But I like that he’s here, and my curiosity builds into excitement over spending time with him and Marigold.

I dress in jeans, an off-the-shoulder white t-shirt, and comfortable slip-on shoes. I take down my high ponytail and wrestle my long hair into loose waves on my shoulders—a relaxed look that I hope will inspire Grady to relax, too. With a spritz of perfume and a touch of lip gloss, I leave the bedroom.

A gasp escapes, and nerves bubble at the sight of Marigold ogling my tiny workshop—the room I keep closed. She stands at my workbench, holding the clumsy stick figures I constructed for game pieces with an X-Acto knife and thick cardboard.

“Oh, hi. You found my little secret,” I say, fighting insecurities over my homemade efforts.

She looks unsure. “You said make yourself at home.”

“Yes, I did. It’s perfectly okay.”

Grady appears beside me. “Sorry, she wanders.”

“No problem whatsoever.”

“What is this?” she asks.

“It’s my game room. Game-making is my hobby.”

Grady glances from me to the menagerie of board games scattered on shelves and tables across the small space. “You make board games?”

“I tinker. I’m no artist like you, Marigold. That’s why my pieces leave a bit to be desired. But I like strategy and solving puzzles. I buy old games second-hand and try to create something new out of them. That one’s called Milk & Eggs. It’s a grocery store game—go figure. The object is to avoid the distractions, obstacles, and pitfalls around the store to get the items you came there for and get out quicker than your opponents.”

Grady looks confused, but Marigold says, “Fun. What about this one?”

“Oh, that’s Tickety-Boo. I heard the expression once on an old British mystery. It stuck with me, though I’m sure it’s not a phrase anyone uses these days. Tickety-boo is a funny way of saying everything’s okay, like hunky-dory. The object is to handle embarrassing moments on the cards with as much grace and politeness as possible. Oh, and when you read the cards, you have to keep a straight face. It’s always so funny when someone tells you not to laugh. What happens?”

Marigold laughs.

“Exactly. The game ends at a formal dinner party when the guests vote for the most well-mannered household member. That person must give a toast, mentioning the day’s mishaps without cracking up to be deemed the winner.”

“Sounds fun,” she says.

“Yeah, thanks. I think they’re fun. Um, they have yet to be tested by anyone but me and cats.”

“You invent games, you don’t play?” Grady asks, his narrow eyes and folded arms making me feel judged.

“I want to play them… It’s just… Anyway, nothing says family like a board game. Mom and I used to play sometimes. Um, anyway, do you have any hobbies, Grady?”

“He fishes,” Marigold answers, “and complains.”