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A woman I assume to be Claire comes into the mudroom. She’s in her late forties, her blonde expertly managed to hide any grays, her face a skillfully done Botox mask, and her designer outfit is from this year’s Dior collection. She’s what my mother would politely call ‘well-maintained’.
“Right here, Aunt Elena.” Her voice is warm honey, but when she sees Luna and me, it turns to steel. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”
She’s lying, but I’ll win her over. I always do. I offer my hand. “Nice to meet you, Claire. I’m Carter Harrington and this is my wife, Luna. My niece, Grace, is around here somewhere . . .” I trail off teasingly, looking around as though I don’t see Grace, who’s standing beside me. “Here?” I lift one arm, glancing to my right, then the other, glancing to my left and spinning in a circle as I look behind me.
“She’s right there,” Jacob calls out, pointing as he comes out of the bathroom in the fresh clothes.
Grace joins in with a laugh. “I’m right here, Uncle CJ!”
“Oh, there she is!” I boop her nose and then glance up to the women. Luna and Elena are amused, smiling warmly, but Claire is staring dead-eyed. If her eyebrows moved, I think she’d have one up by her hairline and one scrunched down toward her nose. As it is, they’re completely frozen in perfect arches. Hard sell, I guess, but I’ll persevere as always.
Either that or the Botox has done its job a bit too well.
“Not that I ain’t pleased as punch to see you, but I thought you were doing that big showing this weekend?” Elena asks, looking worried.
“I was,” Claire answers reassuringly, “but when I called to chat, Stanley said you were entertaining visitors.” Still talking to Elena but looking at me, she warns, “I wanted to check in on you.”
I understand her cold shoulder reception now. She thinks I’m one of the gold-digging weasels who prey on widows and widowers during a time of vulnerability. Protecting her aunt is her responsibility and honor. “That’s very kind of you.”
“She’s good like that,” Elena agrees. “I’m fine, Claire. But you look like you need some lunch. Come on, Nelda’s probably got a spread all ready.”
She doesn’t wait for Claire’s agreement. She marches off toward the kitchen with Jacob’s hand in hers on one side and Grace’s on the other. “I bet she made us a treat. She’s good like that. Nelda knows this old girl likes a sweet tea and a cookie every afternoon. You two probably eat healthy stuff like carrots and don’t like cookies at all, right?”
Jacob and Grace shout nearly in unison, “Yes, I do!” Jacob then commences bouncing like a kangaroo and yelling, “Cook-ie! Cook-ie!” Each syllable is a hop with an ever-increasing volume. “Cook-ie! Cook-ie! Cook-ie!”
Rather than be annoyed by it, Elena hops with him, though her hops are less sure-footed. Grace gets into it too, hopping along. Thankfully, she doesn’t add to the cacophony Jacob is creating all on his own. Cameron would love it if I brought Grace back with that new habit.
In the kitchen, Elena leads Jacob and Grace to hop up into chairs at the counter as she points to the table for us. I hold out Luna’s chair for her and then wait for Claire and Elena to sit before sitting myself. In the melee, Peanut Butter scoots under the kids’ feet and lies down, knowing where he’s most likely to be fed, intentionally or accidentally.
Elena was right. Nelda has laid out quite a well-appointed charcuterie board. And yes, there are cookies. Following Elena’s lead, I make a plate of small bites for Grace. When both kids have been served, I make another plate for myself.
“Mr. Harrington, what’s your business here?” Claire asks coldly.
“Claire!” Elena scolds.
I hold out a staying hand to Elena. “It’s okay.” After nodding respectfully to Claire, I add, “I came to meet with your aunt on business matters and stayed for the sweatpants and cookies.”
I grin impishly, hoping to garner at least the tilt of a smile, but Claire’s lips stay perfectly flat. If anything, they press together. “Cute. I’m sure that works for you quite often,” she says snidely. “However, I’m disturbed that you think charming wit will prove effective in allaying my concerns, rather than simply being transparent.”
“Me-oww,” Luna mutters under her breath, so quiet that only I can hear her.
Elena is more upfront. “Claire, don’t be such a Rude Rhonda. Carter’s been a perfect gentleman, not some high-pressure used car salesman.”
“That’s not what I hear.” She looks me up and down with a frown of disgust.
Luna lets out a squeak at the obvious entendre, her chin dropping and her cheeks flushing instantly. I place my hand on her thigh without thinking, needing to make sure she’s okay. She looks at me desperately, a plea in their brown depths.
