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Franco stared at the wood, then raised one well-shaped—probably plucked—eyebrow. “My apologies for not recognizing a fellow artiste.” He bowed. Bowed. Zach glanced around to see if his crew noticed.

“So you will understand if I confess that the call of my muse is so faint that your muse is drowning her out.”

“Hang on.” Zach bent down and rummaged in the open toolbox propped on the front steps. Inside was a package of earplugs. He shook out a couple and handed them to Frank. “Occasionally, my muse gets loud even for me.”

Franco stared at the two pieces of bright yellow foam. “Do you have these in blue?”

“No.”

He sighed, then pasted a brave smile on his face. “I shall persevere.”

Zach hadn’t seen him since. Fortunately.

He liked working in this area of San Francisco. There was a lot of contrast with the edge of the Mission District and the trendy part of Valencia Street. He wouldn’t mind living in a place like this. Of course, he wouldn’t mind living in any of the Victorians he’d restored. That was the secret to his inspiration—he got emotionally involved in them. It wasn’t practical, but he left the practical part of running Renfro Construction to his father and his brother, who had enough practicality to spare. Enough for Zach to be Renfro Restoration. So what if he did get a few pangs at the end of a project? Another one always came along.

Zach took a deep breath of the cool evening air and turned on the saw. The drone of the blade as it cut through the wood served as a soothing backdrop for his thoughts.

In spite of all evidence to the contrary, there was a practical side to Zach and that practical side, a residual of years working in the office side of the business, pointed out that there were thousands of very good commercial patterns and manufacturers of Victorian gingerbread trims. And even if he wanted to continue to provide custom designs, he could recycle his more successful ones to increase the profit margin. It would still be a Renfro Restoration original, but he could outsource the fabrication and carry the designs in stock. Construction time and standby labor time would be less, thus increasing the profit margin.

Lord knew it wouldn’t take much to increase the profit margin. But knowing each house was unique appealed to Zach’s pride and an artistic sense he hadn’t known he had.

He owed his father and brother big-time for letting him run this part of the company. They never said a word when Zach’s penchant for perfectionism ate into the already slim profits.

And he was just so much happier doing this than anything else. They knew that, too.

So, he’d work on this new trim design tonight so he wouldn’t have to pay standby time to the crew tomorrow.

Zach concentrated on working the jigsaw and holding the wood steady. One slip would ruin the design. Yeah, there were nails and wood glue, but that was a last resort.

He became aware of a blob of bright colors in his peripheral vision. The blob could have been there any number of minutes since his vision was partially blocked by the side of the safely glasses. He’d seen that blob before—walking by every day and a little while ago it had nearly been beaned with a piece of wood.

Without turning his head, Zach swiveled his eyes. Gotta be a homeless person wandering the streets—the giant ski parka, jeans, well-worn boots, the bag, the wool hat pulled over his…her? ears, but especially the way he/she stood there and talked to him or herself.

The guy was probably going to sleep in the house once Zach left. At this stage in the construction, Zach didn’t particularly mind, but in a couple of days, he was going to have to secure the place to protect the remodeling and tools from vandals.

But right now, he needed to concentrate on working with a lethally sharp saw.

MARNIE SHOVED her hands into her pockets as she watched the man work. His corded muscles were nicely defined by the T-shirt. His jeans did some nice defining, too. Very nice.

Surprisingly nice. Marnie wasn’t in the habit of noticing nice things like that. Hmm. This was a habit she should cultivate. What kind of trance had she been in the past few years? Oh, Barry had been nice looking in his own way but there was something about this guy…something elemental and real—talk about projecting, but who cared?—that appealed to Marnie.

What type of girlfriend would a man like that want?

Emboldened by the concealing whine of the saw, Marnie decided to ask him. “Hey, you. Yeah, you—big, strong, musclely construction guy. So what’s a girl gotta do to be your girlfriend?”

The pitch of the whine lowered as the saw bit into the wood. Marnie admired the shape of the man’s arms. A girl generally didn’t see arms like that in the computer field.

“You’re probably the short, tight skirt, big hair and makeup sort, aren’t cha, Big Guy?”

