“The potty?” Chet snorts while Hugh groans.
“We aren’t babies,” the teenager mutters.
“Well, you’re all humans and drank too much soda. Anyone else need the restroom?” I tease, clarifying for Hugh. He chuckles, and Campbell raises his hand. He’s ten, but I hadn’t considered how to handle boys and a bathroom until I near them.
“Uhm . . .” It didn’t seem right to take two young boys into the women’s room, especially as they weren’t kin, and I was considered a volunteer to the home.
“Campbell, I need you to be the young man I know you are and stick with Malik.”
I hate the thought of sending two young boys unattended inside. Suddenly, a hand touches my shoulder.
“I was gonna let you sweat it out, but need some help?” Chet chuckles beside me.
“We have it all under control.” I turn to Malik and offer his shoulder a squeeze.
“Sure, you do, darlin’,” Chet mutters, propping open the door to the men’s room and leading his young charges inside.
He thought he was so smug. I snicker to myself as they disappear into the bathroom, and I wait outside. When they return, we walk as a group back to the table, only I stop short. My hand moves to Chet’s wrist. Malik bumps into me from the back, but I don’t move. I hold my position, taking a protective stance in front of the child for some reason.
“Chet,” I whisper. “That’s the woman.” I can’t take my eyes off her. Her brassy hair glistens in the dim house lights of the bar. Without glancing at Chet, I sense his head lift and neck crane, scanning the lively space.
“Where?”
“There.” I nod without pointing. “She’s standing near the bar but facing the table where the boys sit.”
“The petite blonde?” Chet’s voice croaks, and the sound twists my neck in his direction. My brows press to a sharp crease.
“Do you know her?” The stare he’s giving the woman writes his recognition of her all over his bearded cheeks. My hand slowly slips from his wrist, but the release is more than letting go of his arm. The distance between us becomes miles.
“It can’t be her. That’s Henny,” he quietly offers, and I turn my attention back to the woman standing near the bar. She’s the same woman from The Beauty Mark, but I see her now in a different light. She was the love of Chet’s life. The woman who said she’d wait for him and didn’t. The one he’d built a home for and raised his millions for. He’d wanted to marry her, and she’d rejected him. I hate her for breaking his heart. What did she want with him now? The things she’d thrown away before? I didn’t put it past her, even without knowing her.
I speak without thinking. “She’s a gold digger.”
“She is not,” Chet defends with a clipped tone.
“She is,” I retort, facing him.
“Because it takes one to know one,” he bites, narrowing his eyes at me, and the insult stings. The vibration of his comment echoes around me, and I quiver at the thought he believes I’m only interested in money.
“Perhaps. Or maybe I’m not too foolish to recognize a lonely woman without means.”
Chet’s head turns, his brow furrowing. “She has means.” He speaks more to himself than to me.
“Well, how fortunate for her then that she’s here now and available to you.” I pause, then add, “But it’s her. I’m positive. That bad dye job and Botoxed lip is unforgiving, and unbecoming on her.”
“Who cares about her hair or her lips? You’re just being your condescending self, Scotia. I don’t like you like this.” The combination of our line and his defense of her is really irritating me. Did he invite her here this evening?
“Chet, seriously. Forget her dye job and bulbous mouth. Enjoy her as she is, then.” I need to return the boys to the table and return to my evening. Gideon is correct. I’m the boss, and I’m running this pickle show. I glance over my shoulder and then spin, placing my back to the dining area.
“Where’s Malik?” My eyes search the space near the restrooms. I spin again and notice the swing of the kitchen entrance door. Without a word, I walk away from Chet, leaving him to his woman, who gave him all kinds of past rejections.
Pushing my way into the kitchen, I almost knock into Patty Lee who is exiting it with a tray full of dinners.
“Watch it,” she grumbles, and I step back.
“Scotia Simmons, you need to get out of this kitchen. We’re too busy for you in here,” Genie herself calls out to me, but I ignore her warning.
“Where is he?” I whisper as if I don’t want anyone to hear me, but I need Genie to listen.
“Where’s who?” she looks exasperated.
“The boy? Did he come in here?” I’m frantic as I scan the kitchen, walking around the ovens without permission, and glancing under an island as if he’s as small as a ketchup bottle and hiding beneath the counter.
“Scotia, just what the—”
“One of the boys from that big table . . . I think he came in here.” My eyes plead with her to understand. Woman to woman. Mother to mother. “He’s only a child.” My voice cracks. I don’t have a good feeling about him disappearing again. The caseworker has already come to investigate the first time he went missing, as the authorities had to be notified. While Maura is held in the highest esteem with the Department of Child Services, they still had to question how he could slip away.
“Is that him?” Genie speaks behind me, and I twist to face her. Her eyes soften for a second, looking past me at something, and then she points at a mop bucket, nodding her head at me with a tired frown on her face. The frustrated expression is directed at me, not the boy. I follow where she aims her finger to see a dark head tucked between little knees, as if the position disguises him.
“Malik,” I whisper-hiss in relief and step to the corner. I drop to a ladylike squat, my skirt keeping my knees together.
