The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(28)

All the occupied shops around the square, from Café Nirvana to the Pink Box to Ladyfingers to the grocery store, are closed early, and everyone’s brought dishes to share near the shuttered land formerly set aside for the Pink Gold amusement park that never got off the ground.

Bridget and her friends are running all over, laughing and plotting summer plans and debating if they’re too cool for cornhole or ladder golf this year. There’s fried cheese curds and fish, and everyone’s brought at least one dessert and maybe a side dish too.

And then there are the Lightlys.

I’m manning the cheese curds—won’t fry themselves, and they’re best fresh—when Tavi and Margot stop at my table. My shoulders immediately twitch for wondering if Phoebe said anything to them about her snooping this morning.

I know my daughter can handle herself, but I wouldn’t be doing my job as her father if I didn’t worry, and these people are more than she’s ever faced before.

“What . . . is this?” Margot asks.

“Mom, they’re fried cheese curds.” Tavi points at the sign. “See?”

“I can read, Octavia. But that doesn’t answer the question, does it?”

I dish up a scoop of fried curds onto a plate. “Only way to find out is to eat ’em for yourself. Dig in.”

“Oh, I’m vegan.” Tavi’s wearing her sunglasses, so I can’t tell if her smile is genuine.

Her clothes are.

Genuine not-fit-for-the-park clothes, that is. She’s in hot-pink pants, a sparkly silver halter top covered with a cropped jean jacket, a sparklier headband-scarf thing, more bracelets than the jewelry store stocks here in town, and shoes that are doing a good job of aerating the grass.

“Me too,” Margot says quickly. She’s dressed for either a garden-club meeting or a funeral with those black pants and the complicated floral-print blouse that might be a poncho. The hat and the sunglasses suggest she’s aiming for Rich Old Lady in Witness Protection, though. And don’t ask about her purse. It’s . . . something. “I am most definitely vegan. Where’s the fish?”

“Mother,” Tavi hisses, “try the damn cheese curd before Gigi sees you turning it down.”

“I’m allergic.”

Tavi flashes her smile at me. “Do you have any dairy-free cheese curds? And is that free-trade, ethically harvested, organic olive oil you’re frying them in?”

Olive oil? Is she serious? I flash a smile right back at her. “It’s bacon grease.”

It’s not, but the lie is worth it for their reactions. Margot puts three fingers to her mouth as though someone’s just told her that she’ll have to take a regular limo instead of the stretch Hummer limo to her next fancy gala, while Tavi’s lips part like bacon grease is the same as fried babies.

The horrors.

These people make me twitchy, and that’s before worrying about how they’ll treat my friends and family here in Tickled Pink and the unintended consequences of them being here.

Weird to know I’m feeling slightly better about that after laying it all out for Phoebe this morning and watching her reaction.

It’s like she might have a soul hiding under all those fancy clothes and haughty looks.

And if Ms. Boss Lady can have a soul . . . maybe there’s hope for the rest of them too.

Maybe.

“Well, thank God you’re vegan,” Margot finally says to Tavi. “The things all that fried food would do to your hips. Such a shame you didn’t get Phoebe’s metabolism.”

These people. Jesus.

“How about your dog?” I point to Tavi’s fancy purse with a fuzzy little mini dog poking its head out. “It vegan too?”

I mean it sarcastically—dogs need meat—but Tavi’s face lights up with one of her beaming smiles when she answers me.

“Completely. Pebbles loves her kelp-and-kale kibble. Don’t you, sweetheart? Yes, you do. Yes, you do!”

The dog barks.

I gawk at them. She can’t be serious. She cannot be serious.

She ignores my expression, pulls out her phone, and lines up herself and her dog for a selfie with the Ferris wheel in the background, and both of them make duck lips.

Not kidding.

The purse dog is making duck lips too.

The half-finished wheel in the background of her picture is covered in ivy, though it’s still early enough in the season that it’s not yet swallowed by all the greenery. “Smile for the camera, Pebbles. That’s such a good—Phoebe. Move.”

Phoebe stops behind her sister. She almost fits in with the locals in her jeans and the Chucks and the long-sleeve, gauzy ivory blouse, and while she’s also wearing sunglasses, I can tell by the way her lips tighten that she’s irritated.

Join the club, Phoebe.

“Like this?” Phoebe asks, getting squarely between the back of Tavi’s picture and the Ferris wheel.

Tavi scowls and shifts.

Phoebe shifts too.

Huh.

Didn’t think I’d be on the verge of smiling while surrounded by this family, but look at that.

Every time Tavi tries to get a shot, Phoebe moves.

Margot throws her hands in the air. “Would you two please stop acting like two-year-olds?”

“I’m not—” Tavi starts.