Heidi's Guide to Four Letter Words(31)

“Peggy! I thought I heard your voice,” Jameson says with a laugh, leaning in and giving her a kiss on the cheek before stepping out of the way so Aubrey can give her a hug.

“Jameson, you’re not busy right now are you?” my dad asks him as he bounces up and down over by the door.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

“Just trying to finish up a few more chapters of this audiobook by the end of the day today,” Jameson replies before taking a bite of the lemon bar my mom thrusts into his face.

“Good. Go out to my trunk and grab my toolbox. You can help me fix this board,” Dad instructs as he bends down to get a closer look at the floor.

“Dad! Jameson doesn’t have time to go get your toolbox; he’s working. You don’t need to fix anything here. I’m sure we have people who do that, right?” I ask, looking at Dave with wide, pleading eyes so he’ll help me and get my parents the heck out of here.

“Oh sure. We have a maintenance guy.” Dave nods, shoving another lemon bar in his mouth.

Thank G—

“What’s his name?” Dad asks with a raise of one eyebrow.

“Don’t know.” Dave shrugs.

“What’s his phone number?”

“Yeah, don’t know that either. Jessica used to always get ahold of him if we needed something fixed. Heidi, did Jessica leave you his name and number?” Dave asks.

“We don’t have time for that now,” my dad complains. “Jameson, go get my tools.”

“Sweetie, while you’re out there, can you grab the two other pans of lemon bars and the coffee carafe from the backseat? There’s also a vase of flowers, a tablecloth, and two lilac-scented candles,” mom informs him as she sets the pan down on the coffee table. “This lobby needs some sprucing up. Aubrey, help me move this coffee table over by the window where there’s more natural light.”



“And, this is the break room where we take our breaks. That concludes your tour of EdenMedia, so how about I take you back to Dad and you guys can go home?”

I try to back out of the doorway before my mom gets a chance to walk into the small room and start redecorating it, but it’s no use. She shoves right past me and takes a seat at the table. I shouldn’t be surprised. A tour that should normally take roughly five minutes, since this is a pretty small building, took over an hour. When I tried to just walk her right by the studios where people were busy recording, she insisted on walking inside and introducing herself, while spending entirely too long scolding the audio narrators on their choice of seating while they record, listing all the ailments they could possibly face without proper back support. She also reorganized the supply closet, convinced one of the producers to stop smoking, made plans to cook lunch for two of the narrators after she gave them a lecture about nutrition when she saw their choice of snacks sitting on a table in their studio, telling them they couldn’t touch her lemon bars until they had at least one vegetable, and vacuumed the entire place.

“Mom, we really need to get back to work.” I sigh as she makes herself comfortable at the table.

Aubrey accompanied us on the tour, and I quickly shoot her a look that says “Help. Me.”

She just shrugs. “I’m not here to work. I’m just here to watch my husband work, and to annoy you when I get bored. Sorry. I’m bored.” With a laugh, she flops down on a chair next to my mom. They both look at me expectantly. Since my parents have already made enough of a scene this morning—the sounds of a hammer being smacked against the hardwood floor in the lobby, along with my dad shouting orders at Jameson, haven’t stopped since Jameson came back inside with my dad’s toolbox an hour ago—I figure it can’t get any worse. At least Dave didn’t fire me when my mom asked him to lift up his legs while he sat at the DAW, so she could get the vacuum under the desk. It’s probably a wise decision at this point to keep her contained to the break room until my dad is finished.

Sitting across from Aubrey and my mom, I watch in silence as she hefts her purse up onto the table and begins pulling things out of it. Namely, all of Aubrey’s books that she gave my mom when we had lunch at my parents’ house a few weeks ago. True to her word, each book has been covered with different floral contact paper so you can no longer see the naked man-chest covers.

“I finished each of your books, Aubrey, and my goodness, you are a wonderful storyteller!” Mom gushes. “The ladies at church read them after I did, and they all want you to come to our next book club meeting.”

Grabbing the book closest to me, I flip through the pages before giving my mom a quizzical look.

“Um, Mom? Where are all the Post-It notes?”

She clears her throat, brushes imaginary lint off her shirt, and refuses to make eye contact.

“Post-It notes? What Post-It notes?” she asks, feigning confusion, still brushing absolutely nothing off the front of her shirt.

“The Post-It notes you made Aubrey put on the pages with all the dirty parts,” I remind her.

Aubrey is doing her best to smother her laughter with her hand over her mouth, but it’s no use. A giggle escapes, and she quickly covers it up with a cough.

“Oh, those Post-It notes. Honestly, Heidi, I don’t have time to keep track of a bunch of Post-It notes, especially ones that stop being sticky after a while. The wind must have blown them off.” She shrugs.