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were dating, he never made fun of her for it. “Thanks.” Claire cleared her throat and continued on, tour-guide style. “Anyway, Snapdragon was part of the gold rush in the mid-1800s. After its short days as a boomtown, the lake and railroad kept it from becoming a ghost, and while it had dwindled to a few hundred souls, it never entirely died. Then, in the late 1960s, builders came in and established new neighborhoods full of curving streets lined with expensive tract houses and well-behaved trees.”
    And it was then that Mother and her husband bought the biggest house on Morning Glory Circle, the best cul-de-sac in town.  
    Naturally.  
    Jason laughed. “I see.”
    “And there’s the Snapdragon Hotel.” She pointed at a big red brick and yellow clapboard structure on the corner of Main and Magnolia. “It dates back to 1857 and it’s claimed that Mark Twain slept there regularly.”
    “We’re in Calaveras County … Maybe he did.”
    “Maybe.” Claire concentrated on history, trying to keep her mind off Mother, who was barely a mile away now. Her stomach was a twisting snake pit. “The hotel also claims Wyatt Earp gambled there on numerous occasions.”
    “Yeah, but is there any place out west where Wyatt Earp didn’t gamble?”
    “Nope. I don’t think so.” Claire sipped the last of her ginger ale and admired the old building. “I went inside once with a friend, back in elementary school. Lori’s mom took us to lunch there at the Daffodil Grill. They had glass lamps hanging above the tables, all painted with flowers - snapdragons, daisies, lilies, roses; they were all different - and they had long glass crystals hanging from them that cast rainbows on the carpet and tablecloths. I was entranced.”
    “How was the food?”
    “Divine. We had burgers and old-fashioned ice cream sodas in silver goblets. I felt like a princess.”
    “That settles it.” Jason pulled a quick right on Magnolia and parked. “We’re having lunch at the Daffodil Grill.”    
    “We can’t afford to, can we?”
    “If your mother is as horrendous as you say, we can’t afford not to. We need sustenance to face the beast.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “I love you, you know.”
    “Back at’cha, Magic Man.” Claire rubbed her shoulder.
    “I’ll give you a shoulder rub tonight.” Jason grinned.
    “That would be awesome.”  

The Lawn Wars
    “That’s not even Pookie Bear’s poop!” Aida Portendorfer huffed. “I think that’s Waldo’s.”
    “Waldo?” Stan couldn’t identify his own dog’s droppings, let alone keep all the neighbor dogs’ names straight.  
    “Oh, Stan, you know!” She pointed at the pale olive two-story traditional on the other side of the street. “Waldo is Duane Pruitt’s golden retriever. His poops are bigger than our Pookie Bear’s! And paler, too. I wonder what Duane feeds him. Maybe I should suggest he take Waldo in for a checkup. He might be having another bout of pancreatitis.”
    Stan stifled a groan. He dearly loved his wife of forty-odd years, even though Aida couldn’t resist sticking her nose in everybody’s business. Gossip was her lifeblood and everyone on the sac knew it. She’d asked for binoculars for Christmas again this year and, reluctantly, he’d finally buckled.
    Just as he’d expected, she now spent a lot of time upstairs, peering into neighbors’ windows and commenting on the state of their housekeeping and the color of their furniture, which was never right for the carpeting.  
    “Are you listening to me, Stan?”
    “I think Duane can take care of his dog without your advice, Aida.”
    “Hmm. I suppose. He’s very handsome, isn’t he? He takes good care of himself and that must mean he takes good care of Waldo.”
    “I’m sure.” Stan stared at Duane Pruitt’s house. Aida was right: Duane - who had recently married a nice Korean man named Jerry - was very neat. Before Jerry came along, Stan hadn’t even suspected the ruggedly