Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(71)

“Goodness gracious. There you are.” Mrs. Mitchell appeared out of thin air and rounded on Kimmy. She gave her shoulder a squeeze, not seeing or noticing me yet. “I’m so glad you got out of seeing that awful woman. You’re a treasure, and bless her heart, Mrs. Buckley is a miserable, vicious bitch. Don’t tell your momma I said that, though. She wouldn’t like me calling people names, even if they’re true.”

“My lips are sealed, Nanna. Thanks for coming.” Kimmy stood and gave her grandmother a hug.

I also stood, feeling oddly inspired to display some basic manners. “Mrs. Mitchell,” I said, extending a hand.

The woman stiffened as her gaze shot to mine and her eyebrows pulled together. “Oh. Uh, Hank Weller. Didn’t see you—but of course Charlotte said you were . . .” She frowned, not finishing her thought, and stood straighter. The woman did not accept my handshake.

I let my arm fall back to my side, not surprised. I was a touch bothered by her frosty reception. But, whatever. I was the town sleazeball. I’d practically put it on my business cards. Of course she couldn’t be seen shaking my hand.

Taking a protective stance behind Kimmy, Mrs. Mitchell glanced between us with clear agitation. “What were y’all talking about? Before I got here?”

“Mr. Weller was telling me about his job,” Kimmy said, looking up to eye her grandmother slyly.

Mrs. Mitchell gaped at Kimmy, then her giant eyes swung to me. I tried not to take pleasure in the older woman’s panicked expression, but old habits die hard.

Clearing my features of amusement, I nodded once. “That’s right. It’s been a very enlightening conversation. Hasn’t it, Kimmy?”

Kimmy stood up straighter, grinning like a shark, greedy for her nanna’s reaction. “Do you think Momma would let Mr. Weller come to career day at school?”

Mrs. Mitchell turned white as a sheet and seemed to be choking on air. I couldn’t help it, I barked a laugh and swapped an amused stare with Kimmy, who was giggling.

Unthinkingly, I lightly tapped the back of my fingers against Kimmy’s shoulder. “Okay, okay. We’ve had our fun. Don’t give her a heart attack.”

Kimmy sent me a big old smile, saying, “Sorry, Nanna. That was a joke. Mr. Weller won’t tell me what he does ’cause he said knowing about it will shorten my childhood. So I figured it was something you wouldn’t want me knowing.”

Mrs. Mitchell’s gaze swung to mine. “So you . . . didn’t tell her?”

“No, ma’am.” I tried to sound contrite and mostly succeeded.

“Thank God.” The woman’s hand came to her chest and she took a moment to breathe her relief before a disapproving look hardened her features, flinty eyes settling on me. “Mr. Weller. Now, I know we were present at your car wash this last weekend, but you should not take that as a sign that we approve of you or your establishment. We don't. Though, it is nice that you helped out the firefighters with their fundraiser last year.”

“It was no big—"

She lifted her hand and kept on going, “Quite frankly, just being in your parking lot—and on a Sunday of all days—was mortifying. I attended only because Charlotte begged me to bring the kids. And as you know, the only reason Charlotte applied to work at your establishment was to find her cousin.”

“Yes. I know.” I glanced at Kimmy and found her watching me with a curious expression.

“You own that club we were at? The horse one?” Kimmy asked, looking between me and her grandma. “What’s wrong with owning a club?”

“Hush, Kimmy. Adults are talking.” Mrs. Mitchell lifted her chin high so she could look down her nose at me. “I want you to know this: I felt obligated to be helpful, seeing as how you had a part to play in locating my sister’s daughter. But our debt is now settled, do you understand? I do not feel obligated to you any further. And I think it would be best for Charlotte if you had no contact with—”

“Oh good. You’re all here.” Charlotte, sounding breathless, appeared suddenly at her momma’s shoulder, cutting off whatever unpleasantness the woman was about to administer and saving me from saying something I might regret.

I wasn’t angry. Her words didn’t make me mad. They fatigued me. Where in my youth I might’ve felt amusement, at almost thirty I just felt tired. Tired of the assumptions, tired of the clutched pearls, tired of the ruffled feathers.

Grateful for her interruption, I watched as Charlotte hefted a little boy into her mother’s arms. “Could you walk these beauties home for me? I made lunch and I made dinner, both are in the fridge. I’m running late for work”—she turned to me—“and training Hannah. That starts today and I want to make sure we have plenty of time.”

“Honestly, Charlotte. I don’t see why you’re still working at that place. We have what we needed,” Mrs. Mitchell ground out, accepting the little boy with a huffing, impatient sound.

“I’m not explaining this again, Mother.” Charlotte bent to give the boy a kiss and brushed his hair out of his eyes, her tone unusually tight. “You be a good boy for Kimmy, okay? No biting.”

While Charlotte’s mother launched another protest about her continuing at The Pony, I felt little fingers tug at mine and I glanced down to find Joshua gazing up a me, an uncertain-looking smile on his face. “Hi, Mr. Hank.”