Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(24)

Therefore, Hank freely offering help now gave me pause. Could I trust it? Or would he use the offer as ammunition later to make me feel like crap?

My attention darted to Joshua curled up in a ball in front of the bookshelf, apparently having abandoned his search for an atlas in favor of looking resolutely forlorn. Nothing is more dramatic or pathetic than a child who is determined to be bored.

“Sure.” I surrendered to his offer of help, bracing myself for whatever put-upon expression Hank would wear once I accepted. “Yes, please. That’d be great. Thank you. I really would appreciate it.”

But Hank surprised me, nodding once and saying, “’Kay. Be right back.” He handed me his beer and the napkin holding his appetizer, dusting his hands on his pants. He then turned and walked out of the house.

I stood frozen, watching his retreating back.

That was . . . strange.

Hank Weller acting helpful for no reason? Nah. I didn’t buy it. He must’ve had a hidden motive.





CHAPTER 7





HANK





“The small hopes and plans and pleasures of children should be tenderly respected by grown-up people, and never rudely thwarted or ridiculed.”

LOUISA MAY ALCOTT, LITTLE MEN





“Is he reading the newspaper?” Ashley, née Winston, Runous—the only Winston sister—looked toward Charlotte’s spawn where he sat on the floor, her tone a whisper.

“It appears so.” I studied the miniature human as his eyes moved over the page he read. I’d given him The Economist, The Washington Post, and today’s Wall Street Journal. The kid’s upper lip had a grey smudge along the left side where he’d inadvertently left a trace of newsprint ink while picking his nose. Disease vectors. Every single one of them.

I’d been watching this weirdo kid since I’d handed him my latest copy of The Economist as well as today’s paper, convinced he’d flip it open and search for comics. He didn’t. He’d skimmed over the world news and then focused on the financial section.

I was . . . entranced. Against my will. Do most kids read stock market reports? Is that a thing now?

“Huh.” Ashley set her hands on her hips, looking as perplexed as I felt. Giving her head a quick shake, she glanced at me. “You didn’t bring Patty this time?”

“Nah. She has softball practice. Hey.” I lifted my chin toward her. “You have a kid, right?”

This question earned me a wary once-over. “Yes. I have a kid. In fact, I have two.”

“Do either of yours read the newspaper?”

“No, Hank.” She sounded both exasperated and amused. “Our youngest is a newborn and Bethany is four. Most infants and four-year-olds don’t read the financial section of The Wall Street Journal.”

I gestured toward Charlotte’s child. “How old is that one?”

“That one? You mean Joshua? You can’t tell how old he is?”

“I have no idea. All children look the same to me.”

A laugh burst out of her. “Hank.”

I held my hands up. “I’m never exposed to children. He could be anywhere between three and seventeen.”

Ashley continued laughing, rolling her eyes to the ceiling before turning her attention back to the child on the floor still reading the newspaper. “‘Exposed to children.’ You talk about them like they’re a contagion.”

I stopped myself before saying, Well, aren’t they? Instead, I scrutinized the little boy. He’d picked his nose again, smearing more ink on his face.

“Bless his heart,” Ashley said with a chuckle, pulling a pack of tissues from somewhere and starting over to him.

I caught her arm. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to wipe his face and nose before he gives himself a full mustache.”

Letting her go, I glanced between the tissue pack and her eyes, allowing my curiosity to make a rash decision for me. “Here, I’ll do it. Give those over.”

This kid made no sense. Kids weren’t supposed to be interested in interesting things. They were supposed to be interested in pointless things, making too much noise, spreading disease, and telling stupidly long stories that had no ending and made no sense. I wanted—no, I needed—to figure out what this child was up to.

With obvious reluctance, Beau’s sister placed the pack of tissues in my hand.

“These are heavy.” I tested the weight of the tissues. “Why are these heavy? And they feel squishy.”

“They’re wet wipes.” She gave me an appraising look. “He’s picking his nose because it’s running. Joshua has allergies and his nose runs in the summer, my daughter Bethany is the same. Joshua needs his face and fingers cleaned, and then he needs to blow his nose into the wipe. Do you think you can handle that?”

I grimaced and handed her back the tissues. “No. I don’t think I can.”

Ashley laughed again, making no secret that she was laughing at me. “Oh my goodness, don’t you know how to blow your own nose? It’s exactly the same. Don’t be such a baby.”

“How about I watch and learn this time?” I ground out, unamused. But I did follow her, my curiosity about this kid still a problem I needed to solve.