I cross my ankle over my knee. “It’s not so much patching as maybe we’ll get to know one another. We’re basically strangers. Maybe I’ll bring my mom around, too? I can invite her on set. She’d love to see you again.”

“Oooh. I like it,” Beth says. “Let the world see you surrounded by the people who love you.”

Kevin agrees. “Jessup pretty much forced the last reunion. At least this would be on your terms.”

“And,” Beth says, gaining momentum, “it would be the perfect way to show how much you’ve grown, without the gory details.”

“Maybe I could bring Lorelai around,” Shelby says. “Even let them film in the shop…” Her face goes pink. “Or something,” she rushes to finish.

“Maybe not the shop,” I say with a smirk.

“I said ‘or something,’” she grumbles, redder still.

Kevin belts out a laugh and winks at his wife while making air quotes. “I think their ‘shop’ is the same as our ‘stock room.’”

Beth struggles to stand, wriggling in her chair and finally popping up and rubbing a little at her belly. “Careful, Shelby,” she warns. “What happens in the stock room doesn’t always stay in the stock room.”

23

SHELBY

CONFIDENT

A week later, Maren finds me in my workshop. I’ve finished up my projects for the Caroline Street house, so I’ve got some time to work on the growing pile of commissioned furniture. Today I’m repairing a buffet from a nineteenth-century farmhouse that was chewed up by an overeager family pet.

I’m listening to Celtic Woman and happily humming under my breath. I’m not saying the universe has been magically restored over the last few weeks, but it kind of has. The thing about living so far away from L.A. is that it’s easy to pretend it doesn’t exist and go about my everyday life … sanding off puppy-teeth marks and listening to vocal standards.

“Good morning. Did you know you have a couple name trending on social media?”

Mostly easy to pretend.

I scramble to my feet and slip my protective goggles to the top of my head. “I’m sorry. I have a what?”

Maren sidles over to me, unbuttoning her park-ranger uniform shirt and tugging it off. She ties it around her trim waist, leaving her in a white tank. She leans against a bench, her arms crossing over her chest, but holding her phone in one hand.

Her lips are pressed tight, holding in her amusement, but it’s still pouring out of her eyes. Maren couldn’t hide her feelings if they were huddled away in a cave with one of her hibernating bears.

I take her phone. “What am I looking at?”

“The trending hashtags. Under ‘Spriggs,’” she prompts.