“Is he okay?” Genie asks, her voice notably softer with worry for the boy.
“Malik, precious,” I try again to gain his attention.
“Scotia, just what are you doing?” Genie grouses behind me, as if she thinks I’m the one who frightened the child, but I ignore her. My focus is solely on the scared boy behind a mop bucket.
“What is it, honey? You can tell me.”
Malik’s little head slowly lifts, and watery dark eyes look at me. Fear fills those glassy orbs.
“Let me help you.” My voice shakes as I ask a question I know could be leading. “Is it the woman? The blonde in the restaurant?”
Malik kicks the pail on wheels. The force of it shifts the bucket toward me, and water splatters onto my skirt. I startle and fall back on my heels, slipping a bit and catching myself with a hand on the tile floor before my backside hits the ground.
“Hey, kid,” Genie says, and I crane my neck to look up at her from my position. Her eyes soften once again for him, while her forehead furrows with unease. She glances back at me, and that compassionate gaze turns stern once more, but I don’t have time to deal with Genie.
“Malik,” I cry a little louder as he stands, pressing his back into the corner as if the crease could open and swallow him inward.
“Tell me. Tell me something so I can help you.”
He shakes his head, eyes still wide, and I know I’m not wrong. That woman has something to do with Malik’s fear. The other thing I know is I’m not taking him anywhere near her. Within minutes, Maura enters the kitchen.
“What’s going on here?”
“There are too many cooks in my kitchen,” Genie mutters, throwing up a hand.
“Malik, honey, it’s time to go,” Maura states, holding out a hand after suspiciously looking from me to him.
“He’s scared.” I whisper as if a caged animal stands before us. The frightened expression on the boy’s face worries me. What happened to him?
“What is it?” Maura asks me.
“That blonde woman near the bar. I think he knows her.” I don’t take my eyes from Malik as I speak abou
t him. If only he’d speak. We need him to tell us something so we can help him.
Maura continues to watch Malik as well, lifting a hand forward for his. “Malik, you need to come with Maura, honey. Remember, we talked about what could happen if you run away again?”
She speaks of herself in the third person, reminding him of a conversation I assume they had about the investigation and the possibility of placement with another family. The caseworker thinks it might be time to move Malik into a single-family home despite not knowing who his real family is. The standard belief behind the decision is a set of parents will give him undivided attention and service him better than a group setting. Maura and I already spoke about this and how I disagreed.
“I can’t help what the system decides,” Maura stated. She wasn’t being cold-hearted. She understands it’s a process, but I don’t like the recommended solution.
“What does Chet think?”
“Chet will follow the rules. He won’t risk the boys.”
I recall thinking at the time, Did she mean collectively all the boys or only his nephews? He’s hardly a selfish man, though. He’s done right by the boys as a whole.
I step over to the swinging doors and peer out into the dining room.
“You can’t take Malik out there with her,” I whisper.
“What do you suggest?” Maura suspiciously glares at me.
“I’ll drive him to the house.” It’s the craziest thought. Actually, I’d like to suggest I take him to my home. He can have his own space in one of the guest rooms. I can keep him safe, protect him.
“Scotia, you’ve done generous things by these boys, but I don’t know about this suggestion.” Her eyes question mine. Her expression is a combination of emotions. I don’t want her to do anything to jeopardize her position at Harper House or as a foster parent, but I want her to trust me.
Her shoulders sag. “Fine.”
My eyes widen in surprise.
“But you bring him right to the house,” she warns. “I’ll distract Chet. Get him to move the woman away from the boys so I can get them out to the van.”
“Did Chet arrive with you? How will he get home?”
“He’s a big boy. I’ll let him worry about that,” Maura huffs, and I don’t like that answer. Because there’s a real possibility Chet could go home with his former lover.
Chapter 24
Doubtful
[Chet]
Scotia has placed doubt in my head, and I don’t like it. With Malik slipping away from us, though, I fear I can’t dismiss that something is amiss between Hennessy and the boy. Maybe he’s her eldest son—the one giving her trouble—which means he needs to be returned to his mother. The boy is her problem, and I’m not saying that to be hard-hearted. I’m thinking of Henny. How frightened must she be that her child has disappeared, if he is in fact her child?
With the initial misgivings planted the other day by Scotia’s description of a woman similar to Henny, I had some serious questions about the woman I once loved. There could be tons of women with brassy blonde hair in the Green Valley area, especially ones renting a cabin. But I cannot let go of the suspicion that a second child, looking like our lost Malik, was with her. After Scotia told me what she saw, I called the authorities with the weak lead of information.
I should not have snapped at Scotia as I had. Implying she was a gold digger isn’t fair, especially in light of all she’d told me about her relationship with her husband. I didn’t really believe Scotia was such a thing, but that woman can push my buttons, and when push comes to shove, I push back. I’m starting to understand what she meant about putting others down before they can hurt her. My protective instincts kicked in when she started insulting Henny. Not that I’m sensitive to Henny, but I don’t like when Scotia goes into mean-woman mode.
My eyes shifted to Maura when I neared the table, and I tipped my head toward the kitchen, hinting her assistance was needed in there.
