Time moves differently in a laundromat. 

How differently depends on the person. 

For Becky Gettlehorn, who stood in the corner folding clothes for a family of seven, I suspected it moved slower. Sure, she had two of her little ones with her, but the older three were in school on this glorious, April day in Paradise, Ohio. Four-year-old Haley was busily coloring under the folding table, while three-year-old Tommy was at the front of my laundromat getting his hair trimmed by my cousin Billy. Becky had a peaceful, almost dreamy look on her face, as if the rhythm of folding countless tiny t-shirts and towels and jeans and her husband's Masonville State Prison guard uniforms and just the occasional blouse was somehow soothing--a welcome change from, say, fixing macaroni and cheese for seven in the tiny kitchen of the Gettlehorn bungalow on Elm Street. 

For my other Monday morning regular--the widow Beavy--time seemed to move frantically. Once upon a time, Mrs. Eugene Beavy had as many children as Becky, plus one, and I reckon that back then--when my laundromat was still owned by my aunt and uncle--she was a lot more like Becky. But time, besides moving differently in a laundromat, also has a way of taking its toll. Now, Mrs. Beavy had one load, maybe two, every week, but she always seemed overwhelmed by them, even though she only did her outer clothes, as she called them, at my laundromat. Once she confided to me that she does her undies at home in her kitchen sink, because, as she said, she didn't want the whole damned town of Paradise gawking at her panties and bras and extra-support stockings. I've long ago given up on pointing out to her that the whole damned town of Paradise, even with its tiny population of 2,617, could not fit in my laundromat, and even if it could, its citizens would hardly be interested in observing Mrs. Beavy launder her undies. 

For me, laundromat time moves as normal time. I'm Josie Toadfern, owner of Toadfern's Laundromat, the only laundromat in Paradise, Ohio. I'm a stain expert--self-taught and proud of it. Best stain expert in all of Mason County. Maybe in all of Ohio. Maybe even in all of the U.S. 

And on that fine spring day about four weeks ago--before trouble came to Paradise--I was using that stain expertise to finish up the last of Lewis Rothchild's white dress shirts. By the clock that hangs on the wall behind my front counter, it was 1:45. Hazel Rothchild would be in at precisely 2:10 p.m. to pick up her husband's shirts. She was always on time and always fussy about the shirts. Lewis was the third-generation owner of Rothchild's Funeral Parlor. He was also heavy and sweated a lot, and I did what I could about his shirts (pre-treating the stains with a mix of equal parts water, cheap dish washing soap and ammonia usually worked). Still, Hazel always found something to complain about, saying that he had to look his best for his clients. And I always resisted pointing out that actually, he had to look his best for his clients' families, his clients being, after all, dead. (A good businesswoman must know when to bite her tongue.) 

Hazel would command all my time once she arrived, so I decided to check on my other customers now. I trotted over to Mrs. Beavy, who was frantically fiddling with the cap on her bottle of detergent. 

I peered at her clothes whirring around in the washer. "You're on the spin cycle," I said, gently taking the bottle of detergent from her. I put the detergent on the folding table and picked up the bottle of softener. 

"Oh. That means it's time for the cream rinse, right?" 

"Fabric softener," I corrected kindly, although I could understand her confusion, given that my ever-down-on-his-luck cousin Billy was demonstrating his Cut-N-Suck hair cutting vacuum attachment by the big pane window that fronts my laundromat. His hope was that Paradisites would come in for his free demos, and then buy their very own six-payments-of-5.95-per-month Cut-N-Suck hair clipping vacuum attachment, which was supposed to allow the user to clip hair while the trimmings got sucked into the vacuum. 

"I'm not going to get hair in my blouses, am I?" Mrs. Beavy asked nervously, pointing toward Billy. 

"No, no, not at all," I said, measuring fabric softener into the dispenser on top of the washer. 

"Because Cherry warned me I would, and I don't want hairy blouses." She added in a whisper, "Makes me glad I do my undies at home. Because I surely don't want hairy panties." 

I thumped the bottle of softener back down on the folding table. Mrs. Beavy jumped, and I immediately felt sorry. I smiled at her, glancing over at the TV, mounted on a rack just to the 

right of the entry door, positioned so that anyone in the laundromat could see it. "It's about time for your favorite show. You want me to turn it on for you?" 

