Cassie rounded the curve of the street and pulled into the driveway, and there they were! Those horrible, neon-pink flamingos, grinning at her from beneath the palm tree in the front yard. Just that morning, she’d deposited them in the trash receptacle, hoping that would be the end of them. Though something told her she would never be rid of them.
Oh, what a thought!
As she climbed out of the car and stalked toward them, the horror of it buzzed around her like a swarm of gnats. The picture was a vivid one: sitting on the back deck in her old age, sipping one of those terrible Southern beverages Zan was always experimenting with, her silver hair standing on end and frizzy from the Florida humidity. And poking out from beneath the dock…or peering at her from around the side of the house…or possibly standing tall in one of the large flowering plants…those eyes. Those gawking black eyes, just staring back at her, mocking her with their presence.
Cassie yanked the first one out of the ground, where its hard plastic spike anchored it to the front yard, and she tossed it on the grass behind her. Just as she wrapped both hands around the beak of the second one, Zan’s laughter taunted her from across the street.
She turned her head slowly toward him, narrowed her eyes, and stared him down, the distance between them bridged by a look her husband had come to know all too well.
“Hi, baby,” he called out to her, grinning as maniacally as those flamingos he loved so much. “Want some help carrying in the groceries?”
Lounging on the front step of Millicent’s porch with his faithful dog, Sophie, at his side, Zan could surely be spotted from the space shuttle in that colorful Hawaiian-print shirt. He waved his arms at her, and the old woman in the rocking chair began to wave as well.
“Hello, Cassie!”
Cassie planted both feet and faced him, with her hands on her hips. “Alexander Constantine, I won’t have these horrible things displayed in the front yard. What will the neighbors think of us?”
“Ah, come on, Mac. They’ll think we’re kitschy. Don’t you want to be known as kitschy?”
“I certainly do not.”
And with that, she turned her back on him and pulled hard on the beak of the second flamingo—so hard, in fact, that she fell right on her fanny when the bird’s spike broke free of the ground.
Zan jogged across the street, laughing the whole way, with Sophie trotting at his heels and pitching out happy little fragmented barks as if they were playing a wonderful new game.
Zan reached her in the next minute. “Come on, Mac. Have a heart. When in Holiday, do as the Holidaens do.”
Cassie leaned back into the grass on both elbows and looked up at him, taking in that horrible shirt, the shorts to his knees, and the unmistakable bright blue rubber flip-flops.
“I think you’re Holidaen enough for the both of us,” she remarked. “What were you conspiring with Millicent about?”
“You know she’s my favorite girl after you, Deb, and Sophie.”
“Yes, I do, and I’m not sure about the order we place, either,” she said, glancing at the orange-and-golden-haired collie standing over her. Sophie wiggled her big ears that flopped over at the tips and wagged her large plumed tail at some hilarity only dogs and her husband could sense. “So what were you charming out of Millicent this time, Zan? A recipe for a kiwi mint julep? Pink lemonade with pineapple chunks?”
Zan grinned as he stood over her, and he reached out for her hands. He planted a kiss on each one and then pulled her to her feet.
“Please let me toss the birds in the trash, Zan.”
“If you must.”
“Really?”
“Toss away, Mac.”
Cassie narrowed her eyes and stared him down. It was almost too easy. But she wasn’t going to pass up a golden opportunity if, by some miracle, he was feeling charitable about her animosity for those horrible pink flamingos-on-a-stick.
“Thank you,” she said.
As she bent over to pick them up, Zan smacked her on the tush.
“Sophie and I will unload the car,” he told her, before waving his arms over his head at Millicent. “Catch you later, Millie!”
“Not if I see you first,” she teased.