Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(23)

Plastering on a smile, I faced his chiseled profile and said, “I’m with the caterer,” with intense mock cheerfulness. “Do you need your drink refreshed? More salt for your canapé?”

Without turning his head, Hank’s gaze shifted to the side and narrowed. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I have Mondays and Tuesdays off.”

“Do you?” he drawled. “Does your boss know?”

“He said my hours were self-explanatory,” I responded tartly. “This, I explained them to myself. Do let me know if you need more salt, I got plenty.” I turned, intent on leaving Mr. Surly-Butt to his beer, but was forced to halt abruptly.

Joshua blocked my path, his arms crossed, a thundercloud behind his eyes. Inclining his head once toward Hank, he muttered, “Excuse me, sir.” Then his gaze shifted to mine and he said, “Mother.”

My heart pinged again. Poor little pumpkin. I could guess the issue, but I asked anyway, “What’s wrong?”

“They’re watching cartoons,” he said, like the watching of cartoons by other children explained his foul mood. And since I knew my kids, it did.

Kimmy loved stories about witches and fairies, fighting about whether the sky was blue just to be contradictory, and swimming whenever she got the chance. Sonya loved drawing, painting, and making everything she touched into art. She also enjoyed snuggling and leaving love letters for us around the house, which were just folded up pieces of paper that mainly consisted of hearts and her name. Frankie loved big construction trucks, all sports, wearing costumes, and singing along to Broadway musicals.

And Joshua loved news magazines, listening to podcasts about ancient civilizations and the current status of financial markets, and studying maps. The older the map, the better.

“Why don’t you read a book?” I lifted my hand toward the two big bookshelves in the family room. “I’m sure they have an atlas.”

Joshua’s glower intensified. “Can I get The Economist out of the car?”

I peeked quickly over my shoulder, hoping Hank had moved on. No such luck. He stood behind me, his eyes on Joshua, an inscrutable expression on his face.

Squatting down, I placed a hand on my son’s shoulder. “You’ve already read that issue a few times. I’m sure they have a book here you can read. Or some puzzles?”

The seven-year-old gave me a disdainful look. “You mean children’s books. No, thank you.”

I tried not to laugh. “Honey, I hate to break it to you, but you are a child.”

His lip curled faintly. “I guess I’ll see if they have an atlas,” he said, great suffering permeating his tone. Dragging his feet, he scuffed over to the bookshelf and lowered to his knees in front of it, his little hand skimming over the spines.

As I stood, the ping in my heart intensified into an ache. Joshua had trouble making friends. No one his age wanted to discuss the things that interested him and he was too stubborn to feign interest in anything he wasn’t passionate about. I needed to find him a group of like-minded kids, but I honestly didn’t know where to start.

When I get home tonight, I’ll stay up and do a search for kid investment groups. Something like that.

“Did I hear that right?”

Startled, I blinked the speaker of the question into focus, having forgotten Hank still hovered by my arm. “Pardon? Which part?”

To my surprise, Hank’s antagonistic expression had mellowed and he lifted his beer bottle toward Joshua. “Does that child read The Economist? The news magazine?”

I debated whether or not to answer, unsure of Hank Weller’s purpose in asking the question.

I’d experienced the full range of reactions to Joshua’s peculiarities, everything from Wow! He must be so smart. You should be doing so much more to challenge him, to How could you allow your young child to be exposed to such things? Don’t you want him to have a normal childhood?

If I had a dollar for every kid-related unsolicited opinion I’d been forced to endure from strangers, I would have enough money to hire a PI firm to find my cousin and pay off my home’s new air conditioner.

Eventually, I admitted, “He does read The Economist, the news magazine,” and braced myself for whatever judgy statement would follow.

“Which issue is in your car?” Hank asked, looking thoughtful.

“Uh, the one from three weeks ago, I think. We get them free from the dentist’s office. They hold old issues for us.” A subscription was beyond our means. I couldn’t justify the cost and I hadn’t been able to convince any of the grandparents to pay for an annual subscription. It wasn’t flashy enough for Kevin’s parents, and my momma didn’t understand why anyone would want to read a news magazine.

He tilted his head toward the front door. “I have last week’s issue in my car. Do you want me to get it?”

“You do?” I faced him fully.

“I do. And I already read it. Your kid can have it if he wants.”

“Um . . .” I hesitated.

Hank had proven that he wasn’t a helpful person. Getting him to give me the most basic of information about the job he paid me for had been like pulling up dandelion roots. I’d felt like a burden from the first moment I’d walked into his club and he’d done nothing to dispel that impression. In fact, he’d leaned into it fiercely, making sure I felt every inch like a tedious obligation. I hated feeling like an obligation. Hated it.