The table runner has gone missing, and so, mysteriously enough, has Natalie.
Dun-dun-dun.
I hear her trotting about upstairs, clomping this way and that at a frantic pace. (The child might love all things delicate, but "delicate" does not describe her footfall. Think Clydesdales wearing Irish jig shoes on hardwood floors.)
"What're you doing, Natalie?" I hate to disturb her when she is engrossed in play, but something was afoot. So to speak.
"I can't tell you!" she calls back, a dead giveaway that I sure as heck better go find out.
I kick off my shoes and walk upstairs with quiet, sock-clad feet. There, I find this:
"What've you got going on here?" I shush the side of me that groaned, "Oh, come on. The table runner? I just got it back from the dry cleaner."
"All princesses need red carpets to lead them into their castles," Natalie explains.
architectural marvels
because even princesses take swim lessons
the royal flush
