When we last left off, we were back at the hotel near Houston, agonizing over the fact that we still didn't have Steve's birth certificate and didn't know when or if we ever would.
We had sent a text message to Lori, but we got impatient. We also felt bad imposing on Lori yet again, and we knew she'd feel awful about what happened even though it really wasn't her fault.
Steve called his engineer and friend Natalie, who lives an hour from us but is always willing to help out. We decided to get her on the way to our house, and hoped that our neighbor had replaced our hidden key from the other day when she faxed us the registration for the Pilot.
With Natalie en route, we decided to go to lunch since we had nothing else to do. Just before we got to the restaurant, Lori called and we filled her in. She felt terrible and kept apologizing. I kept trying to tell her not to feel bad; that she had already gone above and beyond. We told her that we didn't want to inconvenience her any more and that Natalie was on her way, but she insisted on going over to the house to meet her.
As we waited for them to arrive, I decided to drown my sorrows in a Cinnabon. While I was in line, Steve got a call from Natalie. They were both at the house, and they confirmed that they had a certified copy of Steve's birth certificate in hand. My Cinnabon indulgence turned celebratory... tempered with caution, of course, because we're not out of the woods yet.
Lori took it to FedEx, so it should, again, be here by 8 a.m. tomorrow.
We were so grateful to Lori, and felt so bad that she felt bad, that we decided to send her flowers. I called the florist near our houses, the one we always use, only to be told that the shop is temporarily closed for a few weeks because the owner is in the hospital. Strike 12.
We have decided to buy Lori a nice bottle of wine--or perhaps a case of it--as soon as we get home. Natalie is getting all the Starbucks she can drink for a month.
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