by Lia Riley
Beau’s marriage hadn’t been happy? So what? There were many troubled marriages? It wasn’t her business, and yet…and yet the fact made her throat tighten, made her next breath ragged and shallow.
“Oh shit!”
“Good Lord!” Ginger started, chopping off an extra-big square from the sea-salt caramel fudge. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Tuesday shrugged, looking around in confusion while trying to recalibrate. “That wasn’t me.” Outside the open window a small birdlike girl with raven-streaked hair squatted to collect loose-leaf drawing paper.
“Hey! I know her.” Tuesday leaped to her feet. “That’s Flick.”
“Isn’t she one of kids staying out on the Boyle farm?” Ginger asked. “They’ve been fostering since their youngest, Tommy, moved to Valdosta last year.”
“She was in my Foster Friends group at the park yesterday.” Tuesday strode toward the door. Flick was the angry one who colored her hair with black marker and knew no restraint when it came to mascara and eyeliner application.
Tuesday opened the door and raised a hand to cut the sunny glare from her eyes. “Hey, you! You keep dropping things.”
“Well, if it isn’t Captain Obvious.” The girl sneered. “Sit tight. I’m sure you’ll get your own crappy superhero movie soon.”
Whoa. Tuesday had always vaguely assumed she’d have kids until two years ago, when a friend from high school had called to cry in desperation about her sleepless, sexless life. After that Tuesday had moved that particular life goal from her “Must do” list to “Maybe.” Might be time to downgrade it to “Nope.”
Tuesday bent to grab the closest paper and pasted on her most sparkly birthday-party princess smile. “What you need to do is get yourself a new backpack.”
“No kidding. A backpack?” She slapped a hand to her forehead. “A new backpack! Hell’s bells, aren’t you a genius!” She proceeded to roll her eyes so hard there was an honest-to-God risk they might get stuck that way.
So much for the power of the sparkly smile. “I only meant to say—”
“I also need a real nice mommy and daddy.” The girl’s lip curled so hard that the small gap between her front teeth was visible. “But being a princess and all, it must be hard for you to know what life is like outside your perfect castle. Let me clue you in. It’s not all balls, fairy godmothers, and pixie fucking stardust.”
Her voice sliced with paper-cut intensity, but didn’t hide the pain in her eyes. Still, it took one actress to know another. Flick wasn’t this hard-ass routine. It was the mask she wore to keep herself safe.
And Tuesday knew all about those.
She straightened. Flick didn’t need fake cheerfulness, but straight talk. “We got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t you come inside and you can choose whatever you want?”
“Two things,” the girl shot back, hugging her art pad to her black T-shirt, one that read I HATE YOU in an angry green neon scrawl. “First, there’s no you and me. You are you. I am me. End of story. Second, everyone knows kids aren’t supposed to take candy from strangers.”
Tuesday offered up a prayer. Serenity now. Mask or not, Flick’s anger was real and looking for a punching bag. “You’re absolutely right. Okay. Let’s back up even further. My name is Tuesday, Tuesday Knight. There.” She clapped her hands. “Now I’m not a stranger, and trust you me, I know what it’s like to have a bad day.”
For a moment the girl appeared to soften. Her shoulders slumped a fraction before she shook her head, steel back in her spine. “Try a bad life.”
Tuesday’s throat thickened, but pity wouldn’t help this kid. “Follow me,” she ordered in a don’t-mess-with-me tone she’d often heard Pepper employ to great effect.
To her considerable relief, the girl huffed a sigh but complied.
“Hey, Ginger?” Tuesday walked back up to the counter. “Can I get a sundae for my new friend Flick here. I’m talking the works.”
“Got a favorite ice cream flavor?” Ginger asked.
The girl mashed her lips into a thin white line.
“Found yourself a regular chatterbox, didn’t ya?” Ginger said finally.
“I keep telling her to pipe down,” Tuesday quipped, making a “talk, talk, talk” gesture.
“Whatever,” came the mutter.
“Good choice, Miss Flick,” Tuesday said, moving her handbag so the kid could have a place at the counter. “I like your name. Sounds like what you’d name a fairy.”
