The fact I even needed a health inspection came as a bit of a surprise. I mistakenly thought that since my B and B had only eight rooms for rent that I didn’t need to pass any inspections. But, in Michigan, owner and family rooms count toward the total number of rooms, and a B and B with over nine rooms must be licensed with the county health department when serving a full breakfast.

“I assumed I didn’t need an inspection,” I say to Zach, whose entire body is nearly inside my freezer.

He leans out of the freezer, his cheeks red and his lashes icy. “You know what they say about assumptions?” he asks. “Makes an ass out of you and me.”

I think of Trish, and when she told me that in college.

Zach throws his head back and laughs as if it’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said, and then reinserts much of his upper body—along with his notepad—back into the freezer, where he remains silent for much too long.

“What did you find in there?” I ask. “Bigfoot?”

Shut up, Adie Lou, I tell myself. Why do you babble when you get nervous or people are quiet?

Zach doesn’t respond.

“Body of my ex-husband?”

This time, Zach reappears, eyeing me suspiciously before writing furiously.

“I was just, you know, joking.”

Zach stares at me. “I assumed you weren’t funny,” he finally says. He waits a beat, and then breaks into uproarious laughter. “Get it? Assumed? I used that word again.”

“Good one,” I say, nodding. “You’re very funny,” I continue, attempting to butter him up.

“Thanks,” he says. “Everyone says I probably should have gone into stand-up.”

“Oh, yes. God, yes,” I say, continuing to nod excitedly. “You’re like Seinfeld. Maybe Ellen. It’s a talent.”

Zach returns to scribbling on his notepad.

“So? What’s the verdict?”

“Guilty,” he says.

My heart leaps into my chest before Zach starts to laugh. “Get it? You asked what the verdict was?”

Suddenly, I feel like pushing Zach into my freezer and closing the door. Instead, I smile and hold my breath.

He looks down at his pad. “A few issues,” he says. “You need to move the kitchen cleaning supplies away from the prep and cooking station. And you need new cutting boards, but, overall, everything is brand spanking new—refrigerator, oven, freezer, pots and pans.”

“Do I pass?”

“Like a speeding car,” Zach says. “Get it?”

Get out, I want to say. Instead, I smile and say, “Good one.”

THIRTY-ONE

“I used to think a punch list consisted of booze, juice and fruit,” I say.

Frank laughs and looks down at his list. “We might need a drink after this,” he says.