Big Guy responded by turning so Marnie had a better view of his chest. “Whoo-hoo! You know, for you, it might be worth it. A girl could get lost in those arms. And I’ll bet you’d never ask your girlfriend to paint or pound nails and then buy her a lousy sandwich. You’re probably a simple man with simple needs.”

Marnie suddenly had some of those same needs. What a coincidence. She and the construction guy had something in common. She could work with common needs.

“And I bet you don’t have a whole lot of brains to get in the way of those needs, do you? Nope. Not you. But you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking brains are overrated. Men with brains just think about the same things anyway, so what do they need brains for?”

Marnie shifted her bag to her other shoulder and shoved her hands back into her pockets. She should get going, but it felt good to shout out her frustrations with the male population to an actual man. The fact that he wasn’t Barry and couldn’t hear didn’t matter at all.

“Yeah, you’re just the kind of guy I could go for, if only…if only you’d turn around so I could see whether or not you’ve got a cute butt.”

There was silence. An all-encompassing silence. A silence that had begun midway through her last sentence. A silence into which the words “you’ve got a cute butt” rang out clearly. Irrevocably.

Humiliatingly.

She should run. Fast. Now.

She should, but she didn’t.

The construction foreman, aka Big Guy, pulled off the clear safety goggles as he straightened and ran his fingers through sunstreaked hair. He gave her a cocky grin. “Thanks.”

Marnie’s face was so hot, she was surprised little clouds of steam weren’t rising from her cheeks. “I was just—I didn’t say—there was more to the sentence!”

“How much more?”

“What I said was, I wished you’d turn around so I…could tell…” Not helping. Not helping.

He inclined his head and obligingly turned around.

Oh. My. Gosh. First of all, he actually turned around. Second, he really did have a cute butt.

Now what was she supposed to do? Because eventually, Marnie knew he would turn back—the way he was this very second—and she would be expected to say something. Under the circumstances, she supposed witty and profound was out.

“Well?” he prompted. He had just the sort of voice she expected a manly man—and what was construction work if not manly?—would have.

Marnie swallowed. “Very nice, thank you.”

“Nice?”

She nodded.

“Not cute?”

“Oh! Yes! Yes, of course it’s cute.” She was not having this conversation. She simply was not. This was an alternate universe and the construction worker with the cute butt was just a figment of her imagination.

A figment that was walking over to the sidewalk. She should say something that didn’t involve body parts. “You’re doing great on the house.”

What a wonderfully insightful remark. So far, he’d torn everything off the front, so who knew if he was doing a good job or not?

“Thanks.” He came to a stop a careful distance away from her and proceeded to subject her to an unabashedly thorough scrutiny. His gaze flicked over her hat, dwelt on her face and lingered questioningly on her puffy ski parka. Then, of all things, he studied her shoes and narrowed his eyes on the black canvas pouch containing her laptop. It wasn’t a normal laptop case because Marnie didn’t particularly want to advertise that she was carrying an expensive piece of computer equipment when she walked through the neighborhood.

Now, the man couldn’t expect to stare at her like that without being stared at in return, and Marnie figured she might as well stare since she’d already blown the first impression. She truly wasn’t the sort to make lewd remarks at construction workers.

At least she hadn’t been a couple of days ago.

Marnie wished that he’d say something. She wasn’t ready to try her luck again at meaningful conversation.

He drew his hands to his waist and regarded her sympathetically. “You need a place to stay tonight?”

Marnie nearly swallowed her tongue. “I—” Apparently it was very easy to become this type of man’s girlfriend. Too easy.

“You hungry?” He used his teeth to pull off this work glove, dug in his back pocket and withdrew his wallet.

He was going to offer her money.

She took a step backward. “I—I’m fine. I live with my mom in Pleasant Hill.” That sounded very sophisticated. “I’m headed to the 24th Street Mission station.” Continuing to back away from him, she hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s just a couple of blocks this way. I should get going.” Giving him a quick nod, Marnie decisively strode toward the BART terminal. She was walking uphill and her shins began to tingle, but she wasn’t going to slow down.

And she wasn’t going to look back, either.

2

The Legend of The Skirt

by Franco Rossi

Act One, Scene One.

Exterior: Charming Victorian

Camera pans (unless is play) details of Victorian woodwork.

ENTER: (unless is movie, then camera zooms in through window) Handsome, with an air of superiority that he tries to hide, charismatic doorman, clearly bound for greater things.

