I step out onto the front porch of Mari’s little craftsman bungalow—our little craftsman bungalow—and the screen door slams behind me. I make a mental note to ask Mari to adjust it so it stops doing that, but I’m sure she’s got more important things on her mind right now as she slowly backs the truck out of the garage and down the driveway.
I wait for her to shut off the engine and reach down to pick up the cooler at my feet. Not surprisingly, Mari is rushing toward me with a disapproving frown.
“I won’t have you doing everything,” I say. “I’m more than capable of helping.”
“I know, but please.” She holds her arms out for the cooler. “I’m worried about you snagging your nice dress on this ratty old thing.”
It has been a hot start to the summer this year and it seems as if Mother Nature