“Whatever, Tuesday.” The girl paused as if she’d gone too far. “It’s short for Felicity.” She ducked her head, scraping at the ragged edge of her hard-bitten thumbnail. “But that’s my mama’s name, and I don’t want nothing to do with her or any of her twelve boyfriends. You know, give or take, depending on the week.”
Ginger pulled a banana split dish down from a shelf, loading it with scoops of vanilla, strawberry, chocolate. She expertly halved bananas, and covered the whole thing with homemade whipped cream, a sprinkle of peanuts, and a smattering of shiny red maraschino cherries.
“Um, so that looks amazing,” Tuesday said as Flick’s eyes bugged out.
“It really does, doesn’t it?” Ginger cheerfully agreed. “But we’re not quite done.” She poured a generous dollop of hot fudge over it and ladled fresh marshmallow fluff, which she browned to mouthwatering perfection with a tiny blowtorch. “There. I do believe this here is the finest banana split you’ll find in all of Dixie.”
Flick’s lower lip gave an almost imperceptible tremble as a shaft of happiness broke through her stormy features.
Tuesday allowed a small inward sigh. How many wars could be prevented if world leaders negotiated over banana splits?
“So you live on the Boyle farm?” Tuesday asked.
Flick gave her a suspicious look, but couldn’t readily answer with her cheeks stuffed to the gills with strawberry ice cream. She settled for a curt nod.
Tuesday poked at her ratty art pad. “Why haven’t they bought you a backpack?”
“They did,” Flick answered after a swallow.
“What happened to it?” Tuesday asked.
She scooped more marshmallow fluff. “Got stolen.”
“At school?” This was like playing the most frustrating game of Twenty Questions in existence.
“Greyhound.” She swirled a cherry through the hot fudge and popped it in her mouth before answering. “Last week.”
Tuesday sized the girl up, careful not to let a frown creep onto her face. This kid seemed like the type to bolt at the first sign of pity. She was elfin, small for her age. Her eyes might be ancient, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t vulnerable. “What were you doing on a bus?”
“Running away.” Flick added a silent “duh” to the end of the statement.
“Where to?” Tuesday pushed her float away, her stomach churning at the idea of a little girl alone on a Greyhound, where anything could happen. No one should have to face that much pain, bitterness, and hardship, especially not a child.
“New York.”
“I see.” Tuesday met Flick’s gaze without flinching, knowing it was important, a test of sorts. But there was no answer key. “So you—”
“That’s it. Too many questions.” Flick jumped off her stool, skittish as a rabbit in a foxhole.
It took all of Tuesday’s self-control not to grab the girl’s arm, figure out a solution right then and there. But if she forced it, she would blow everything. “Don’t get too excited.” Her nonplussed tone belied her racing thoughts. “I ask everyone questions. I’m nosy. It’s what I do.” She jumped off her own stool. “And I also do that in this.” Time to bust out distraction. She executed a complicated tap-dancing routine. When in doubt, she always turned up the drama. It usually drew people out of their comfort zones and made them feel less alone.
When she at last came to a stop, Ginger broke into spontaneous applause. Even Flick looked unwillingly impressed.
“You really want me to like you, huh?” she asked,
cutting straight to the chase. She didn’t seem upset about the fact though. Her gaze narrowed curiously.
“Sue me. I like a challenge,” Tuesday shot back, slinging her arm around the girl’s fragile shoulders.
“Oh, thank heavens, there you are.” A middle-aged woman paused in front of the window before bustling inside. “Hey, sugar,” she said to Ginger. “I’m sorry if this one was any bother. Come on, you,” she ordered Flick. “We’ve been searching high and low. The van is loaded and we’ve got to get back to the farm and water the chickens.”
“Afternoon, Mrs. Boyle!” Ginger called.
Hmm. Flick’s foster mom. Tuesday sized her up. The matronly woman seemed friendly enough if a little harried, and a lot annoyed.
Mrs. Boyle plucked a lace handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her upper lip. “I’ve been busier than a moth in a mitten hunting around for you. What did I say about running off without a word? I’ve talked myself near blue in the face. One minute you were right there in the library checking out the comics and the next…poof! Nowhere to be seen.”