(Note to self: decide if writing a play or movie)

A Skirt in San Francisco

A Play in Three Acts

by Franco Rossi

Act One, Scene One.

A world-renowned parapsychologist, acting as a doorman, (see above description) successfully rents his apartment to three women who will time-share during the week. The possessor of a skirt, which, legend has it, attracts men (and he must rely on legend since he is immune to the skirt), he awaits the opportunity to study the skirt’s effects firsthand.

(Note to self: keep it snappy, keep it moving)

Ms. Monday-Tuesday is a preoccupied computer programmer. Very smart, but very unaware. Nice eyes and hair—needs a trim—has no clue how to dress, presumably a good figure, but how would one know beneath the sleeping bag she wears as a coat? Wants to give city living a try and a break from long commute.

Ms. Wednesday-Thursday is looking for her father. Something mysterious going on there. Must explore.

Sadly, Ms. Friday-Saturday used to own the apartment and is attempting to get on with her life after a broken engagement.

(Note to self: take notes before writing script.)

(Additional note to self: Wear earplugs only if sitting in foyer, otherwise cannot hear doorbell.)

IT HAD BEEN several days since Zach had seen the homeless person. He hadn’t meant to scare her—he’d decided the person was a “her”—but that might be the best thing if it had sent her on home. These runaways took to the streets thinking it was a solution to their problems. Maybe in some cases it was, but that kid was too soft for that kind of life.

And then this morning, there she was again, dragging her belongings behind her. She hadn’t had the duffel when he’d seen her last week. He wondered if she’d stolen it or accepted a handout from somebody.

Surreptitiously from his perch on the ladder, Zach watched her climb the steps to a Victorian across the street and was more than surprised when that Frank character opened the door and let her in. Moments later, without the duffel, she climbed down the steps and hurried on up the street.

Zach started down the ladder, intending to check on the guy, but stopped. It wasn’t any of his business. Besides, Frank came and went all the time. If Zach didn’t see him by noon, he’d check up on him then.

In the meantime, he had some trim to finish tacking up.

Man, he loved his job. Even when things went wrong, he loved his work.

Zach had cut out thirty-six linear feet of gingerbread trim. This morning, he was tacking it between the bay window on the ground floor and the upper floor bay window, the oriel, to see how it looked.

It was an ornate pattern, full of curves and swoops and intricate cutouts because Zach wanted to show off a little bit. He hammered up the three strips, then climbed down the ladder and walked to the edge of the front yard.

An excellent job, if he did say so himself. But the trim didn’t have the impact he’d thought it would. He tried to imagine various exterior color schemes that would highlight the pattern, but the problem was that the curves and cutouts and curlicues were too small for the scale. The intricacies of the design were lost. Maybe if he painted the house a dark color and the gingerbread white, like icing, it would work.

He was standing there imagining it when he heard a throat clear behind him and was relieved to see Franco from across the street. He was walking three dogs, yet managed the leashes in a way that told Zach he’d done it many times before.

“Would you be adverse to a comment from a layman?”

“Go for it.”

“The trim doesn’t work.”

Zach exhaled heavily. “I know.”

“It’s too fussy.”

“I prefer ornate.”

“I prefer ornate, too, but sometimes, less is more, if you know what I mean.”

Zach had meant the word “ornate,” but he let it pass.

Franco shifted the leashes to one hand and gestured up and down. “Look at the tailored lines of the house.”

Zach knew what he meant. “It’s Sticks-Eastlake style. See the square bay window? And there are still some of the original wooden strips outlining it.” Restoration was Zach’s favorite subject. “When the facade is finished, there will be more strips outlining the doors and the framework of the house and then—”

Franco held up a hand. “My point is that you wouldn’t dress a gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman in girlish frills and lace, would you?”

“A gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman can wear whatever the hell she wants.”

“No, she can’t.” Franco was firm on this. “She can wear the clean, dramatic lines and bold patterns and color that would overwhelm a more petite woman. Likewise, your house. Enhance. Do not detract.”

As Franco babbled about Amazons, Zach immediately saw why his previous design hadn’t worked. His curls and curves fought with the clean lines of the house. This particular style of Victorian was known for gingerbread embellishment, but clearly, it had to be the right gingerbread.

