“That’s awesome!” he yells. For some reason, his tone and football speech makes me feel as if he’s going to high-five me, but he transfers his ice cream cone to his other hand and puts his arm around me. “I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m thrilled. And mortified.” I lean into Scooter. “Trish talked up the inn to everyone in Chicago, I think, and my former colleagues helped me secure some great advertising and media in some influential magazines, newspapers and blogs. Best of all, the local media went crazy over the Al Capone video that Evan shot.” I stop, take a long lick on my cone and continue. “Speaking of which, I met with Iris Dragoon today. That’s what Teresa and I were talking about in Lick Effect.”

“And you’re still alive?” Scooter asks. “Fill me in.”

I do, and his smile grows wider as I build the story to its climax.

“You’re amazing,” he says. “And so is she. Color me shocked.”

“Speaking of color,” I say, opening my mouth and wagging my tongue. “The whole time I was playing Capone, it looked like I’d drank a bottle of Nyquil and eaten a box of blue crayons.”

Scooter laughs. “That is quite a sight,” he says. “You know you look like a Smurf.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That analogy crossed my mind as soon as I saw my reflection.”

Scooter squeezes me and draws me close. “A very smart, very savvy, very beautiful Smurf.”

I look up and into Scooter’s eyes.

“This is me, you know,” I say. “A woman in her forties with a blue tongue who likes her ice cream way too much, who is starting over, who has a son, who still may not know who the hell she is or what she’s doing.”

Scooter considers this for a moment and then kisses me. He tastes like rocky road.

He’s a keeper, Adie Lou, I can hear my grandma say again.

I can’t help it, and I think again of Sadie and of Iris and wonder, Do I need to be kept?

Part Nine

Rule #9:

Be Grateful for Each Day

THIRTY

May

I am standing and smiling much like I have done in every milestone photo of my life, from high school and college graduations to my prom and wedding. My spine is rigid while my stomach is sucked in, and I am holding my breath while maintaining the demurest of smiles.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. I see.”

I would guess the age of the county health inspector to be twelve years old. I had expected a grumpy, weathered, elderly man—say a Wilford Brimley—but instead was surprised to be greeted by a scrawny young man named Zach Millwood who bears an uncanny resemblance to Screech, the nerd in the TV series, Saved by the Bell, that I loved when I was younger.

“Interesting. Yes. Yes.”