Page 101 of Pick Me
Dad:Beale, son, we’ve all been there. But maybe the Whispering Key Party Planning Committee Group Chat isn’t the best place to talk about your limpkin. Have you and Toby talked to Doc Mason? Maybe he could prescribe something.
Dale Jennings:Nooooo. Don’t let Big Pharma anywhere near your limpkin, buddy! I’ve got a guy who can hook you up with some supplements that’ll get your limpkin saluting the flag. Gel coated STEEL, my man. (Gel coating helps the digestion.) Call me.
I laughed out loud. Dale Jennings and his questionable supplements were a Whispering Key legend.
Lorenna McKetcham:Beale, you were right to ask for an assist—sometimes getting some volunteers to help out is exactly what a man needs to recharge the old limpkin! It’s Senior Discount Night at The Crab Emporium, otherwise me and George would be over to help. Man’s been frisky ever since his hip replacement.
I snorted. If I ever needed a reminder of what I loved and missed about the little Florida island where I’d been born and raised, all I had to do was open the group chat.
It was also a really important reminder of why I lived far from Whispering Key. Here in the Hollow, people were every bit as neighborly and supportive, but not nearly as interfering or as eccentric.
I mean, unless they were conspiring to make Knox stay in town. Or to prevent me from leaving…
Okay, yeah, they could possibly be considered interfering.Hmm.
I looked down the hill at the snow-covered Town Square with its spindly-branched trees and empty gazebo and frowned. Someone, somehow, had shoveled perfect concentric rings around the gazebo maybe six feet apart, forming a snowy crop circle.
Then I remembered Katey Valcourt, who’d knitted Webb a pair of homemade socks for Christmas evenafterWebb had explained that he didn’t return her feelings because, she’d informed him happily, everyone needed a hobby and having a crush on him was hers.
And Helena Fortnum, with her hooch and her, um, apple décor.
And Lonnie Duncan, the so-called Pumpkin Carving Champion, who had a chicken called The Matron that made most of his life decisions. (“Sorry, Sheila. I really like you, but The Matron says it’s not gonna work out.”)
Hmm again.
Okay, evidence suggested that Hollowans were also, in their own way, every bit as eccentric as the Whispering Keysters I’d grown up with. Maybe the only difference was that they weremybrand of strange, which was why I’d grafted myself into life here so seamlessly.
Beale:A limpkin is a majestic BIRD, people. Goodness!
Ahhh.This made total sense, since my brother was all about wildlife rescue. It also happened to be the perfect setup for a joke, and I couldn’t resist.
Me:You’re saying your limpkin is… majestic? Weird flex but okay.
Toby:Gagelet!! Precious, how are you?? How is your delightful lumberjackian paramour?? (Yes, I am deliberately turning the conversation, and the first person who changes it back will be dis-invited to the Super Football Day Feast at Beale’s and my house. Do not test me. *staring eyes emoji)
Me:I’m doing great! Knox is doing awesome! And I think you mean the Super Bowl?
Dad:Hahaha.Yeah, he means Super Bowl.
Fenn:Super Football Day.*laugh-cry-emoji
Mason:He definitely means Super Bowl. But at least he knew it was football?
Toby:I’m referring to the football-themed Hors d’Oeuvres Banquet so extensive that it will be enshrined in legend and, indeed, become part of the collective consciousness of our island, so that generations from now, the names of those who were disinvited will be spoken in voices of hushed pity. But please, you guys, keep talking about how I don’t know sportsball. It’s totes fun!
Dad:Do you know, I’ve always privately thought it should be called Super Football Day?
Jay:Same! Exact same. Mason and I were just talking about that the other day.
Rafe:Toby, are you making that artichoke feta dip?
Toby:A double batch.
Rafe:Then as mayor, I’m officially declaring it Super Football Day on Whispering Key.
Jay:(You guys, he just banged the kitchen counter at your dad’s house like he had a gavel!!! *laugh emoji The mayor thing has officially gone to his head.)
I snorted. But to be fair, I’d had Toby’s feta artichoke dip when we visited the island last month, and I’d declare a holiday for it, too. In fact, I was planning to make a batch for our Super Football Day party back at the orchard, and I’d told Marco I might or might not be willing to barter if he ponied up his precious shortbread recipe.
