Free Rain Song by Alice J. Wisler

call Grable’s cell phone. She answers on the fourth ring and tells me she’s getting her nails painted a rusty red while Monet looks at fashion magazines on the salon floor. “I think it’ll be a nice color. Flora Jane is painting my left hand now.”
    Flora Jane has been at Lady Claws since the discovery of fire. She likes to dye her hair sky blue in the summer and violet in the cooler months.
    “Thanks for coming over,” I say. “I’m glad you and Monet could come here.”
    “Really? Because I know Monet is loud and destructive and hard to—”
    I cut her off. “Grable.” With ease I say, “Monet is fine.”
    She is silent and then I hear her talking to someone else. I also hear Monet squealing and laughing. “Nicole?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Monet found an angelfish in one of the magazines. Some shoe advertisement with a fish swimming in a high-heeled shoe.”
    “She really likes fish.”
    Grable says she has to go because Flora’s ready to paint her right hand. But before she ends the call, she tells me, “Monet really likes you, too.”
    I sit in the chair and just breathe in and out for a bit after hanging up the phone. Out the window I see two cardinals darting around my oak tree as the neighbor’s gray cat prowls by the trunk.
    Then I write to the carp owner in Japan.
Harrison,
My cousin’s three-year-old daughter Monet was here and deleted your message. I know that sounds a little odd, but she is quite gifted at causing chaos. I didn’t get to see the photo of you at all. Could you send it again?
Thank you.
Nicole
    I hope he writes back, but if he doesn’t, I tell myself it’s really okay. He lives in Japan, and I am, after all, avoiding anything to do with that country.

Chapter Ten
    As the finicky month of March swirls through eastern North Carolina, Ducee tells us after Sunday dinner that we must finalize our reunion planning. She uses her large spiral notebook with a lopsided pineapple on the cover to jot down the menu and other items needing attention. She is filled with questions and poses some of them. Should she use the local florist, Flowers by Deena, or should she ask her cousin Tweetsie in Goldsboro to make the arrangements for the reunion events? Tweetsie would be honored, yet can she be told—nicely, of course—that the arrangements need to showcase more than just white roses from her garden? Color is key here. We don’t want to offend her. We do remember that her roses received a blue ribbon at the Goldsboro Home and Garden Show. Oh, and should the invitations be printed on four-by-six cards like last year? With a larger font. Last year’s was so tiny ninety-seven-year-old Aunt Louise in Morehead City thought she’d received a floral postcard with mere black lines on the backside. Ducee spent a day trying to appease the woman, telling her the lines were words, and no, the small font was not a conspiracy to keep Aunt Louise from the gathering.
    Between Ducee and Iva, the questions and concerns mount like mashed potatoes. What about a trip to the coast in the church van? You know those Wyoming folk need to see the ocean and get some fresh salty breezes in their faces. They don’t have the privilege of living close to the coast like we do, bless their hearts. Will Aaron be able to secure a van for the ride? Will the Friday evening dessert be at Third Presbyterian again this year? If so, we need more folding chairs. Is Clive up for the Sunday breakfast at his house? Back to the dessert, are the twins going to play the harmonica and flute for the entertainment that night?
    Iva says she heard they were going to The Netherlands.
    “What?” Ducee cries. “Who is going where?”
    “The twins.”
    I am always amused that these grown men, Ivan and Patrick, are not known by their given names but referred to as The Twins.
    “The Netherlands?” Ducee says the name of the country as though it’s a disease. She removes her bifocals and rubs her eyes.
    Iva sighs. “I know. How can they