The Truth

Ace gets two more pairs of rainboots out of a metal locker by the wall, and Tiffany trades her heels for them without hesitation. Giving no regard to the skirt and blouse she’s wearing, she wades into the water and grabs a big squeegee. It’s jarringly, oddly cute and sexy, but I push that away to pull my own oxfords off, stashing them safely on the front desk next to Tiffany’s shoes. I tuck my slacks into my own pair of oversized galoshes and grab a mop.

We get right to work, pushing water both toward the floor drain and out the door. Occasionally, Harper will swap out mops with us, taking the soaked one to a squeezer set up on a bucket to wring it out. Periodically, she dumps the now-full bucket out the back door into some nearby grass, claiming that at least the flowers will get a drink.

“After this, I think we could all use a drink,” Ace jokes. “But something better than dirty water.”

“Dirty martini?” Tiffany quips, not slowing her work.

“Nothing dirty,” Ace answers.

It’s the smallest peek into their dynamic, the way they bounce off each other, making each other smile through even tough moments.

As we slosh, I can hear Ace grumbling, “Dogs are gross.” He grunts, squeezing his mop dry in the squeezer before going back to work. “Man’s best friend my ass.”

“Quit lyin’.” Tiffany laughs, nearly slipping in the water by the door. She takes it in stride, never missing a beat in her banter. “You love dogs.”

“Having second thoughts,” Ace groans. He picks up another clump of white hair, his face wrinkling at the grossness as he plops it in the growing pile.

“Remember Kevin?” she prompts.

Ace points a finger her way. “Shut your mouth. Kevin isn’t a dog. He’s my baby.”

“Four paws, tail, goblin ears. Looks, sounds, and acts like a dog to me.”

“Well, Kevin’s different,” Ace says, trying to defend himself. “He doesn’t cause clogs.”

“That’s because he’s a short hair,” Tiffany says. “Where is the little goblin, anyway?”

“At home sleeping happily in our bed by himself,” Harper says, pausing her singing of the same made-up cleanup song she’s had on soft repeat this whole time.

She goes right back to it, though . . .

Get the water out, water out, water out today.

Mop and clean, do it again, so we’re ready to play.

Quick and fast, make it last, yes, that’s the way.

To get the water out, water out, water out today.

When I’d first heard her, I’d looked around, thinking she’d gone a little mad, and then it’d been annoying, like the Barney songs Elle used to listen to on repeat as a kid. But now, it’s a gentle soundtrack to our work. And it could be worse. It could be one of those old Barney songs. Or what’s that one Neve liked? Oh, Cocomelon. That show drove me nuts in a way Barney could only dream of.

“What are we gonna do for the opening in the morning?” Harper is asking Ace, but Tiffany is the one with the answer.

“We get the water mopped up tonight, this place ready, and on your way home, you stop at the store, grab yourself two bottles of strong drain acid,” Tiffany says in a matter-of-fact, confident tone. “Come in tomorrow an hour early, dump it down the drain to clear out any remaining crap in there. You’ll open on time.”

Her firm declaration and evenhanded leadership has a noticeable effect on Ace and Harper, both of them calmer and surer in their movements as we continue working to make Tiffany’s words come true.

Even in too-big, borrowed boots, business clothes, and dog hair, she’s a force to be reckoned with. And I’m so thankful I can finally, finally see it.

Chapter 20

Tiffany

“Need anything else?” I ask, my lower back aching and my feet feeling raw.

I look around at all our hard work. The morning customers won’t be able to tell anything was amiss last night. If anything, it looks like we spring cleaned the hell out of the daycare overnight. Once we could see the end in sight, Harper ran out to get lemon-scented floor cleaner and heavy-duty drain cleaner, so now the floor is shiny and smells fresh, and the sink instantly drains without issue.

Ace scans the daycare critically, his eyes red and bleary but relieved. “I can’t believe we did it, but I think it’s going to be okay. Thanks, Tiff.”

“Wasn’t just me,” I remind him, “but thanks. That’s what sisters are for.

“I know. Thanks, Daniel. And Harper, I’ll thank you properly . . . later. Much, much later . . . after a nap.”

“And a long shower with lots of soap and scrubbing,” she adds with a grimace, her first sign of any negative thought all night.

“Oh, Harper. I’ll email those bouquet designs to you tomorrow. Or today, I guess,” I correct, looking at the clock on the wall. “Damn.”