"Do we get rifles?" Betty asked eagerly. "Can we shoot guys?"
Lauren shook her head. "No. I've heard of these things. All that stuff's fake."
"Except," Kelly interjected, "for everything else in the event. Which will be 100% authentic to the era! Clothes, how we cook, the songs we sing, where we live—it will all be true to the 1865 aesthetic!"
"What's aesthetic?" Hannah asked.
Ava gave her a look. "It's when you do sports stuff."
Inez, never missing a chance to correct Ava, spoke up. "That's athletic! Duh. She means something you use to clean out an open wound."
"That's antiseptic," one of the Kaitlyns corrected.
"Aesthetic," Kelly explained, "is the appreciation of something. We are going to be completely authentic in this endeavor. Our costumes should be here tomorrow."
Caterina held her hand up. "Mrs. Wrath? Can we use your laptop to research this?"
For years the girls had called me Mrs. Wrath, even when I was single, because women older than twenty were obviously married. This year I actually had gotten married and became Mrs. Ferguson, but the girls still called me Mrs. Wrath. I found it easier not to correct them.
My name is Merry Wrath. Up until a few years ago I was a field operative for the CIA, until I was "accidentally" outed by the US Vice President, due to a grudge against my senator father. Not only did it put an end to my career, it almost put an end to my life, as I was undercover with the Chechens in a remote bar in the middle of nowhere when CNN broke the story, complete with a photo of me. I barely escaped.
Upset that my chosen career had been unceremoniously ended so soon, I changed my name from Fionnaghoula Merrygold Czrygy to Merry Wrath, using my mother's maiden name. I moved back to my hometown of Who's There, Iowa, where my best friend, Kelly Albers, convinced me to take on a Girl Scout troop. In many ways, the change actually became a bit more dangerous and unpredictable because little girls are scary.
"Knock yourselves out," I said as I pointed to the laptop, already set up on the coffee table.
The girls swarmed around it with Ava taking over the keyboard.
"I think," one of the Kaitlyns announced, "that we should have more authentic names. Kaitlyn doesn't sound right."
I had to admit, I had a little surge in adrenaline realizing that, with different names, I might actually be able to tell these girls apart.
"Good idea!" another Kaitlyn said. "Let's go with Kate!"
The other three promptly agreed. Fantastic. Now I had four Kates.
"But not until we get there," one of the Kaitlyns said. "We don't want to confuse anybody."
I didn't tell them that it was already too late for that. The four Kaitlyns were a bit of a mystery to me. All four were the same height, same hair color and style, and had last names beginning with the letter M. Their mothers were all improbably named Ashley. Sometimes I wondered if I was being punked.
"This is so great!" Kelly clapped her hands together.
"Yeah," I said drily. "What's up with you?"
She blinked at me. "What do you mean?"
"You're acting weird. I don't remember you getting this excited about the Battle of Idiot Creek back in the fourth grade, and I can't recall a single time when local history made you blissfully happy."
She scowled. "I've always been interested in that sort of thing."
"Since when?" I countered.
There was a hesitation that always accompanied moments like this. And my experience as a spy led me to say nothing. Uncomfortable silence always wears people down.
"Okay," she caved. "I'm excited about the costumes. The gowns from that era are gorgeous, and it's kind of like being a kid again and play acting."
I shook my head. "The gowns the Southern belles wore were gorgeous. But here, people were pioneers. I doubt that they dressed up much at all. I mean, how do you milk a cow in a hoop skirt?"
"With as much dignity as you can muster," a male voice said from behind us.
"Hey!" I kissed Rex on the cheek. "What are you doing over here?"
My husband, the town's detective and exactly one third of the police force, rarely attended my meetings, unless I forgot the snack or craft or needed him to help disarm a bunch of ten-year-olds who'd found my stash of weaponized crayons that, when the tip was pressed, emitted chloroform gas. In hindsight, weaponizing crayons when you have a bunch of little girls who like to color all the time was a bad idea.
Another thing that Rex thought was a bad idea was the fact that we had two houses—across the street from each other. When I met him, he'd just moved across the street. When we got married, we moved into his bigger, two-story house. But I couldn't part with my first ever home—a small, ranch-style house.
It was where I kept all of my spy souvenirs and held Girl Scout meetings when school was out. Over time, I've worn him down, so Rex rarely mentions it anymore.
"I forgot my lunch and spotted you guys." He smiled. "What's this about hoop skirts and milking cows?"
Kelly enthusiastically filled him in while I checked to see what the girls were googling. Good news—they were looking up Civil War–era clothing and weapons and not hacking into the Omaha office of the FBI, like they'd done last week. We had had a special visit by men wearing black that did absolutely nothing to intimidate the girls. The Feds left frustrated, and I spent a week trying to figure out how to install some sort of parental controls. I think I had finally nailed it though.
"That sounds like fun," Rex exclaimed. "I've got to go, but fill me in tonight." And with that, he was off.
"Mrs. Wrath?" Betty asked. "We just ordered five muskets and a cannon using your credit card. They'll be here in two days, okay?"
Sigh. Back to the drawing board on those parental controls…