We have fun testing my games, and it’s a pleasant surprise to find them playable, even enjoyable, especially under Marigold’s rule-abiding scrutiny.

She’s quick to point out that they need artwork—actual game boards with colors, pictures, and pieces that aren’t recycled from old games. When she asks if she could help, I jump at the chance.

“You know, Marigold, I could use an artist’s eye at the G&G, too,” I say as we clean up our snacks and drinks. “Would you be interested in helping redesign the store and creating marketing materials?”

“Yes.” She fiddles with her long, blonde hair, struggling with words. “I take care of Grady’s dogs when he’s working. I’m responsible for the chickens at home. I babysit for Colin and do chores for Mom. Would this be like a real job?”

A smile slides easily over my lips. “Yes, you’ll be our official artist. I can’t pay much, but I have several projects that you could handle.”

I invite her to my first all-hands meeting, and she readily agrees.

Leaning against the porch railing, I watch her walk to her car. We both jump when Peter Pike rushes around the corner, calling, “Wait!”

He carries a large wooden desk against his hip, stained a pretty, daisy yellow that nearly matches her car, and plops it on the gravel drive with a loud clank. “Wait, Marigold,” he says again, though there’s no way she can go anywhere with a desk blocking her exit. “I, um, made this.”

She looks entirely unimpressed.

So, he breathlessly adds on, “For you. I made this for you.”

“Just now?” she asks, sounding bothered.

“No. Ages ago. After I upset you at the art show. I didn’t mean to upset you. I felt bad.”

Her head tilts as she considers him. “What is it?”

“An art desk. Look.” He shows her a wooden crank on the side. Turning it, the surface of the desk rises. “You can use it flat or like an easel. The drawers have slots and cubbies for paints, pencils, and brushes. There are clips, see? To pin papers or inspiration pieces to the sides. I stained it yellow. That’s your favorite color, right?”

Marigold eyes the gorgeous desk with enviable calm while poor Peter Pike anxiously awaits her verdict.

I am absolutely dying over this, drowning in giddy, feel-good feelings like I’m witnessing a people-version of a sugar rush. I only hope she doesn’t mention the trees killed in its construction.

Her eyes cut to me, and I flash her my girliest grin and most encouraging nod.

“I will give you a second chance, Peter Pike,” she decides.

His bulky frame deflates in relief. “May I bring this to your house tomorrow?”

“Not before ten.”

He nods, side-hipping the desk again, and motions over his shoulder up the lane to his workshop. “Would you like to see my trains?”