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“Hey, bud,” Luke said, but Connor didn’t slow down. The kid skipped or ran everywhere he went, and Slate wondered what it would be like to have that kind of energy.
“Uncle Slate,” Connor said, coming to a skidding halt in front of him.
Slate stirred another spoonful of sugar into his coffee and grinned at Connor. “What, Connor?” He loved being called Uncle Slate by the kid, because he’d never really had that before. His older sister had been married before Slate had gone to prison, and she and her husband had two kids. But they were little when he’d been arrested, and he hadn’t heard the words “Uncle Slate” until Connor said them.
“Dad says you’re goin’ to Short Tail today.” Connor looked at him with such a brightness of hope that Slate suspected something was up.
“That’s right.” He lifted his coffee mug to his lips. “Why?”
“Well, Dad and Ginger can’t take me, but they said if I could get a ride with you, then I could go see my grandparents this afternoon.”
Surprise hit Slate right behind the lungs. He looked at Luke, who just shrugged. “They’re in White Lake, right?” Slate asked. “I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be driving right through there.”
“So can I go?”
“I don’t see why not,” Slate said. “I’m going to visit my grandparents too.” A beating of nerves stole through his stomach that even the hottest coffee couldn’t tame. “I don’t know what time I’ll be done,” he added. “Maybe I should call them to find out if there’s a time you need me to pick you up.”
“They said I could sleep over if I had to,” Connor said, a huge smile splitting his face. “So anytime’s fine, Uncle Slate.” He spoke with the cutest Texas twang, really drawing out the I infine, and Slate nodded at him as he moved toward the table and Luke.
“All right, then,” he said. “I’m leavin’ right after church.” He sat down at the table and picked up one of the toaster pastries Luke had heated up.
“I’ll be ready,” Connor said, dashing for the door. He had his hand on the knob when he turned back. “Oh, thanks, Uncle Slate.” He skipped over to him and wrapped both skinny arms around Slate’s neck and part of one shoulder.
“Oh, sure, bud,” Slate said, not quite sure how to interact with kids. Connor would be seven years old in a couple of months, but he’d already been through a lot in his short life. He left the Annex, singing something at the top of his lungs once he hit the deck.
“He probably misses them,” Luke said, nodding toward the back door. “I don’t think Nate gets out to see his parents much.”
“I don’t think he does either,” Slate said. In Nate’s case, it was a matter of being busy, not that he didn’t speak to his parents. He’d gone to his brother’s funeral an hour after getting released from River Bay, and according to the stories Slate had heard, Nate had been received well.
Slate couldn’t take another drink of his coffee. He hoped he’d be received well this afternoon. He’d called his grandmother yesterday about lunchtime, and she’d said she and his grandfather would be home and they’d love to see him.
That would be mighty nicewere the actual words she’d used, and Slate let them swell and grow in his head and heart. This was going to be a great day, Slate just knew it. At least he hoped it would be, and his confidence faltered when Ted knocked on the back door and said, “Let’s go, guys. Church starts in thirty minutes.”