She smiled back at me, instantly soothed. Her favorite show was, of course, the Tyra Grimes Home Show. Everyone in the U.S. loved, or at least knew about, Tyra Grimes--a home decorating and lifestyle expert with a cable TV show filmed right in New York. She had books and videos, plus a company that made dishtowels and bath towels and sheets and other stuff for the home--all very stylish, of course. 

On the way to the TV, I took a detour by Becky, chatted for a few seconds about how fast her kids were growing, and suggested she help herself to my supply shelf for a dab of plain glycerin to treat the mustard spot on Haley's new sun dress. Then I went on over to my cousin Billy. 

"Mrs. Beavy is concerned about hairy panties," I said, loudly, over the whir of his canister vacuum. 

Billy frowned at me as he shut off his vacuum. "Shush, Josie," Billy said in a hush-hush voice. Then he patted little Tommy Gettlehorn on the head. 

"You look great, son!" he pronounced, switching to the booming voice he used to use in the pulpit at the Second Reformed Church of the Holy Reformation--before he'd taken to drinking from depression over his wife running off with a quieter parishioner. Then Billy lost his job for being found one too many times with a bottle of wine in his desk in the office of a church that used sanctified grape juice for its communions. 

"Doesn't he look great, Josie?" Billy boomed. 

I resisted a knee-jerk "Amen!" (I am a demure Methodist) and said instead, "Yes. You look great, Tommy." And in truth, his burr hair cut was nicer than I would have expected the Cut-N-Suck--or Billy--to be able to produce. 

Tommy looked up at us and smiled as best he could, given that he was frantically rubbing little hair bits away from his nose. He sneezed, wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve--another laundry item for his poor mama--then ran off, zipping around washers and dryers and folding tables, hollering, "Mama, mama, look at me! Josie says I look great!" 

Billy gave a little-boy grin, an expression at odds with his beefy, square-jawed face, his short, stocky build, and his new haircut--a black-haired burr as thick as a bush, on account of his first Cut-N-Suck demo having been on himself. The style made him look like an escapee of some kind. 

Billy leaned toward me and whispered, "I think Becky Gettlehorn is really interested in buying a Cut-N-Suck." 

I frowned at Billy and whispered back, "Even at 5.95 a month, she can't afford it." 

"But it comes with a free electric tweezer--and rotary-action nose hair trimmer!" 

I folded my arms. "Billy." 

He sighed. "Demos and sales have really fallen off ever since last week when you-know-who started her little protest. She's at it again." He jerked a thumb at my front windowpane. 

I have, for advertising purposes, painted on my front windowpane a much-larger-than-life toad atop a lily pad with a cartoon-like bubble coming out of its mouth with the words: "Toadfern's Laundromat. Always a leap ahead of dirt!" (A good businesswoman must know when to use marketing.) 

To see what Billy meant, I had to kneel down and gaze out below the bottom fringe of the lily pad. I then saw short stubby legs in stiletto heels, trekking back and forth in front of my window. The legs belonged to Cherry Feinster, owner of Cherry's Chat and Curl, the only hair salon in Paradise, which happens to be next door to my laundromat. I stood back up. 

In between attending to customers, Cherry had been marching with a sign protesting Billy's demos. I'd complained to Chief of Paradise Police John Worthy, but he'd said that even though I was correct that ours is a free market economy, Cherry also had her right to free speech. So long as she didn't physically stop anyone from coming in my laundromat, there wasn't much I could do about her protest--other than threatening to stop doing the towels from her shop... but I needed the business. 

I stood back up. "Mrs. Beavy says Cherry's telling people they'll get hair in their laundry if they come in here, Billy," I whispered. "And I think she may be right." I stared pointedly down at the burst of telltale little black Gettlehorn hair clippings on my floor, a sight that did not please me. I keep my laundromat spotless. People do not like to wash their undies--or other garments--in a grimy laundry. 

Billy shrugged, then whispered, "I had a little trouble with the attachment earlier. It's this doggoned old vacuum cleaner of mine. Not the Cut-N-Suck. That works great." 

"Look, get this cleaned up. I need to turn on the ceiling fans because it's starting to get hot, and the last thing I need is hair blowing around the place to prove Cherry right. You can use my vacuum cleaner from the storeroom--but only through the end of the week. After Friday, you need to find a different way to give demos. Maybe door to door." 

He nodded eagerly. "Yeah! I should have my car fixed by then. Thanks, Josie!" 

