Maggie laughed, nerves evaporating. “Come on in.”
They came inside, bringing warm May air with them. Maggie could almost feel the house’s approval as they oohed and aahed over crown moldings and wood paneling and soaring ceilings. They weren’t appalled by the dilapidated state of her home. They were enamored with its potential. She felt an instant kinship with them.
Kayla demanded a pit stop in the kitchen, where she began to unload the tote bag on the worktable.
Niri handed Maggie a neatly wrapped package. “Housewarming present from your friends at Kinship Mercantile.”
“Better open it now because we need what’s inside,” Kayla insisted as she unloaded a cutting board, knife, and limes onto the table. The women had clearly been briefed about the state of her kitchen.
“You didn’t have to get me something,” Maggie said, fingers already plucking at the green ribbon wrapped around the craft paper.
“We’re just being neighborly,” Kayla told her.
“And we’re buttering you up,” Niri announced, plunking herself down on a folding camp chair Dean used to watch the coffeemaker do its thing.
Beneath the paper was a plain white gift box. Maggie slipped the lid free. “These are lovely,” she said, pulling one of the margarita glasses free. The wide bowl of the glass was bubbled and colored with a blue-green glaze. Utterly festive and feminine. It beat the hell out of the stack of Solo cups she had on top of the fridge, and they’d look perfect in one of the glass-front navy cabinets…if she ever got cabinets. “Thank you so much.”
“They’re from a glass artist in Boise,” Nirina explained. “She’s Nez Perce and has this incredible studio in her house.”
“Niri is our artist whisperer,” Kayla said, squeezing fresh lime juice into a plastic pitcher. “She’s the creative spirit. I’m the seductress of spreadsheets and inventory. Which one are you?”
“I guess I’m a little of both,” Maggie decided.
“We thought the glasses were perfect for the Old Campbell Place, seeing as how the parties here were legendary,” Nirina said.
“Parties?” Maggie asked, eager for more information on the house and its owners. “What kind of parties?”
“The Campbells were famous from the moment they started building this place,” Kayla said, taking over the topic. “The fascination got even stronger when Aaron Campbell’s writing career took off. Now it wasn’t just a man with a big house and a beautiful wife. It was a famous author living in a big house.”
“Mr. Campbell made his rounds around town. A shave at the barbershop. Orders at the general store. Checking in on the family jewelry store. Mrs. Campbell, however, was kind of a part-time hermit,” Kayla explained.
“No one would see her for weeks at a time,” Nirina said, picking up the thread of the story. “Then all of a sudden, she’d emerge from the house and announce she was throwing a party.”
“Champagne. Tiered cakes. I heard once the Campbells hired an entire orchestra to serenade a hundred guests on a Tuesday in July,” Kayla said.
“Just a random Tuesday,” Nirina repeated. “Now, I ask you. Is there a better way to live your life than drinking champagne and listening to a freaking orchestra just because it’s Tuesday?”
For a moment, Maggie could see it all as she peered out the window above the sink to the terrace and fountain. Couples swaying to the music. Firelight. Bubbles in the champagne. And the twinkle-eyed Mrs. Campbell from the portrait raising a glass to the mustachioed Mr. Campbell.
“You both know an awful lot of history about this place,” Maggie noted.
“History is important,” Kayla responded. “The Old West is still new by comparison.”
“And you have to admit, famous authors and fancy parties are a lot more fun than bridges being built or battles fought.” Nirina had a good point.
“We’re programmed to gravitate toward stories,” Maggie agreed and dumped colorful salt onto a plate, directed by Kayla. Methodically, she salted three rims.
“A virgin for the preggo,” Kayla said, pouring the mixture over ice in the first glass and handing it to her partner.
“There is nothing virgin about me,” Nirina said, gesturing at her belly.
“Quit bragging. You know my fear of my virginity growing back,” Kayla complained. She opened the tequila and started pouring. “I promise you, Maggie, that we’re incredible businesswomen. Consummate professionals.”