Page 5 of Her Wicker Guardian

“He’s worse than I remembered,” Shannon says.

“That seems unnecessarily hurtful.”

“Rachel, his left side is at least six inches too high.”

“That’s posture.”

“That’s denial.”

Last year’s willow arch had gone over well enough that the Harvest Festival committee decided we were ready for something more ambitious. Hollis Springs High’s mascot is the Black Bear, and somehow one successful willow arch convinced the festival committee we could handle a full-sized wicker bear.

They badly overestimated our skill set.

At a little over six feet from feet to ears, the bear is supposed to stand impressively on his hind legs. Instead, his left ear angles outward, one forepaw sits higher than the other, his middle has thickened for reasons none of us can explain, and the whole left side seems to be attempting escape.

I hand Shannon a cup as I shove one of the dark curls that’s escaped my collapsing ponytail back from my face. After a breakfast shift as a waitress at the Blue Plate Diner, my jeans and T-shirt are about as put together as I’m going to get.

Laura arrives a few minutes later, still impeccably put together after a full day in hospital HR, her brown hair with its caramel highlights still behaving. She rounds the cottage carrying wine and a paper bag, gets three steps into the yard, and stops. “Oh.”

Shannon points at her. “See?”

Laura studies the bear. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“My face is assessing.”

“What does your assessment say?”

Laura sets her bag on the table and pulls out fancy olives. “That we were much better at arches.”

Keys jingle from around the cottage, followed by Blair’s voice. “If anybody comments on my being late, I’m billing in six-minute increments just to listen to the bitching.”

She comes around the corner in black jeans and a faded Concrete Blonde T-shirt, sleek bob still precise enough to make the rest of us look underdressed.

Her attention reaches the bear. “No.”

Shannon turns toward her. “That’s not constructive.”

“I haven’t offered criticism yet. I was speaking to myself.”

“About what?”

Blair studies him another second. “Whether I want my name associated with this.”

“You’ve been here thirty seconds.”

“I form opinions efficiently.”

“It’s a wicker bear.”

“Allegedly.”

Laura laughs, and for a while the four of us stand around the bear making observations that become less useful as the wine level in our cups drops.

Eventually Shannon checks the time. “Where’s Janet?”

“She texted before you got here. Her mom’s blood sugar was acting up, and they couldn’t find the test strips.”