He pulled me to him and gave me a big hug and kiss. I wiped my cheek off as soon as he released me. Billy's a wet kisser. "And lay off on demos for the next half hour," I added. "The Tyra Grimes Home Show is coming on and my customers want to watch it." 

"Sure, Josie," Billy said. "You're the greatest." And he trotted off to the back room to get my vacuum cleaner. 

The greatest? I wondered, looking at Billy's old canister vacuum. Or just a sucker? Besides letting him use my laundromat space to launch his new career as a Cut-N-Suck distributor, I'd been renting him the spare apartment next to mine on the second floor over my laundromat. In two months, I'd yet to collect any actual rent. Despite his zeal as a salesman, Cut-N-Suck sales were slow, Billy said. 

I moved back to my counter, picked up the remote, pointed it at the TV, flicked it on, and found the right channel. 

The background music to the Tyra Grimes Home Show cued--a soft, dreamy melody. Then there was Tyra Grimes herself, her smiling face filling the screen, beaming her enthusiasm for all things elegant and beautiful all over my laundromat. 

And then time shifted again in my laundromat. It seemed to fold in on itself, then stop, as Mrs. Beavy and Becky and even her two little ones and I all stared up at Tyra. We were, like a lot of people across America, hooked on Tyra Grimes and her show. There was just something so seductive about the idea that your life would somehow get better, if only you could fluff your pillows just right, or maybe make cute window toppers out of old potato sacks, or whip up origami party favors to take to the next church carry-in. And Tyra Grimes--with her perky laugh, self-sufficient competence that would make even a Marine wince, and trademark signoff line--"Simply wonderful!"--sold that idea to us day after day, making the mundane minutes that marked our lives seem to stop, to give way to something more... well... simply wonderful. 

Sometimes, I wish I could go back to that moment four weeks ago when the Tyra Grimes Home Show made life slow for a little while in my laundromat. 

Maybe I'd do things differently. After all, some folks say it's because of me that trouble came to Paradise. 

In the form of murder. 

Two murders, to be exact. 

But I think folks saying that everything that happened is all my fault is mighty unfair--not 

to mention ungrateful. 

Because me--well, I was just trying to help. 

***

Ten minutes later, time started moving again, because two things happened at once. 

The Tyra Grimes Home Show went to a commercial break. 

And the bell over my front door chimed. 

I startled, breaking from my Tyra-inspired reverie (today's topic being napkin folds) and automatically launched into the usual speech I give Hazel Rothchild every week: "I pre-treated Lewis's collars with an emulsion perfect for ring-around-the-collar..." (Said 'emulsion' was cheap shampoo--but it's what really works, and a good businesswoman knows her customers' preferences. Hazel would prefer to hear I use an emulsion.) 

And then I stopped, for Hazel was not in my laundromat. Instead, in had trooped Lewis Rothchild, followed by Elroy Magruder and Cherry Feinster. 

I retreated behind my counter. 

Lewis was a portly man who always wore suspenders and a tie--no matter the occasion or the weather. He always carried hankies, too (which, thankfully, Hazel chose to hand wash for him) and he pulled one out now and mopped his brow. 

Elroy joined Lewis at the counter, standing to his left. Elroy was a skinny, nervous man with eyes too big for his narrow little face and too waif-child sad for a man in his sixties. He stared up at Lewis now. Cherry stood to Lewis's right, but she didn't seem to be paying attention to any of us. She was staring pointedly at Billy's Cut-N-Suck. Her head was turned so that all I could see of her face was her pointy nose and half of her down-turned, red lipsticked lips--and lots and lots of her frothy hair. Cherry's do--which is dyed to match her name and accounts for at least three inches of her five-foot-three stature--makes Dolly Parton look like a big hair wanna-be. 

This unlikely trio made me nervous. I decided to get to the bottom of what was going on, one question at a time. I started with the most obvious. 

"Lewis, where's Hazel?" I asked. 

"She isn't feeling well--bronchitis," he said, shortly. He wiped his brow again, stuffed the hanky back into his pants pocket. "I'm having to run her errands for her." 

I was tempted to point out that actually, for once, he was running his errands for himself. But Elroy Magruder saved me from giving into temptation. "Lewis, I can prove it," he hollered. 

"This is serious! This calls for an emergency meeting of the chamber of commerce... a conference with the mayor... letter writing. Something!" 

