“Blackbird closes early; she’ll be done by seven!”

“I’m good. Thanks, though.”

The doorbell rang.

“Muir?”

“Got it.” Terry Johnson huffed when I moved him off my lap to open the door to Sean leaning on a carved wooden walking stick, wearing a floppy hat and a long white beard.

Terry Johnson barked his head off. He hates hats.

“The mountains are calling,” he said. With his free hand, he offered me sheep ears on a headband. “I’m John Muir,” he said, smiling behind the beard. “Herding sheep. In Yosemite. Get it?”

“Oh, I get it,” I said, trying to play it cool and hide my swooning.

When will he figure out I am not worth all this effort?

“Please be my lamb,” he said. “If you don’t, no one will know who I am.”

Unfair the way he always, always made me laugh.

“Ohhh…,” Francine sighed dreamily, leaning out from the hall bathroom door. “Muiriel. How can you possibly say no to that?”

“Hi, Francine!” Sean called.

She came to the door and smiled the way she did when the hens give an egg with two yolks (Look at that! It’s magic!), and then we all stood there together, Francine looking from Sean to me, hands on her hips in her gardening overalls.

Just a party. Not a date.

“I should be Muir,” I said at last. “It’s my name.”

Sean yanked off the beard. “Here, put this on!”

“I don’t want to.”

Francine clucked at me.

“Oh jeez, fine, just hold on,” I said, and took the stairs two at a time.

“Where are you going?” Francine called.

“I have to put on a bra if I’m being forced to leave the house.”

—

“Take some vampires!” Kira shouted over the madness of people in Blackbird. She tossed me a paper bag full of them, and even in my balance-throwing lamb ears, I caught it.

“Come find me after!” I yelled back.

“Text me!”

I held my phone aloft.

At the women’s shelter booth, Francine and her pals were giving out candy and letting kids pet Terry Johnson, who was wearing devil horns and not looking real pleased about it.

“Sorry, buddy,” I whispered to him.

“Francine,” one of the pals sang, “is this your new girl?”

Francine smiled up at me apologetically. “This is my foster daughter Muiriel, yes.”

The pal took my hand. “Well, Miss Muiriel, you are a very lucky girl. I hope you appreciate that,” she said, and winked. Or got something caught in her eye. Couldn’t tell.

Francine blanched. “Muiriel isn’t lucky, Eileen, she’s entitled. To at least one good parent. I’m lucky this wonderful creature agreed to come stay with me. Look, ladies, Sean is John Muir!”

A melty, tingly warmth poured over me, and the ladies nodded and smiled in a way that told me they were used to being schooled by Francine.