“Yay!” Holland claps her hands like a delighted baby. “Margarita time! You’re only one or two behind.”
“Try four,” Kennedy interjects. “And you don’t get to complain about connect-ability when you have all this.” She waves her glass in the direction of the grand and ancient house behind us and the extensive gardens in front.
“I convene with nature on the regular,” Holland complains. “But sometimes a girl would like to speak to her nephew and her sister, and it’s not fun when you kinda have to hang out of the window trying to get a signal. Out of windows, up on the ramparts. I even once thought about climbing the flagpole.”
“Flagpole?” Kennedy replies with a laugh.
“You saying I can’t work a pole?” Holland demands. “I’ll have you know, I could give the girls over at the Fuzzy Clam a run for their dollar-stuffed G-strings.”
“There is not an establishment called the Fuzzy Clam,” I interrupt. Not even in the back woods of Oregon.
Holland bursts into a fit of giggles, leaving Kennedy to explain. “It’s what Jenner, my barista back home, calls the local strip joint.”
“Its actual name isn’t much better,” Holland adds as Kennedy lifts an antique Clarice Cliff jug from the table to fill an empty margarita glass.
“It’s called The Pink Oyster.” She passes the glass over the table.
“How charming,” I pull a face as I accept it and take a seat on the bench next to Holland, who throws the end of her fleece blanket over my lap. “I’m not sure which name is worse.”
“Debatable.” Holland gives a shrug before lifting her glass. “Bottoms up.”
“Cheers.” Throwing a mouthful back, I repress a lime-induced shiver.
“The Wi-Fi around here is definitely enough to drive anyone to drink,” Holland says, examining her glass.
“You could ask Alexander to install one of those mast things for your birthday,” Kennedy jokingly suggests.
“A phone mast or a pole?”
“I guess whichever tickles your pickle,” her sister answers with a snort.
“I know which would tickle his pickle,” Holland mutters. “You can do that?” Her head swings my way. “I mean, he has a lot of land.”
“I’m sure Sandy would do whatever he could to please you, your grace.” Curling my feet up on the bench, I take another sip and smile as Holland scrunches her nose. She loves her title about as much as I love mine.
My mind jumps from this to my date with destiny. Criminal destiny.
What can they want from me?
“There’s no harm in asking,” Kennedy says, heaping a blue, crumbling cheese to a cracker.
I startle before realizing she’s not reading my mind.
“Sure. Tell him I want a pole for my birthday.” Holland’s mouth quirks. “You girls know exactly what he’ll wrap for me.”
“Do you want to make my ears bleed?” I protest, though I’m happy to be distracted. “We are not talking about my brother’s anatomy.”
“Will your ears bleed if I tell you that I caught Gertie happily munching on a pair of Holland’s panties while you’ve been gone?” Kennedy’s brows ride high on her forehead as Holland groans.
“From the laundry?” I hazard hopefully.
“Yes!” Holland shouts. “Let’s go with that.”
“I caught Miss Gertie trotting out of one of the exhibit rooms. The ladies’ parlor, I think. The one with the beautiful blue silk wallpaper? Holland told me the name in French, but I forgot.”
“Toile de Jouy,” I supply. “I think the paper is Victorian, though it looks like it’s straight out of Versailles. Dior used the pattern heavily in their spring collection this year.”
“Hear that, Holland ho-bag?” Kennedy taunts. “Have a little respect for history and keep your damn panties on! I feel like it’s only a matter of time before the two of them get caught in a compromising position. We’re flying back to Oregon next week, and with the castle due to open for the tourist season soon, I’m counting on you to tell me when it happens,” she says, turning to me.
“Our elderly tourists would probably love a peep show. Their hearts however…”
“Better up the insurance cover!” Kennedy laughs.
At least I’ve left the boys well provided for with my life insurance. The thought pops unbidden into my head.
“Stop picking on me!” Holland ducks under the fleece blanket with a giggle. “Hey, are you okay?”
“What?” I turn to her and realize she’s staring at me. “Sorry.” I shake my head as though shaking off flies rather than worrying thoughts. “I was just wondering how the boys are getting along,” I hedge, painting on a smile, resolving to make a better effort to push tomorrow to the back of my mind. Kennedy and Wilder are only in Scotland for another few days, and I won’t spoil their sister’s afternoon.
Gertie cons us individually out of more cheese, and as more drinks are poured, the conversation continues to ping-pong all over the place. I begin to relax and find myself laughing more than I have in weeks. I’ve always been quite adept at compartmentalizing, but the anesthetic effects of tequila certainly help. But that’s not to say I’m not shocked when the sisters decided to turn their attention to the topic of my love life.