Cherry looked away from the Cut-N-Suck and fixed me with a hard stare. "Elroy's right, Lewis. He showed me the map. Business here is bad enough what with people in town trying to get into areas they don't know anything about. People you think are your friends." 

"Look, Cherry," I said, "it's not like you can get a perm or hair coloring out of a vacuum cleaner attachment. Plus competition is good for business--and--" 

"Being dropped off the Official State Map of Ohio definitely is not good for business!" Elroy hollered. 

I looked at him, stunned. 

I have to take a little break to explain that we have very few points of pride, here in Paradise. One is our name. My junior high history teacher, Mrs. Oglevee, may she rest in peace, drilled into our heads the story of how our founding fathers, heading west on the National Road back in the 1840s, took a little rest break in the very spot that would become Paradise. Three families got off the wagons, settled down under a big, shady oak tree, and had a nice picnic lunch--pickled beef tongue on rye, Mrs. Oglevee told me when I pressed for details, although I have my doubts. Then everyone took a look around on that perfect spring day--birds singing, trees leafing out, nice little breeze--and said let's stay! And they called it Paradise. 

What I think is that they all got lost. I can't really explain how you get lost off the National Road, which was the only road going west through Ohio at the time, with twelve horses and three wagons and ten kids whining 'are we there yet,' but I think my theory makes more sense than taking a rest break in a forest thirty miles off the National Road. Then I think they decided to make the best of a tough situation, and told the whiny kids and each other that they'd found Paradise, their new home, and everyone decided to believe it, since they happened to hit southern Ohio when the weather is absolutely perfect for three whole weeks. 

What they didn't know at the time, of course, is that the perfect three weeks in spring is followed by tornado season. Then a dry spell. Then snow storms. Then floods, from the melting snow. Then the perfect three weeks again. After a year like that, I think everyone was just too tired to move on--or to rename the little settlement of Paradise. 

When I put forth my theory to Mrs. Oglevee, though, she made me stay after school and write one hundred times on the blackboard, "I am proud to be a Paradisite," all the while explaining how I should appreciate the fine name of our town--point of pride one. 

Our only other bragging point is that ever since its incorporation back in 1844, Paradise has been on the official map of the State of Ohio. 

So now, I stared at Elroy Magruder in dismay. "Did you just say we're no longer on the map?" 

"It's true," Cherry said. "Elroy showed me. But he can't get Lewis to take him seriously." 

"For pity's sake, what difference does it make?" Lewis hollered. "Josie, just give me my shirts." 

I folded my arms. "Not until Elroy gets a chance to tell us what's going on." 

Lewis sighed heavily, wiping his brow again. "Fine, fine. Go on, Elroy." 

Elroy straightened himself up as best he could, given his lifelong habit of slumping his shoulders. "I got a new set of maps today, to put on display at my station." Elroy owns the only gas station and towing service in Paradise. In this town, with the exception of antique shops (of which we have six) we have just one business of every kind. Small towns are great for monopolies. 

"I unfolded one to put up--you know, in case someone comes in asking directions. And that's when I saw it. No more Paradise in Ohio." With that, Elroy pulled a map out of his hip pocket. Then he opened the map out on my counter. "Look," he whispered, pointing to the general area of Mason County, in south central Ohio. 

We looked. Truth be told, there's not much to look at in the south central portion of a map of Ohio. Columbus is to the north of us, Cincinnati to the west, the Ohio River to the south, and the Appalachian foothills to the east. We aren't bisected by any major highways, so we're just a quiet region of rolling hills, corn fields, and the occasional horse farm. 

But we looked to southern Ohio. Then we peered at Mason County. And then we--Cherry and I--gasped as we realized that Elroy was right. Paradise, where it should have been just southwest of the county seat of Masonville, wasn't on the map. Where our little dot had been for nearly 160 years... was nothing. Just a tiny circle bearing the number 26--the state route that cuts through our town. 

I looked back up at Lewis. He looked bored. "Fine," he said, "Paradise is not on the map. It's not like we dropped off the face of the earth. Or even off of Ohio." 

"Look, Lewis, it's fine for you not to care. It's not like there's much of a tourist trade in funerals," I said. "But Elroy, Cherry and I, the antique shops, Sandy's Restaurant--we all rely on 

some of our business coming from people who are visiting over at Licking Creek Lake." The nearby lake is called that on account of there used to be just Licking Creek, until it got dammed up to make a lake for a state park years ago. People go swimming and camping there. We're the nearest town to Licking Creek Lake. "So how are people supposed to find us if we're not on the map?" I added. 