“There was a cool-looking tree outside the window, and I wanted to sketch the way the sun hit the branches and…never mind.” The soft look fled from the girl’s face. “Forget it,” she said abruptly, her brows dropping like a thunderhead as her expression went stormy. “It was stupid. I was stupid. This was stupid. Sorry that you’re stuck with such a stupid kid.”
Mrs. Boyle shook her head, clicking her tongue like a worried hen. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Let me run away,” Flick muttered to her combat boots, face reddening as if she was painfully aware every eye in the room rested on her.
“Again with the back talk. We’ve been over this.” Mrs. Boyle’s tone suggested this wasn’t the first conversation of the sort she had conducted with her foster child.
“I just took over the lease on my sister’s cottage.” Tuesday broke into the conversation. “It needs decoration. I left most of my things behind in New York.”
“You lived in the city?” Flick stared with a faint glimmer of interest, taking the bait.
Tuesday nodded. “Near Hell’s Kitchen.” She turned to address Mrs. Boyle. “I must say that I admire Flick’s style. She’s got natural talent.”
“Her style?” Mrs. Boyle asked as though Tuesday might have suffered a recent brain trauma.
Tuesday gave her an encouraging smile. “Her artwork.”
Flick didn’t lift her gaze, even while a natural pink hue spread beneath the caked-on blush.
“Tell you what,” Tuesday persisted. “If it’s okay with you, and it’s okay with Flick, then I’d like to invite her to my house later this week. I want to commission some art.”
“Art.” Mrs. Boyle looked surprised, but not as surprised as Flick.
“What’s the catch?” The kid sounded more suspicious than pleased.
“What can I say?” Tuesday answered. When she was a girl she’d bring home any stray animal that needed to feel loved. Not that she could explain the impulse to the girl. “I like to support the arts.”
And as she smiled, Flick’s face lost some of its hardness.
She wanted to help take care of the girl, but she didn’t know the first thing about taking care of anyone. Even herself.
Was she up to the job?
Chapter Fourteen
Ma Hogg hunched over her yellow Formica counter stirring ice cubes into a pitcher of mint-sprigged sun tea as the wheels of Humph Miller’s Cadillac crunched over the driveway gravel. She swung her still-sharp gaze to her cat-shaped wall clock. The wide eyes and plastic black tail moved in time to the second hand.
“Three minutes late.” Her lips pursed as she tapped the wooden spoon on the glass rim. That fool was getting entirely too big for his britches.
The car door slammed. “Hello!”
She gripped the spoon handle at the boomed greeting. Was that boy born in a barn, hollering like a stuck pig? If she were fifty years younger, she’d take this here wooden spoon straight to his heinie. Humphrey was an imbecile, cocky and brash.
She’d use him like a tissue before disposing of him.
Plastering on a feeble smile, she picked up the plastic tray and shuffled toward the door.
Ever since her fool of a son, Aloysius, had allowed himself to be run out of the county, she’d been forced to give up her bedridden ruse. It had been a risky gambit to blow the useful frail invalid cover. When the world looked at her, they saw someone so old, an elderly woman with hummingbird bones and a back stooped by osteoporosis. Easy to disregard. To underestimate. Every last wrinkle and strand of her blue-rinsed hair invited dismissal.
She coughed a wet chuckle. Aging might be for the birds, but it had a few uses. Especially when it came to the business of revenge. All the better to be misjudged by your enemies.
Everland had laughed at her boy. Bumbling Aloysius deserved their scorn, but when someone laughed at a Hogg, they laughed at Hogg Jaw. And Ma Hogg was Hogg Jaw. Born and raised, went back generations, all the way to Captain Redbeard’s second mate, Ezra Hogg, who’d founded the town.
She halted at the screen. Humph was already rocking on the porch swing like he owned the place. Her blood simmered and bubbled. This man needed his silver spoon shoved where the sun don’t shine. “Hey! Highness! How about helping with the dagnabbit door?”
Humph rose with a muffled grunt of annoyance. He considered her a bother. What he hadn’t considered was that if he failed, she would make his life worse than the fifth ring of hell. He was unfaithful in his marriage. She knew all the skeletons in her foot soldiers’ cupboards. Secrets were useful things. She made a hobby out of collecting them like other women did spoons or vintage Pyrex or ceramic figurines.