Franco had moved on to domes and turrets, equating them with hats and turbans. Zach wasn’t going in that direction, but he did have another idea for a gingerbread pattern with straight lines and spare curves.

“You’ve got a good eye,” he said to Franco.

“Yes. And I’m especially good with colors, should you find yourself in need of a second opinion.”

In spite of himself, Zach felt the edges of his mouth turn up. “I’ll keep that in mind. Hey, have you seen that homeless girl around here?”

“One sees so many.”

“I’m talking about the one you let in this morning.”

Franco’s face was blank.

“Giant coat? Funky hat? I know, that sounds like most of them.”

“Ah.” Franco raised his finger. “I know who you mean. She’s not homeless.”

Zach exhaled. “Good to hear. I thought she looked a little soft for the streets.”

“Not to worry.”

Franco and the dogs walked on and Zach got to work designing a crenelated running trim with wagon wheel spokes that would be a bear to cut out. But worth it.

OKAY. HERE IT WAS. Marnie’s first night in the Victorian apartment.

“Welcome, welcome.” Franco, her new landlord, bowed and ushered her into a jungle. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“At least on Mondays and Tuesdays,” Marnie said. “What’s with the greenery?”

“I’m plant sitting.” He gave her a sly look. “Normally, I would put them on my balcony, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

Marnie knew a hint when she heard one. “I don’t care if you put the plants on the balcony. I like plants.”

“Excellent.” Franco handed her a huge Boston fern. “Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

Marnie could hardly see around the plant, but climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment, 2B.

There were four apartments in the old Victorian, but she gathered that Franco was the only one renting his out piecemeal.

She thought it was clever of him, actually. This way, he could concentrate on his script. And he was, no doubt, making more money than if he’d rented it to one person. And, as he had told her, Sundays were his.

Franco had given her a key when she’d dropped off her suitcase and duffel this morning and now Marnie unlocked the door and stepped inside. She set the fern down by the front door and surveyed the apartment.

It was exquisitely decorated in period furniture that made Marnie nervous, but she figured she’d either get used to it or break something. Probably both. She immediately went over to the bay window, from which she could see the work going on across the street and looked for the construction guy.

He wasn’t there. She was relieved in a way, but knew that she’d have to speak to him again at some point. They were pseudo-neighbors now, after all.

It was only hours after their evening encounter last week that Marnie had realized that the man hadn’t been hitting on her. He’d been offering her help. It said a lot about him and unfortunately, something about her as well.

Girlfriend material. As if. She cringed inwardly and it was a feeling she was getting tired of.

A great huffing and puffing announced Franco’s arrival. He’d rigged a pole to hold several hanging baskets and looked like an ancient Chinese water bearer.

“I’m not doing that again!” he moaned. “We’ll just have to make more trips.”

Marnie heard the “we’ll,” but figured she’d let him get away with it this time.

Franco staggered into the bedroom. “Hurry, hurry.”

Marnie followed him and opened the French doors to the balcony.

With much moaning and groaning, Franco knelt and raised the pole.

Marnie helped him get the hanging baskets off. She watched as he arranged them on a pretty white wrought iron plant tree, then brought him the giant fern.

“That, we’ll put in the corner. All right, then. Next load.”

Marnie didn’t mind helping since she hadn’t actually thought about what she would do tonight. She hadn’t eaten and she wanted to get settled in, then maybe explore the neighborhood streets she didn’t see every morning on her walk.

Franco had allocated part of the bedroom closet to her and she understood that the other tenants of 2B would also have closet privileges. Not that she planned to leave much stuff here, but it was nice to know that she didn’t have to lug everything with her each week.

After she and Franco had brought up the rest of the plants, he offered her tea.

“That sounds good.”

“I left a few basics in the kitchen and you’re welcome to help yourself. I suppose you and the others can use boxes or labeling to keep your things straight.” Franco put water on to boil and gave her a tour of the kitchen amenities at the same time.

Marveling at the novelty of having a man wait on her, Marnie shrugged off her parka and sat at the kitchen table. Franco leaned against the counter as he waited for the water to boil.

“And now you must tell me everything about yourself.”

“I gave you my social security number. My life is now an open book.”

