I'm feeling quite proud of myself late Monday afternoon. I spent the weekend following Vivienne's advice and focused on my own thing.

Rune took Lorelei to spend the weekend with their cousins near Sequim, at the northern edge of the Olympic National Park. Marguerite was teaching over in Port Townsend. Our little neighborhood was very quiet. But the quiet did me good. My oxygen mask is firmly on.

I finished my Howl's Moving Castle coloring page. It's the strongest piece I've ever done. Using real people as the full models has brought energy, and nuanced expression to the piece I've never entirely captured before. I sent it to my email newsletter list and posted it on Instagram, telling people to ping me and share when they've colored it. But I’m doing my best not to look at my phone too often.

Sunday, I turned my attention to Horse Girls. Leslie has had to postpone my haircut until Wednesday night. That's fine. It'll give me more time to think about what I want.

I expand into the dining room. I want to see if being in a new space would give me new ideas. I even went through Theo's record collection, asking him to help me pick the music to set the right mood. He chose Joni Mitchell's Court and Spark, Steely Dan's Aja, and Fleetwood Mac's Rumors to start me off. It worked. I've listened to each album dozens of times. I now have twelve completed drawings and three in the process spread out on the large oval dining table.

For two days I’ve moved easily back and forth between the dining room and the office, tracking down bits and pieces of information on each woman and horse to share with Rune for writing the stories. I’ve also researched the layouts of other planning calendars I like, and even mocked up all of the elements I want to include in two different fonts.

I'm singing along to Fleetwood Mac’s Second Hand News, which I'm no longer feeling like, dancing around the table, when Rune bursts through the front door.

"Shelby! What have you done!" He exclaims, coming to a sliding halt between the living room and the dining room.

His hair is almost standing on end from pulling on it, and his jeans and t-shirt are dust-covered. Is he wearing cowboy boots?

"It's nice to see you too, Ruination," I say, setting down the illustration I was deliberating over while Butterscotch yips and wiggles her greetings at him at his feet, "why are you in a panic?"

"Don't you look at your phone?" He asks, "The director of The Troubadour Tales and her husband will be here in an hour and a half!"

"What? No," I say, turning down the stereo, "Don't be silly; Mandy and her husband from the costume team are coming, not the director."

"Seashell, you space cadet, Mandy is Mandeville Bhatt-Goldfarb," he says impatiently, naming the famous director while pacing back and forth between me and the couch, for once ignoring the dog. He's holding up his phone as if it's evidence, "They're coming themselves as a surprise and want to go to an early dinner. I've just set a land speed record from Sequim. I can't believe I didn't get a speeding ticket."

"Oh," I say, feeling a little daunted that two such well-known filmmakers are coming themselves, but something about Rune's panic doesn't make sense, "Why aren't you happy about this? Aren't you glad they want to see you?"

"That's not the point, Shells," he says tersely, striding past me into the kitchen, "Nothing's open around here on Mondays except fast food." He gets out a glass, pours himself tea from the pitcher on the counter, and drinks it down in one long gulp, "Further, Nan's house is now ugly and a mess with all of Lorelei's stuff everywhere, and there's no time to clean it up," he sighs, running his hands through his hair again, "I really am cursed."

"Outside, dusty green sliming Howl," I say sharply, marching out through the kitchen and the laundry room to the porch. Rune follows and slumps his horse-smelling self into one of the wooden deck chairs, "This isn't a disaster, Ruination," I say, sitting in the chair next to him, "We'll just make dinner for them here."

"You do that?" The glimmer of hope in his green eyes is too enchanting. I'm so happy he's a smelly, sunburned mess.

"No," I correct him, pointing back and forth at the two of us, "We will, together."

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"But I can't actually cook, Seashell," he starts to pull at his hair again, "except, you know, grilling stuff."

"You can set a table," I say, getting up, "I'll go pick up my drawings while I think of what we can serve them that I already have on hand. Are they vegetarian or vegan?"

"They're vegetarian," Rune tells me, following me back into the house, "but leave your Horse Girls stuff where it is."

It's evident from the tone of his voice that he's done that strange, about-face, emotional pivot he does so quickly. He's all Mr. Sunshine now, beaming as he walks around the dining room table looking at my evolving project, "Let's eat outside; I want them to see all this."

"It just looks like a mess right now," I huff, picking up some of his previous nervousness. Preparing a lovely dinner for important people is in my wheelhouse, showing off my art in person. Not so much.

