Mrs. Mable doesn’t deny my claim. Not a single word seeps from her lips. It wouldn’t matter even if she did refute my allegation; the truth is projected by herwholesomeeyes.
Mrs. Mable places the china cup into the display cabinet before shifting her feet to face me. “I thought you could do with a night of fun. Get your knickers out of the twist they’ve been in the past five years,” she informs me with her pencilled brows raised high into her tight silverringlethair.
“Knickers?” I query, glaring into her beaming-with-mischiefeyes.
Mrs. Mable rolls her eyes. “I'm British. Can’t you hear myaccent?”
My eyes bulge. Mrs. Mable’s tone couldn’t be anymore Southern if she tried. She sounds like Reese Witherspoon… after smoking three packsaday.
Ignoring my wide-mouthed expression, Mrs. Mable continues, “But I’m gathering, from the way you strolled in here looking like you still have that stick stuck up your bottom, my ploy didn’t work? What was it? The tattoos? Or are you not a fan of hisshorterhair?”
A snarl forms on my lips as my eyesnarrow.
Mrs. Mable pats her translucent, wrinkled-covered hand on my forearm. “Don’t pretend you weren’t interested in what he was hiding under his clothing. That body…oh, he could crank my engine anytime helikes.”
My cheeks get a rush of blood behind them. Although this type of jeering is nothing new for Mrs. Mable, I’ve never been one to air my dirty laundry inpublic.
“So what was it?” she queries, eyeing me with curiosity. “The tattoos orthehair?”
Thankfully, I’m saved from needing to answer her highly inappropriate question when a little pair of arms wraps aroundmylegs.
“Hi,Mommy.”
I crouch down and scoop him into my arms. “Hi, baby. I missed you so much,” I greet him, planting a sloppy kiss on hischeek.
“Were you a good boy for Grandma?” I ask, running my eyes over his adorablelittleface.
His expressive eyes enlarge before he nods his head. “Uh huh. We stayed awake until it wasreallylate watching cartoons.” He turns his eyes to Mrs. Mable. “Well, I stayed up. Grandma fell asleep,again.” A puff of air hits my cheeks when he huffsdramatically.
I snort when Mrs. Mable waves her hand in the air, shooing off Joel’s tease. I’m not worried about their late night adventures. Anything past eight PM is late to Joel. Running my fingers through his thick afro curls, I fix them into place before setting him back onto his feet to put on his jacket. He cranks his head to the side as his eyes roam over my face. He stares at me like he is seeing me for thefirsttime.
“You look pretty, Mommy,” hemumbles.
He places his cool hand on my inflamed cheeks. “Did you have fun at the party?” he asks, his voice stuttering when he says the word “party.”
My eyes shoot up to Mrs. Mable when she fails to conceal her deviant snicker by pretending tocough.
“It was very interesting,” I reply, returning my attentiontoJoel.
I clasp Joel’s hand in mine before standing from my crouched position. “Thank you forwatchinghim.”
“It was my pleasure, sweetie. Anytime,” Mrs. Mable replies, the truth exposed inhereyes.
She has said on many occasions that Joel keeps her young. She loves babysitting him. Although I do make sure her hearing aid batteries have been replenished before she watches him, I never hesitate to leave him with her. They have a unique bond that grows stronger with every moment they spend together, so I refuse to let Mrs. Mable’s age create a barrierbetweenthem.
After thanking Mrs. Mable with a kiss on the cheek, Joel and I exit the backslidingdoor.
“What did you want to do today?” I ask, opening the gate so Joel can enter before me. “I was thinking DVDs and apizza?”
Joel screws up his noseandgags.
“No?” I say with a shake of my head andpursedlips.
“We had pizza last night. Grandma likes olives and anchovies.” His face pales like he is going to be sick at anymoment.
I laugh. “Okay, so no pizza. Whatabout--”
“Pancakes!” he pipes up, his voice high as excitement takes hold of his vocalcords.
