- 10 -
- 10 -“The Pumpkin Spice looks like a jack-o-lantern on steroids,” Mother said when she called me early Thursday morning. George and I had enjoyed nearly a week without Mother and James. We hadn’t exactly been able to settle back into our old routine, because the loft was still marked territory for Mother, who presumably would be back like the poltergeist in the movie. Meanwhile, George still had to go to the studio to work on his pottery.
“I’m switching my strategy,” Mother continued.
She was talking about the color of the lobby at The Straights Inn. Earlier she had rejected the baby-poo-Dijon-Mustard hue. Now the alluring Pumpkin Spice was another faux pas. I was barely listening, looking in the mirror inspecting the disastrous state of my hair. I had color issues of my own. In