"No," he corrects me, "It looks like a work in progress. They have horses on their ranch in Malibu." I give him a querulous look, "Seriously, horse talk helped me land the role of Gregg Allman," he adds.

**

Needing time to think, I send Rune home to get sparkling water, ice, any wine he might have he deems worthy of these esteemed guests, and hopefully, ice cream.

I look over what I have in the kitchen and think about what's in the garden. I've helped entertain all kinds of important creative people at my parents' house. My father was constantly hosting respected, if not super famous, musicians and music executives for dinner parties, and my mom had big wigs from the event planning world frequently.

Considering our time constraints, I'll make pasta and a salad with things from the garden. We have plenty of sweet, small tomatoes that are ripe now, as well as basil. Plus, I have a bunch of asparagus in the fridge.

I turn the oven to 400 degrees and take out two boxes of pasta. I'll make a version of the classic Spaghetti alla Checca, but my twist includes roasted asparagus and lemon, along with the traditional fresh tomatoes, garlic, and basil. It's simple but very tasty. For dessert, I'll do something with the strawberries Marguerite, and I preserved in honey. I have a big jar of them in the fridge that I've been eating on yogurt.

Rune races back twenty minutes or so later, dragging a wheeled cooler. It's full of water, ice, wine, and, thank God, a mostly uneaten container of salted caramel ice cream.

Butterscotch is on his heels, barking excitedly, thinking this is a fun new game of chase. I've been so focused I didn't even realize she was gone. I show Rune where Theo and Reuben's outdoor dishes and linens are stored in two large wicker trunks in the pantry.

"Have at it," I say, opening one and then another with a flourish, "I'm sure someone with your wardrobe flair can successfully dress a table."

"Sweet!" Rune says, rubbing his hands together as he eyes the two sets of brightly colored picnic dishes in one and the wide variety of table linens in the other, "The napkins are already ironed. Was Reuben that organized, or is this you again with your secret Marie Kondo skills?

"Me," I admit a little sheepishly, "I'm not normally this bad, but I found that ironing linens was a weirdly soothing task right after Theo passed."

He nods in understanding and squeezes my shoulder, "Will you make an arrangement for the table if I cut the flowers?"

"Of course," I nod, "we have to have flowers."

I'm sad Theo and Reuben won't be here to meet the director and her husband in person, even if Theo’s here in spirit. They so loved entertaining interesting people. Same for my parents, but I won't breathe a word of this to them. I don't want to be a part of anything getting back to Franklin Haus.

**

Time zips by in a flurry of activity as I roast and chop to prep everything for a pasta dish that comes together quickly at the end.

I have to hand it to Rune; he's following my directions well. He's focused and efficient, running back and forth between indoors and out, the dog always at his heels, bringing me more fresh basil and salad things from the garden, and grabbing the flatware and clippers for flowers in the kitchen without getting in my way.

This reminds me of how focused and efficient Wizard Howl is when he decides to move houses and buys Sophie's family's old hat shop and home for them all to live and work in. In these scenes, Sophie comes to understand that for all his faults and vanity, Howl is a very smart man and a superb wizard.

I do my best to ignore the clock. I don't want to get sloppy while I have a knife in my hand. As I put the fresh garlic in a sauté pan with plenty of olive oil and crushed red pepper to let it sit to start flavoring, Rune comes in again.

"The table's set, and here are the flowers," he tells me as he sets a vibrant mix of roses and snapdragons down on the kitchen bar; Butterscotch is growling and yapping around his feet. That's not the game. He scoops her up to quiet her.

"Great," I tell him, finally eyeing my phone, "Go shower so you're ready to show them Theo's clothes when they arrive. I'll arrange the flowers now."

"What are you going to wear?"

"Wear?" I ask, looking down at the vintage Blondie t-shirt from my dad and my cut-off jeans and sneakers, "I don't have time for that," I scowl, "I'll change my pants and put on real shoes."

"Ah, no," he contradicts me, his energy getting anxious again, "It's not that the shirt isn't cool, Seashell, but you're getting it messy. These are two of the most successful people working in episodic TV today. Don't you want to make a good impression with more than your food and your art?"

"Fine," I huff in exasperation, "you go find something for me, Mr. Picky Style-Obsessed Howl, and when you're out of the shower, you're putting together the appetizers.”

"I'm happy too," Rune says, smiling sunnily now that he's gotten his way, squeezing my shoulder again as he darts out of the room and jogs upstairs with Butterscotch on his heels.