"She's got a point," Cherry said, apparently forgetting for the moment that she was mad about the Cut-N-Suck. "Any ideas what we can do?" 

"We should have an emergency meeting of the Chamber of Commerce! I'm going to personally launch a letter writing campaign--" Elroy started. 

"To who? You think our state rep is really going to care? Why don't you leave well enough alone," Lewis said. "Probably if we'd gotten that mall development, we wouldn't have to worry about silly things like this." 

Cherry and I moaned. We knew his comment would rile up poor Elroy. And that meant we'd have to hear--again--the story of how, twenty years ago, when some businessmen came to town to consider buying up land to build a fancy antique mall and turn us into the Antique Capital of the Midwest, it wasn't really Elroy's fault that the project got cancelled before it ever really got started. It was a story that might have been forgotten, except that Lewis took every chance to taunt Elroy about how he'd made the businessmen sick and caused Paradise to lose its shot at a big-time mall. Since Lewis owned most of that still undeveloped land--inherited from his father--he'd probably never let Elroy forget it. 

"The tuna salad was fresh that day," Elroy started now, in this mournful sing-song voice. He'd gone over this story so many times, always using the same words. He could have set it to music and called it The Ballad of the Tainted Tuna. 

The short version is that the businessmen, who were staying out at the Red Horse Motel (yes, the only motel in Paradise), decided to come in to town for lunch at Sandy's Restaurant, but Sandy's was closed that day on account of it being Sandy's birthday, for which she always closes, although she's open for Thanksgiving and Christmas. So, they went down the street to Elroy's Filling Station and picked up a passel of tuna salad sandwiches and Big Fizz Colas. Two days later, the businessmen left town--and the rumor that went around was that they'd been laid up sick from food poisoning before they left. 

Poor Elroy Magruder. He became such a sad sack that even his wife had left him. Who knows how life would have turned out for the Magruders (or for Paradise) if Elroy hadn't fed 

those businessmen tainted tuna salad. 

Now, I knew Elroy'd keep going on and we'd never get to figure out what to do about not being on the Ohio map, so I said, "Look, Elroy, maybe it wasn't the tuna salad." 

That stopped him. He looked at me, his russet eyebrows pushed up near to his hairline. "What? What did you say?" 

"Maybe it wasn't the tuna," I said again. I was making stuff up, hoping to get us off this topic and back to the map. "Probably something else altogether. Maybe something on the land they were surveying." 

"Like, like what?" 

"I don't know. Uh, maybe poison ivy. Or wild mushrooms. Maybe they had some for a snack and that made them sick." 

Elroy started crying. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in twenty years." I patted him on the shoulder. 

"Can we please get back to the map?" Cherry said. 

"Can I please have my shirts now?" Lewis said. 

"Can you all please quiet down so I can watch the end of my show?" said Mrs. Beavy. 

We all looked over at Mrs. Beavy, who was standing below the TV. I glanced around. Wendy Gettlehorn and her children had already left--and I hadn't even noticed. At that moment, Billy emerged from my storeroom, towing my vacuum cleaner. 

But then Mrs. Beavy pointed up to the TV. "See? You all have been yapping so much, it's been hard to hear the show. But here's my favorite part." 

We all--even Lewis and Billy--looked up at the television. A commercial for toilet paper ended, giving way to the end of the Tyra Grimes Home Show. Tyra appeared, her face, haloed in auburn hair, filling the screen. 

"Today we've discussed the wonders of napkin folds--how with just a few minutes of extra effort you, too, can add a touch of grace to all your meals--whether a sit-down dinner for twenty or a breakfast buffet for one hundred--with how you present your table linens." Never mind that none of us would ever host such an event. We were still entranced with Tyra. "Try these tips in your own home," Tyra beamed. "And let your daily living be... Simply wonderful!" 

Cherry sighed. "Isn't she wonderful." 

"The greatest," Mrs. Beavy agreed. 

"I learned how to display my pop bottle collection for best decorative effect from her," 

Elroy said. 

I stared at him. Elroy? A Tyra Grimes fan? 

Then Billy said, "Hey, Josie, that reminds me! I've been meaning to show you this!" 