He opened the door. “There we go.” She handed over the tray and reached for the carved cane propped by the door. All part of the act.
She’d walked three miles before sunup.
He set the tray on the small table and poured them each a glass. “Mighty nice day,” he said stiffly.
She managed a convincing enough smile. “What progress have you made with Mayor Marino? Close to wrapping up that park deal?”
A test. She knew full well the answer was no. In fact, he hadn’t come close.
A trio of hens scratched around the front yard. The noise Hump made deep in his throat was a near-perfect match to their nervous clucks.
She fought back her own mounting urge to peck him. She needed this man because he had a connection, however tenuous, to Beau Marino. Now, there was a man without a single skeleton in his closet. He associated with no unsavory characters. Good Lord, he had been an Eagle Scout and had never looked back. There’d been that nasty bit of business with his wife, but even there she couldn’t dig up dirt, just fact after fact about a man who tried hard to save a failing marriage.
How revoltingly boring.
“The park conversations are moving ahead. We’re getting there,” Humph blustered. “In fact, the deal’s as good as done.” He was a soft-boiled egg, hard on the outside but was easy to crack and liable to make a mess of things. There was nothing worse than a man who overestimated his abilities while underestimating those around him. Her husband, bless his heart, had been the same way.
Millard. The weak fool, bless his soul.
Turned out her son was forged from the same weak stuff.
If only the dear Lord in his infinite mercy had seen fit to grant her a daughter made of her own mettle.
Everland had gotten the better of Aloysius. Now they’d rue the day they ever turned up their snobby noses at Hogg Jaw. She’d make sure Happily Ever After Land closed in favor of a cheap job infusion. The county would get their coveted “Coastal Jewel” designation, but it would be Hogg Jaw wearing the crown.
If a woman wanted to get something done in this world, she’d have to do it herself.
“As good as done?” She clicked her tongue. “My, my, my, and here I have it on good authority that Mayor Marino
hasn’t committed to anything. In fact, he has been meeting with the Georgia Tourism Commission. And you know who else is talking to the commission to get that status? Me.” She slammed the jug of sweet tea on the coffee table so hard that the glass cracked down one side. Tea leaked through, pooling around Humph’s shiny black shoes.
“And just how is that sweet intern of yours? What’s her name again? Tina?” She smiled as Humph’s hand shook hard enough to spill his tea. “A little bird told me that she’s quite the multitasker.” Ma Hogg removed her eyeglasses from the end of her nose, dropped them on their chain against her bosom. “Does your wife know how good she is at multitasking? Merris just gave birth to…what is it now?” She pretended to count on her fingers. “A fourth child?”
Humph made a strangled sound.
“Listen good, Bucko.” She dropped the pretense, her voice steel. “You don’t have a red cent to your name. Those alligator-skin shoes and fancy car are bankrolled by your wife’s high-flying daddy. Your wife, whom you’ve been cheating on with a good-for-nothing gold digger who thinks you’re a big shooter. But all you’ve got is a checkbook of blanks.”
She picked up her cane and brought it down hard, smacking his kneecaps. Not enough to break anything, but he’d sport a lasting pair of nasty bruises. “There are things at work here that you can’t begin to understand.
“Your job is to know your place in the pecking order.” She picked up a piece of toast off the tray and threw it for the chickens. “Me? I am the bird. You? You’re the worm. And you know what worms do.”
“No.” He choked.
She thwacked her cane across his shins. “No, ma’am,” she barked.
This time he yelped. “No, ma’am.”
“Worms make their home in the dirt.” She jabbed her cane in the direction of his car. “Now start digging until you unearth something useful. Go on, git.”
Phaedra1953: I’ve gone and done a bad thing. I’d baked my famous chewy peanut butter cookies for Pepper’s animal shelter’s bake sale. But The Bachelor was on the DVR, and you know that last rose ceremony was a nail-biter. By the time it had finished, I’d devoured the entire plate. Every last crumb. I’m a stress eater, what can I say? But now I have no donation and my dress for the Fall Ball doesn’t zip.
