Abigail looked at the toilet in the ‘kitchen’ bathroom and then stared at Fred through the 2×4 wall. “You actually expect me to ‘go’ in here? In front of everybody standing in the kitchen?”
“I was going to hang some sheets for privacy.” He gestured to the 2×4 beams overhead. “Or,” he added, “if you’d rather there’s a Port-A-Potty outside.” He pointed to a pea-green port-a-potty precariously leaning against a tree.
“A Port-A-Potty!” Abigail looked horrified. “I can’t go in a Port-A-Potty. I can hardly go in the Ritz! I’ll just die. That’s all there is too it, I’ll just die.” If she could have cried she would have cried, but she didn’t know what to cry for first.
“A Christmas House” to be continued…