He started unbuttoning his denim shirt--which made me a mite nervous, because truth be told I wouldn't put it past him to shave some design into his chest hair to demonstrate the prowess of the Cut-N-Suck--but what he actually showed us was a red t-shirt. With the Tyra Grimes logo--her name in fancy script, with a swirly line below it--emblazoned on the chest. 

"Uh, Billy, where'd you get that? Tyra Grimes doesn't put out clothing. Just stuff for the home." 

"Ah, that's where you're behind the times," Billy said. "I was at the Red Horse Motel's Lounge last night." Somehow, my cousin the Cut-N-Suck distributor and former preacher never minded admitting he liked going to one of Paradise's two bars (not every non-antique industry is a monopoly in Paradise)--and the only one that comes with motel rooms. 

"Met a nice little lady, with a pretty little accent, says she's in the area on vacation. She told me how she had a supply of these t-shirts. So I got two. One for me. And one for you! I, uh, have yours up in my apartment." 

"Ooh--a signature line of Tyra Grimes clothing," Cherry cooed. Then her eyes narrowed as she peered at Billy. "How is it this woman has Tyra Grimes t-shirts for sale?" 

"Said she has special connections to Tyra Grimes's company and it's OK for her to sell advance copies, kind of like a promo. They were expensive, being advance copies, but since you're being so kind, Josie, as to let me stay rent-free, I dipped into my savings money." 

What I should have done was get annoyed at Billy for spending money on t-shirts when he claimed he couldn't pay rent. 

What I did, instead, was get an idea. 

"I've got it!" I hollered. "We need something fast that'll make everyone else notice Paradise--make the world think of us as important, right? Help get us back on the map? Get people to come here, visit our antique shops, visit the lake, right?" 

Everyone--except Lewis, who was staring at Billy--looked at me. I went on. "Well, I'm a stain expert, right? I could go on the Tyra Grimes Home Show and share all I know about getting out stains. People won't want stains on their new Tyra Grimes t-shirts, will they? Maybe she could even come here to do the show--an on-location kind of thing. She's done that before at restaurants and stores, so why not a laundromat? And Tyra Grimes is so famous that her coming 

here to do a show would get Paradise a lot of attention. I'd mention Licking Creek Lake and the antique stores in town. What do you all think?" 

There was a silence. A long silence. 

And then Cherry started laughing. "Oh, you do beat all," she said, hooting and fanning herself with her hand. "Someone as wonderful and important as Tyra Grimes, wanting you on her show? Why, she probably knows a dozen other stain experts she could ask on. Your plan just won't work, Josie!" 

Then she left. 

Elroy shook his head sadly. "As wonderful as it would be to have her here, I think Cherry's right. No one important ever comes to Paradise. But maybe if I get a petition going to send to our state rep..." Then he left, too. 

Mrs. Beavy looked at Billy. "Billy? Will you please help me get this basket out to my truck?" 

"Sure, Mrs. Beavy," Billy said. He shot me a sympathetic look, then picked up her basket. They left, too. 

Just Lewis and I were still in my laundromat. I sighed. "I'll get your shirts," I said. I didn't even want to know what Lewis thought of my plan. 

But suddenly Lewis grabbed my arm, forcing me to turn back and face him. "Don't do it," he said, through clenched teeth. He was pale and shaking. His face was red, his mouth tight, his nostrils flaring--a 9-1-1 emergency waiting to happen. "Don't even think about getting that... that woman to come to our town. If she does, I'm warning you, Josie. Blood will flow. It'll be on your hands. And that's a stain you'll never get out." 

With that, he stormed out the front door of my laundromat, not even taking his shirts. 

I rubbed my arm where Lewis had grabbed me. Everyone else was so sure Tyra'd never want to come to Paradise or have me on her show, but Lewis--who I'd never seen so worked up before--was all in a lather at the very thought of me trying to contact Tyra. Strange. Maybe Hazel had fed him one too many Tyra-inspired quiches. Lewis was definitely a steak-and-potatoes guy. 

But I wasn't about to let go of my idea for getting on the Tyra Grimes Home Show... no matter what anyone else said... so I told myself to forget about Cherry and Elroy's nay-saying and Lewis's weird temper tantrum. 

But I wouldn't forget it for long. Not when his prediction of bad things happening if Tyra came to Paradise started coming true--and everyone started blaming me.