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Which was absolutely true. “You didn’t tell her that part, though, did you?”
    Holly squirmed. I pressed on, “And I thought counselors were supposed to help patients get over fears, not run away from them. Did she really say I was passive aggressive?”
    “Not exactly in those words, but she would have if I’ddiscussed it with her. Since I’ve been in therapy, I’ve been studying personality disorders at the library. You have all the symptoms.” Well, that was a big fat relief. The last thing I needed was my sister and her therapist raking me over hot coals behind my back.
    “So
she
didn’t say that.
You
did.”
    “If the shoe fits…”
    We stared at each other. Then Holly giggled and I knew things were back to okay between us.
    “Sorry,” she said. “I get super stressed every time I have a session.”
    “It’s working, though. You didn’t break into text-speak. Not once.”
    “TX,” Holly said, grinning. Then, “JK.”
    “You better be,” I said, easily recognizing
thanks
and
just kidding
.
    “Trust me, I’m practically cured,” she said.
    “So, you don’t want to help outside today near the observation hive?”
    “I’d rather have my toenails ripped out.”
    I glanced down at her perfectly pedicured feet. That was a profound declaration, considering the source happened to be a serious primping queen.
    “Okay,” I said. “Stay inside the store and help the twins.”
    That got a big happy smile from her. “Any luck finding a good home for Dinky?” she asked.
    “Not yet.”
    “You’ll make sure it really is a good home, right? Not just the first person who comes along?”
    “Of course.” And I meant it.
    “And make sure you have visiting rights so we can still see her.”
    “Sure.” Dinky twisted in my lap and worked her way up to my face, where I barely had time to dodge an openmouthed lick.
    By the time I walked back outside with Dinky on aleash, Main Street’s sidewalks were starting to see some decent action. Stanley and Carrie Ann seemed to be handling things just fine at our booth. If past years were any indication, sales would be brisk. I glanced at our eye-catching displays, created with a little help from my friends and coworkers.
    We were showcasing delicious honey products from my side business, Queen Bee Honey: processed honey along with raw and creamed varieties, plus honey sticks in a number of flavors—not just pure wildflower honey, but also lemon, cherry, sour apple, orange, caramel, and root beer—a new flavor this year. My honey sticks are biodegradable straws filled with nectar of the gods. I like to carry a few with me for those times my energy crashes. When that happens, I open one of them, suck out every last drop of honey, and I’m back on top of my game.
    Lately, too, raw honey has been flying off the shelves since customers have begun to realize all the benefits of unprocessed honey, especially as an antiallergen. Local honey contains sources of pollen, dust, and mold, which sounds disgusting, but a few teaspoons every day boosts immunity against 90 percent of allergies. I’m living proof. It worked for my hay fever.
    I saw Stanley’s grandson Noel next to the observation table, watching the enclosed honeybees and sucking on one of the honey sticks from my store. He spotted me approaching and grinned. “These root beer honey sticks are awesome. I could live on them. I almost bought all of them.”
    I smiled. Kids of all ages love my honey sticks. “I have more in stock.”
    “Did you like the way I rescued you?” he said.
    I must have looked totally blank, which I was. “Come again?”
    “I set off the last explosion to help you out of that bad situation with your mom.”
    “Gosh, thanks so much,” I said, slow to catch on thathe’d intentionally distracted my mother so I could escape her clutches. I always
did
like the kid, whose particular nut hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Noel is the spitting image of his grandfather when it comes