s a nice sense of justification that everyone, excepting Chris, thinks a mobile escape room business is not sustainable in a county more populated with deer than people.

“You have a ton of fans, hon.” Frannie fist-bumps me. “Working on anything fun?”

“This week I’ve got to start work on Daisy Gustavson’s Wild in Love cake.”

“Wild in Love?” Frannie drains her beer. “What kind of wedding theme is that?”

I sigh and lean back against the couch. “Remember Bobby’s senior prom?”

Frannie arches one perfectly tweezed eyebrow. How she has time for brow maintenance between flying search and rescue and working as a traveling nurse all over the country is beyond me. “I remember him coming home early because someone decorated half the ballroom in neon-colored leopard print and the actual tiger cubs they hired for photo ops tried to escape into the buffet.”

I spread my arms wide and shrug. “It was apparently the trial for her own wedding. Don’t ask Rory how many times she’s applied for permits for all sorts of zoo creatures. The wildest one so far was for a polar bear. It’s a good thing Tanner Michaelson’s a Dryden cousin, or the council wouldn’t have approved any of it.”

Frannie shivers. “Poor Rory. He probably didn’t see that coming when he got elected.”

For a moment, I think about the vast chasm between our two lives. What did you do today, Frannie? Probably saved a kindly grandmother, on her way to curing cancer, from some horrible fate. What about you, Laura? I made fondant zoo animals, got gaslit by an eighty-year-old veterinarian, and invented a fake boyfriend.

Frannie nudges me in the side. “Lay off yourself, Laura. Whatever it is you’re saying to yourself, it isn’t true. You know you’re the third mom in our family. Whatever that used tamponof a man said to you, get it out of your very smart, very accomplished brain.”

“I know that.” I do. Really. Sort of. “It would just feel better if some of the things he said didn’t ring true.”

Frannie’s eye roll could be seen on the moon. “I can’t imagine he got his head out of his ass long enough to say something pertinent.”

I slump into the couch cushions, the fabric enveloping me in a cloak of nostalgia. “I am clingy and over-involved in people’s lives.”

Frannie sits up completely straight. “That isnottrue. You help people, often to the detriment of yourself. Look at this wedding coming up. I’ll bet Daisy has called you no less than twelve times to request changes and you’ve just gone along with all of it.”

“The bride is always right.”

“Not when it comes to zebra-printed wedding cakes and fondant fucking peacocks, Laura.”

“Language, Frannie!” Mom walks into the room, holding a taco-shaped chip-and-dip in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. Davey strolls behind her, licking cookie crumbs from around his mouth. “Your nephew is only five. And watch the judgments.”

“Five is old enough to know that fondant peacocks are ridiculous, Mom,” Frannie says, her tone jovial.

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