Queen Bee (Lowcountry Tales #12)(8)

Archie and I were standing on the front porch saying good night. It was as dark as pitch outside, with only our porch lights and one streetlight to see where you were going. Tyler had challenged Hunter to a race home and they were already on their porch, calling back to us.

“Is the door open?” Tyler called.

“Yes,” Archie called out with a thumbs-up. Then he turned to me. “Thanks for a wonderful supper.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re so great with kids. Don’t you have a degree in early education?”

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t you using it?”

“If I went to work full-time, who would tend the queen bee? Even in my hives, the queen can’t feed herself. My momma’s like that.”

He gave me an inquisitive look, as though I might be too soft to function in the real world or as though Momma was a bona fide crackpot.

“Besides, I have a dream of teaching at the Sullivan’s Island Elementary School, and so does everyone else. I’m waiting for a slot.”

“Well, you’re a darned good cook,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Cargo cults, huh?”

“Yeah, cargo cults. I love all that stuff.”

“Me, too, I think.”

“Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

“I’m self-taught in self-defense.”

I could see his eyes twinkle even in the low light. He was probably envisioning Momma frying up some Spam and grits for dinner. Or something worse.

“Once I had a birthday party and the queen baked these casseroles. I remember two things. My sister broke the pi?ata before anyone else had a chance to give it a whack, and everyone went home with salmonella. She must’ve left them in the sun.”

He was grinning widely. “That must’ve been some party!”

“The worst,” I said.

We just looked at each other for a moment, and then I could see that he was having a carnal moment because he gave me that look. Yes, Archie MacLean, this would be the moment the boy kisses the girl. He cleared his throat instead.

“Well, good night then,” he said.

“Good night.” I closed the door, leaned against it, and giggled.

Did I really want a guy with graying temples and double dimples? Did I really want those forty-year-old hands on my thirty-year-old skin? Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.

I decided to call Leslie and tell her about Momma. Here’s the thing: If I didn’t call her, she’d be annoyed with me, saying how could I do such a thing? If I called her, she’d be annoyed.

I poured a large glass of wine to fortify myself, from the box I kept on the pantry floor, and dialed her number. She answered on the third ring. I don’t know why, but she always said I should never pick up the telephone before the third ring. Maybe it was because she was always waiting for a boy to call her and she didn’t want to seem pathetically anxious.

“Hey, it’s me. There’s news from the island,” I said.

“Hey, yourself. I didn’t hear jungle drums,” she said, as though she was a comedian.

“Yeah, well, I had to put Momma in the hospital today.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. Very dramatic, as usual.”

“I’m sure. I already know the answer to this, but is she okay?”

“Of course, she is.”

“Well, what happened?”

“She fell out of bed again,” I said. “Second time this month.”

“She’s still there?”

“Yep, they wanted to rule out brain tumor, broken bones . . . you know, a whole litany of stuff.”

“Jeez. A zillion dollars in tests for nothing.”

“That’s what they do these days.”

“It’s practically criminal. Should I send flowers? I mean, I can do that. No problem. Would it cheer her up?”

“That’s your call. Would anything cheer her up besides you coming home? I expect I’ll bring her home tomorrow. Maybe send them to the house?”

“Okay. I’ll send her something fun. What about getting some kind of guardrails? You know, the kind you use for toddlers?”

I looked at the ceiling. Didn’t my sister know how impossibly juvenile our mother was? “Right! Then she’d crawl over them and fall on her head, and I’d really be in trouble. You know, she breaks a hip, pneumonia sets in, and pffft! She’s a goner!”

“Well? That’s one answer, isn’t it?”

“Leslie! You’re terrible.”

“Gallows humor, sister. Gallows humor.”

“Funny but not really. So how are you and Charlie doing?”

“We’re fine. Well, I’m fine. Charlie’s been acting sort of odd.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just odd. He wants to go to Atlantic City. He hates gambling! But suddenly, he wants to go to Atlantic City and see a bunch of shows.”

“Sounds like fun to me.”

“Sounds like fun because you’re stuck on that miserable island with the Queen of Mean. You know I don’t like all that noise. And all that craziness.”

Wait. Was my sister no longer Miss Party Hearty?