“I’m talking about more than good credit and your employment history. I want to know about a woman with the unusual name of Marnie LaTour, her hopes and dreams—and how she believes renting an apartment for two days a week will help her achieve them.”

Well, put that way…one second she was staring into the friendly, but inquisitive, eyes of her landlord/doorman and the next moment, Marnie had burst into tears.

Marnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. Long, long, ago. She supposed that since her father had died right after she got out of college, she hadn’t had much to cry about. She had a good job, friends and the San Francisco public transportation system. What was there to cry about?

This was so embarrassing. “I’m s-sorry.”

Franco calmly went about the task of making tea. “I find myself confronted by crying women on a fairly regular basis.”

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” Marnie wailed.

“Yes, you do. You just aren’t ready to tell me about it.” A cup of hot tea appeared in front of her, along with a tissue, which she accepted gratefully.

“It’s so stupid,” she mumbled, holding the tissue against her nose.

“Not if it makes you cry.”

“Crying’s stupid, too.”

Franco sipped his tea and said nothing.

Eventually, Marnie couldn’t stand the sound of her sniffing in the silence and blurted out, “It’s just that a man at work, someone I thought I liked, told me I wasn’t girlfriend material, which I knew because the construction workers never whistle at me and I don’t even know why I care.”

She sniffed. Again.

Franco clasped his hands together. “May I take notes?”

“Why?”

“I’m a student of the human condition and hope to incorporate certain stories into my scripts.”

Great. She was a human condition. Marnie held her head in her hands. “I don’t care.”

“Does it matter if it becomes a film script?”

Like it would ever be produced. “No.”

Franco went to the telephone table and returned with a pen and pad of paper and began scribbling. “Now what else is bothering you?”

“My mother is going to Paris,” Marnie threw in for good measure. She’d just found out.

Franco gasped. “And not taking you?”

“She’s chaperoning the French club. She teaches high school.”

Franco gestured dismissively. “Consider yourself lucky, then. You don’t want Paris at this time of year. Now, what do you want?” He stared at the pad of paper. “Do I understand that you wish construction workers to objectify you?”

“No! Well, kinda… Actually, I guess I just want to be the sort of woman they would want to objectify—whistle at. You know.”

“I’m getting the idea, but please enlighten me.”

And so Marnie told him all about Barry and not being girlfriend material and the construction workers and the foreman thinking she was a homeless person. Franco nodded and said “Uh-huh” and “mmm” a lot as he took notes.

He was such a good listener that Marnie even told him how she’d worried about telling her mother she’d be staying here and how her mother had misunderstood and thought she was moving out and that her mom had been so happy that now Marnie was really going to have to look for somewhere else to live. None of this had anything to do with being girlfriend material, but Marnie had thought she was helping her mother by living with her and now her mother didn’t need help anymore and it was Just One More Thing.

“I’m sorry to be such a drama queen,” she moaned, holding her head.

“Drama is my life,” Franco said fervently. “What are you going to do?”

Marnie drank her entire mug of lukewarm tea. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” Franco tapped his pencil impatiently.

She did know. “Okay, but I don’t know how.”

“Oh, hon, you don’t want that Barry creature.”

“Oh, no. But I want him to ask me out to Tarantella. I want him to beg me.”

“And you want the construction workers to whistle at you.”

“Maybe just once.”

“I could pay them for you.”

Marnie laughed, then immediately sobered. “You’re saying that’s the only way—”

“No, it was a joke. A bad one. But I did make you laugh.” He studied her and Marnie was reminded of the construction foreman’s thorough scrutiny.

“We have a lot of work ahead of us.” Franco stood.

“We?”

“You didn’t think I wouldn’t respond to your cry for help, did you? We’ll start by doing your colors.”

“What?”

“We’ll ascertain which colors are most flattering to you before we go shopping, my little Cinderella.”

“Shopping isn’t one of my favorite words. I mostly order online.”

Franco gave a world-weary sigh. He used sighs very effectively. “I shall return with my swatches. You need to change.”

“I know.”

“I meant your clothes. What did you bring?”

Marnie looked down at herself. “Uh, more jeans. Some T-shirts.”

“Do you have a white T-shirt?”

“Mostly white. It’s got the blue writing on it from the Carnahan Easter 10K Fun Run.”

