LITMIR.BIZ

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called out, “I was having trouble earlier, but now it’s fine.”

      Sharon tried again, frowning at her phone. “There it is! Thank you, dear.” She had a round face with a perpetually worried expression. I’d made the mistake of telling Lani that she looked like a matronly angel troubled about her flock, and that’s all she could talk about for a week when I brought up the group.

      “No problem,” Daria replied.

      I got back to organizing my booth with a sigh of relief.

      Soon we had a decent crowd of friends and neighbors, with almost all the booths getting some trade show action. Many guests held coupons that some of the moms must have sent out ahead of time for special offers. Mona had a line of sheepish looking men at her booth. I couldn’t wait to find out what kind of coupon she’d sent out.

      Twila had offered a big discount on a small jigsaw puzzle of a lit-up New York Broadway scene. “Save me one of those,” I told her. “Elliott’ll like it.”

      “Sure thing,” she said.

      “Hey, in case someone complains later,” I started, and told her about the issue Daria had with Mona.

      Twila shook her head. “Yeah, that problem’s brewing for a while.”

      “So I handled it okay?” I asked.

      “Yes. It’s between them,” she said. “But if it’s going to spill over to the group, we’ll have a meeting to deal with it.” She turned back to prevent a young child from toppling the glowing globe on her table.

      The next two hours flew by and before long only a few customers lingered. I’d sold out of several of my flavors and handed out dozens of cards advertising my website.

      Twila was about to walk around the activity center to take an informal survey of the event when a group of late-arriving teachers stopped at her booth. “Can you see what everyone thought?” she asked me. “I’ll keep an eye on your booth.” She handed over a clipboard with a sheet of paper and all the SPM members’ names typed up with “Notes” beside them.

      I couldn’t imagine that level of organization.

      Daria had regained her normal good humor and was ecstatic about her sales. I peeked at the price of a small tea light holder in the shape of an owl. Forty dollars! If she was selling a bunch of those, no wonder she was happy.

      Mona was pleased as well, but didn’t give any details. She had what looked like a large genie bottle full of forms with names and addresses of people interested in her parties.

      Sharon said she’d handed out business cards and needed to schedule appointments with people interested in closet organization. “Next time we do something like this, you should take registrations and get e-mails from everyone, not just those who stopped by a booth.”

      I hadn’t had much interaction with Sharon before, but I’d learned early that she loved to give advice. Maybe because she was the only empty-nester in the group and didn’t have kids at home to advise anymore. Or maybe that’s what made her a great closet organizer—she was good at telling people what to do.

      Bronx, the owner of SoCal Spaw, bubbled over with delight. “I met SO many new potential customers!” she said, her southern accent more pronounced in her excitement. “With my trade show coupon, they can get me at the same price as most regular groomers. For the first time anyway.” The puppies she’d brought were all sleeping in two small crates.

      “Great strategy.” I admired her flyers with pink and purple cartoon drawings of a dog with a bow in its hair and a smiling cat.

      Beside them was a stack of black business cards with only the words Lice Club Lady and a phone number in silver font. “Who’s this?” I asked.

      “I don’t know,” she said. “They just appeared there during the evening.”

      I turned the card over. What happens in the Lice Club stays in the Lice Club. “Did you see the back?” I handed it to her.

      “Ooh,” she said. “That’s so weird. But, you know, clever.”

      I agreed, and put the card in my pocket. Maybe the Lice Club Lady wanted to join our little group. I certainly hoped I wouldn’t need her services. Elliott was out of elementary school but I’d heard even middle schools sometimes had outbreaks.

      Next stop was Fawn Escanso’s booth where she was advertising her website design business and her new life coach practice, and requesting donations for her nonprofit that found jobs for kids graduating from the foster youth program. On top of raising four boys. She must never sleep.

      Before I could talk to her, I saw Twila waving at me with my phone in her hand. “I heard your cell ringing twice,” she said when I walked back to her. “I tried to answer, but I didn’t catch it in time. Sorry to be nosy, but I could see at least one text from Elliott.”

      I took the phone from her and the screen held the beginnings of several texts from my son. When are you going to get home??? Grandpa is coughing like crazy and I’m worried!! Elliott had added a few emojis of someone turning green. I wasn’t sure if he meant my dad or himself. My concern must have shown on my face.

      “Everything okay?” Twila asked.

      I bit my lip. “Elliott says my dad is coughing hard again.”

      “You go ahead home,” she said. “I’m the clean-up committee anyway so I’ll bring your boxes to your house.”

      “No, that’s okay,” I said. “This stuff is heavy.”

      “Colbie,” she said, her voice all serious. “I went through this when my mom was sick. When a friend offers to help you, they truly want you to say ‘yes.’”

      I blinked at her a moment, feeling overwhelmed by emotion. She’d called me out on my secret fear—of ever needing help. And my even more secret wish to have friends who would offer. “Okay. Yes. And thanks.”

      “You’re welcome,” she said. “Now get out of here.” She waved her hands toward the door in a get going gesture.

      “Thank you,” I said over my shoulder. I went back to my table and threw my cash box and receipt book into my large shoulder bag and left.

      * * * *

      By the time I got home, Trouble was waiting at the door and my dad had a glass of whiskey in his hand, his cure-all for almost any illness. He’d stopped coughing, but was cursing at his computer.

      “What’s wrong?” I asked, lifting Trouble into my arms and holding her like a baby. She rested a paw on my chin and purred, which had to mean I’m so glad you’re home. I looked over my dad’s shoulder while he sat at his makeshift desk on a corner display table in the living room. He had a small office upstairs but I’d moved his laptop and desk chair down when he got sick.

      “This website is screwed up,” he said. “I’m trying to move my money and it’s saying I can’t.”

      “Your bank?”

      “No,” he said, frustration in his voice. “That investment account I told you about. I decided to get out while I was ahead, but their website is saying I don’t have the right to move it.”

      “Do you want me to look at it?” I asked.

      “No,” he said. “I’m going to call my guy.”

      My stomach tightened at the words my guy. My dad had a distrust of companies and believed they charged more than they should. He’d had “my guy” for everything from the amateur bee removal “expert” who had to come out five times to remove a hive, to the contractor who’d started an add-on to our house and then took off for parts unknown with my dad’s deposit, leaving behind a doorway to nowhere from the laundry room.

      “Who is he?” I asked, trying to sound relaxed. But then I added, “Are you sure he’s legit?”

      “Of

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