I connect her phone to the hotspot on mine, which gets weak signal, but signal nonetheless, then order her email to download while she yammers as she flits about the kitchen, continuing to gather dirty dishes and dumping them in the dishwasher, then wiping the counters down.
“How many people did you have over?” I ask.
Her nose wrinkles. “Just me and Marshmallow.”
I eyeball the dishwasher, which is close to full.
“Oh, that.” She flaps a hand at her mess. “It’s been such a long time since I decided where we should eat that I don’t actually know my favorite foods anymore. I’m sampling them all. Do you know I’d never had curry before yesterday? There’s a soup and sandwich shop over in town with a curried chicken salad and it was so good. I’m thinking of offering to do some bussing in exchange for tips and tricks on how to make my chicken salad that good when I go home. I’d never ask for their actual recipe, but if they wanted to share the brand of curry powder they use, or any you should know to never combine these ingredients suggestions, that’s all I need.”
She never stops talking.
And her email is downloading, and dear god, she has three thousand unread messages.
No, four thousand.
No, still going.
She’s not a squatter. She’s an assassin, sent to murder me by making me twitch to death at the sight of her Jesus Christ on a curry sandwich, thirty-four thousand unread messages.
“You need psychological help,” I tell her.
“My therapist said I probably only need to check in every three to six months. She was massively helpful during the divorce. And I still have daily work to do on myself, but I’m up for the hard work, and that’s the important part. Well, that and all the hard work I’ve already done. Scoot over, please, and I’ll get these bread crumbs behind you.”
I shift, glance around, and the disaster that was my kitchen is now a workable space, aside from the dishwasher still hanging open.
The refrigerator’s open again too.
I’m twitching all over again, watching her put my kitchen back to rights. “Could you please make that dog go live outside until I’ve removed you from this house as well?”
She visibly stifles a sigh, then squats and smiles at the dog. “Marshmallow! Go catch a butterfly! Go catch a butterfly, you good boy!”
The dog barks, wags its tail once, and trots to the back door, where it noses the lever, uses a paw to swing the door open, and slips outside.
Begonia makes one last pass through the kitchen, shutting the dishwasher and the refrigerator door. She dusts her hands together, then beams at me. “Coffee while we wait?”
“No.”
“No, thank you, Begonia, but it’s a very kind offer to share your special coffee of the month club coffee with me,” she says, affecting a baritone.
I slowly lift one eyebrow in response.
And Begonia, in what I’m rapidly deciding is true Begonia form, squints at me. “Does your family drink the same coffee that’s served at your theme parks, or do you have, like, a private coffee plantation where you grow and harvest your own? With—what is it? Civets, right? Civets eat the raw coffee beans, then digest them, and when they’re harvested on the other end, they’re super fancy and delicious in a way you wouldn’t think considering what the beans have, erm, been through.”
“I don’t drink coffee. I drink the blood of people who piss me off.”
She laughs. “Oh, wow, do you have any idea how many of my students quoted that line to me last fall? I didn’t see Trick or Date—my ex really didn’t like Razzle Dazzle films—but my kids adored it. They even said Jonas was hot for an old guy. Teenagers, right? Thirty-something is not old, but maybe he should start playing roles more mature than college kids? I mean, it was great that your family finally moved him up from playing the high-schooler, but—”
This woman is getting on my last nerve, and she thinks I’m making jokes. “I’m printing the non-disclosure agreement, and then you can leave. Immediately.”
My phone buzzes as some emotion I’d prefer to ignore flashes across her face. Truthfully, I’d prefer to ignore all emotions.
They make life entirely too complicated.
As does my brother’s text message.
Mom’s on a plane with Amelia Shawcross. If you’re hiding at your place in Maine, I recommend drowning a sack of puppies. Got a great prop guy who can make it look real and a semi-reliable paparazzo who owes me a favor. Alternatively, dash off to Vegas and have a shotgun wedding with the first person you meet who’d have you. Let me know if you go with the second option, and I’ll have Caspian draft a good prenup before you land.