Romantic wishcase

It's been a nice holiday. Yesterday Duncan came over, and my parents took Charles Wallace out. Those two things would just make a good day on their own. Duncan brought me a chocolate rabbit. He broke the head off, and took the guts of a Laura Secord raspberry creme egg and used it to re-attach the bunny head. It was so cute. I gave him the various small Easter things I got at the convenience store, and threw in Charles Wallace's bunny (he wouldn't notice anyway). We stayed in most of the afternoon. I asked Duncan if he ever wanted to just leave Milborough. He said no, no yet, but he'd like it if people didn't do things to annoy his parents. "Today," Duncan said, "my dad was going on and on about how it really makes him mad how some people make personal loans for large amounts and only wait for faith to produce something. Money, my dad says, is always finance, and faith is faith. They don't mix, and why don't people use the credit union with its low rates?" That wasn't exactly what I meant, but he was so into it I didn't do anything. I kissed him before he started talking about the Leafs. Duncan left at about the time my parents got back from Toronto with Charles Wallace. They said they liked the parade (they always do), and that it seemed that Becky McGuire was it in, with some marching band. Or at least someone who looked a lot like Becky McGuire, Charles Wallace said. My parents had taken him for dinner at Licks, , so I was left on my own to forage. Charles Wallace went to play with his microscope and my mother went up to read. My father puttered about, complaining that he knew he was going to get a batch of returns to do on Tuesday.
"They keep on doing this. They take their stuff hoping to get it done cheap, and then they have to haul it over to me since Mr. Caine messed it up." I asked him what was wrong with the tax docs. "Well, to start with, they're a mess. And he keeps allowing the wrong things as deductions."
"Mess?" This sounded odd. Charles Wallace once barfed on the family return and we still sent it in.
"They'll all damp." I said that everyone knew Mr. Caine worked with his daughter around his chest in a snugly-type thing. "No, it's him. He cries all the time, I'm told." I don't understand accountancy.