Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(95)

On the drive over, I debated how best to convince Charlotte to let me reform and rehabilitate my reputation. By the time I pulled into her driveway, I’d practiced three or four iterations of my side of our inevitable debate. If a well-constructed argument didn’t bring her to my way of thinking, then I’d have to persuade her with a different (more hands-on) approach, which—just keeping it real—sorta made me hope my sensible arguments were met with resistance.

Tense, I inspected myself in the rearview mirror and cut the engine, but I didn’t linger for long. The thing about Charlotte’s house was that it sat along a tidy street close to downtown. The driveway was short, her front yard xeriscaped with small shrubs and flowers native to Tennessee and the Smokies. But other than the low picket fence, not much hid the drive or the walkway to her front door. Anyone and everyone driving by would see my truck parked next to her SUV and they’d take note of how long I stayed.

The clock was ticking.

Gathering the patching supplies, I strolled right up to her door. Not hesitating, I ignored my suddenly clammy palms and rang the doorbell, even as wild, frantic worries flew through my mind.

What if Frankie doesn’t like me?

What if I inadvertently do something to let down Charlotte or the kids?

What if folks in town don’t buy me helping Jackson as a cover story?

What if Jackson—

Stomping footsteps sounded from the other side of the door. My heart in my throat, I straightened. The door swung open, revealing Kimmy Mitchell, her hand on her hip and a scowl on her face. But at soon as she saw it was me, she blinked, and her forehead cleared.

“Hey. It’s you,” she said.

Unable to argue with that, I nodded once. “It’s me.”

“What do you want?”

I lifted the bucket full of drywall supplies. “I’m here to patch a hole in your—”

A scream followed by a loud, prolonged kid-cry interrupted my train of thought and I took a small step back.

Kimmy huffed, not at all perturbed by the desperate sounds, and she stepped to the side. “You might as well come in.”

“What’s wrong? Is that your littlest brother?” Hesitantly, I walked inside the house, too distracted by the continuing yells and cries to take much notice of the house’s interior. But I did spot what looked like a huge pile of laundry in the room beyond the entryway.

“That’s Frankie. He needs a bath.”

Another series of screams pierced the air and I winced. “He doesn’t want a bath?”

Kimmy rolled her eyes before turning and strolling away, and lifted her voice to speak over the little one’s forceful protests. “He never wants a bath.”

Staring at the back of her head, I followed. “He screams every time he has to take a bath?”

“Not every time. But he’s still sick, so he’s a terror. Joshua! I said put your maps away. It’s time to set the table.”

She’d led me into the kitchen and I spotted Joshua kneeling on a chair and leaning heavily on a table, papers spread out in front of him. Despite the youngest Mitchell’s persistent yells and cries, I grinned at the sight of Charlotte’s older son deeply absorbed in whatever lay before him.

“Mr. Hank!”

I turned at the sound of my name spoken in little-kid voice to find Sonya in the process of standing from the floor, her eyes wide and a big, hopeful looking grin on her cutie-pie features.

“Ms. Sonya.” I set down my bucket, taking note of the dolls and cars and toy dinosaurs scattered all over the floor where she’d been sitting. “How are you this fine evening?”

“Are you here to play?” She stepped over the tripping hazards and crossed to me.

I lowered myself to my haunches at her approach and stuck my hand out for a shake, but she threw her arms around my neck and gave me a squeeze. She smelled like peanut butter and honey. I grinned.

“Not necessarily,” I said, giving her a hug in return. “I’m here to—”

“Hank! You came!” Joshua was on me as soon as Sonya leaned away, grabbing my hand and tugging.

Another shrill shriek sounded from my left, more protests, more cries. Distracted and worried for both Frankie and Charlotte, I allowed myself to be led to the table and turned my head toward the noise.

Joshua didn’t seem to notice or care, chatting happily. “I have a map of the Roman Empire at its largest. The year was 117 AD. Do you know how far north it went?”

Kimmy appeared at the end of the table and deposited six white plates on the surface. “No, Joshua. Clear all that stuff. You can show him after dinner.” To me, she asked, “Are you staying for dinner?”

“Uh . . .” I glanced in the direction of the cries, acutely aware of the three sets of eyes watching me. “Sure,” I finally said. “What’s for dinner?”

Kimmy’s shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t know. Probably frozen pizza or chicken nuggets or something. It’s been a day.”

“Not chicken nuggets!” Joshua moaned. “I’m sick of chicken nuggets.”

I frowned, mentally kicking myself for not bringing dinner.

“Then don’t eat.” Kimmy pushed his maps to one side and began putting plates around the table. “Or eat cereal. Whatever. But get this stuff off the table so I can set it.”