“Wear it backward or turn it inside out. And let me check my costumes—”

“You have costumes?”

“Yes, I’m an actor and a playwright and sometimes due to budgetary constraints in the small theaters, one must exercise many talents.” He headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”

Marnie cleared away the teacups and unpacked her suitcase. The closet was empty, except for a large hanging bag. She hung up three T-shirts, two pairs of jeans and her pajamas and robe. She didn’t know what to do with her underwear, so she left it in the duffel, which she set on the closet floor.

“Yoo-hoo,” she heard. Marnie couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever heard a grown man say “Yoo-hoo.”

Franco was in the living room. He’d pulled a chair over to the bay window and had taken the shade off the lamps, which he’d turned on. “We’ll need to see how you look in both natural and artificial light.”

Marnie pictured the Carnahan offices. “I spend most of my day in fluorescent light.”

“How ghastly.” Franco grimaced. “I found a nice, plain, black skirt I think will fit you. Go put it on.”

“A skirt? Isn’t denim a neutral color?”

Franco pinched the top of his nose and inhaled. “Marnie, please start thinking outside the box.”

Apparently thinking outside the box meant putting on the black skirt. Fine. Whatever.

Marnie already had on the white T-shirt and now she added the skirt. It slipped smoothly over her head and settled around her hips, swirling around her thighs before brushing its hem around midknee.

Marnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a skirt or a dress and yet she’d been faithfully shaving her legs just the same. Now was the payoff. Who would have known?

She zipped up the skirt and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Even she, fashion nihilist that she was, could see that the black skirt was probably the most flattering thing she’d ever worn. And it fit. Maybe a little loose at the waist, but that was just lasagna-eating room.

She smoothed her palms against the material noting the thick, rich feel. She turned to the side and thought for a moment that she saw a glimmer, but when she looked closer, it was gone.

What material was this? Some kind of silk, she guessed. Good quality stuff.

“Marnie? Are you about ready, hon?”

“Coming.” With a last look at herself, she headed for the door, the skirt warmly caressing her legs as she walked. She’d taken off her hiking boots and was walking barefoot across the wooden floor. The skirt made her walk differently. She could feel it in the sway of her hips and the placement of her feet and caught herself emphasizing certain movements in order to feel the material of the skirt against her skin.

She could be on to something here.

“Come, come.” Franco gestured impatiently. “And let down the hair—oh those ends…well, baby steps…baby steps.”

Marnie took a seat in front of the window and for the next few hours—actually only about thirty minutes—Franco draped scarves next to her face and made her look into a hand mirror. There were three piles of scarves: those that made something about her “pop,” which she learned was a good thing, and those that made her look like a corpse, which was a bad thing. Then there was the secondary pile, the “only if it’s on sale” pile.

She was gratified that the colors in her parka made the pop pile, but Franco only shook his head. “Colors aren’t everything. However, you lucky, lucky girl, you’re a Deep Autumn. You can wear black.”

“Everyone can wear black.”

“Everyone does wear black, but not everyone should.”

Franco gathered up his scarves then presented her with a swatch sampler. “You may borrow this if you swear that you’ll use it. Also, I will give you a list of acceptable boutiques where you may shop and put your choices on hold. I’ll stop by and approve them and you can make the final purchase then.”

The nerve of him! Marnie did not remember agreeing to any of this: Franco approving her clothes, making her take swatches, for heaven’s sake. She hardly knew him. Marnie opened her mouth, then closed it. Franco seemed to be awfully sure of himself. And she wasn’t.

Marnie smoothed the skirt over her lap and remembered the way it made her feel as she walked across the room. Okay, so what was the harm in buying a few new clothes? She knew she was going to have to change her appearance and if she didn’t find anything she liked, no one was going to force her to buy it.

She gave Franco a sideways glance. Well, he just might. He handed her the swatch cards. “Thanks, Franco,” she said meekly.

Franco snapped his scarf case shut. “I have some errands to run, but in about half an hour, I’m going to Tony’s grocery. You can come with me, if you like, and I’ll introduce you to Tony.”

“Thanks, Franco, I would.”

Amazing how some silly scarves and an offer to go to the grocery store could improve her mood, but it did. Being with Franco was going to be fun.