As I approach Hennessy, something warns me not to be too forthright.
“Hey, Henny, what are you doing here?” I attempt to keep my tone level while her eyes widen when she sees me.
“Chester.” Her voice squeaks. “My boys like the fried chicken fingers from here, and I thought I’d bring some home for dinner.” She scans the room. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s a pickle party,” I mock, turning my head toward all the damn balloons. I’d be worried about my manhood, too, if I saw this many phallic symbols floating around a room, but I can’t think about what Scotia has told me.
“Do you have time for a drink?” I offer, pointing at the bar. I can’t leave the boys unattended yet, but I’d like to stall Henny and ask her some questions. Her face brightens with the offer.
“I’d love to stay, but I need to get right back home. Maybe another night?” Her hopeful suggestion does not dissuade me from confronting her on a few more things.
“To the cabin you’re renting.” I try to clarify her reference of home.
“Yes.” The sharpness of the singular word sends a prickle down my spine.
“And where is that again? Maybe I know the place.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t. It’s a family place.” Her fingers come together, clutching and unclutching in a nervous habit.
“You’re renting from family, then?” I inquire, finding it odd she’d have to pay family to stay in a cabin, not to mention I’d never known Henny to have family in the valley. They must be from her husband’s side, I tell myself because I don’t want to believe otherwise. I want to prove Henny has no connection to Malik.
Damn Scotia.
“Did I say renting? I meant staying. We’re staying in a cabin owned by family, which they rent to people outside the family when family isn’t staying there.” Her rambling would be cute if it didn’t sound so suspicious.
“So fried chicken tonight for your boys. Are they at the cabin?”
“Yes.” Again, the singular-syllabled word does nothing to reassure me.
“You never told me, what are your boys’ names?”
“Timothy and Brandon,” she states without a blink. I’m about to ask another question when I sense someone approaching. Genie holds a to-go bag in her hand and nods to Henny. On the bar owner’s heels is Scotia.
“Here’s your order, ma’am.”
“Chet,” Scotia speaks behind Genie. “I was wondering if you could accompany me home this evening.”
The directness of her request startles me but apparently not as much as the bar owner who almost drops the bag of fried chicken. “Loose morals, my ass,” the woman mutters.
“I . . .” I falter.
“You!” Henny groans.
My attention shifts from Scotia to Hennessy. “Do you know one another?” I ask my ex-girlfriend of years past.
“We haven’t been formally introduced, but we’ve met. At The Beauty Mark, remember?” Scotia clarifies, holding out a hand and speaking in a sugary-sweet tone. “I’m Scotia Simmons.”
“Hennessy Heiner,” Henny states, returning the introduction while holding her hand in a manner that expresses Scotia’s touch is unwelcome. Once releasing Scotia’s fingers, Henny reaches for the bag dangling from Genie’s hand. “Thank you. If I could just pay, please. I need to get home.” Henny’s eyes come up to mine, and it feels like a warning of some type.
Genie levels a scornful look at Scotia before leading Henny to the front of the bar, and I turn on Scotia. “What are you playing at, darlin’?” My voice drips with its own sugar, but it’s not sweet.
“I’m saving you from yourself.”
I don’t have time to question what Scotia means. “Where’s Malik?”
“In the kitchen with Maura. I was going to drive him home, but seeing as that woman is scurrying off, Malik can return to Harper House with the other boys as he should.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Maura told me if Malik runs away again, he might be placed in another home. His casew
orker is worried about his mental stability, and so am I. That woman clearly triggers him, and you need to do something about it.” Scotia folds her arms and stomps her foot, emphasizing her words. It’d all be comical if my irritation wasn’t building. I don’t like her accusations about Henny, but I have a funny feeling her suggestions regarding Malik and Henny aren’t wrong. I want to tell myself Scotia is just riled up with petty jealousy, but this thing—Malik and Henny—is bigger than a lover’s squabble.
“I have Malik’s best interest at heart,” I defend.
“Do you? Are you sure you aren’t getting sucked into something else?” Her head tips toward the door where Henny has exited, and I don’t appreciate her insinuation that I’m foolish when it comes to Henny.
“Hennessy is not your concern.” The words are sharp because my head is spinning. Henny just confirmed the names of her boys, plus the fact they are both at her home—the rental, or the family place, or the rented family cabin—wherever it is she’s staying. Her boys are waiting on her, as she said. Malik cannot be her son, but something won’t let me dismiss the thought so easily. Henny is acting rather strange.
Shaking the thought, I address the boys’ housemother as she re-enters the main dining room holding Malik’s hand. “Maura, it’s time to go.” She nods, giving Scotia a sympathetic look before minutes of chaos ensue as the boys slip into coats, grab tumblers, and collect pickle T-shirts from the table. Scotia gives them each a balloon, and I’ve never been so eager to pop something in my life.
I don’t want to see the phallic symbol. I don’t want to consider Scotia’s suspicions. And I definitely don’t want to doubt Hennessy, because if I do, it means Henny lied to me. Again.
And if Henny is somehow connected to Malik? I don’t want to consider those thoughts.
I’m following the boys and Maura to the exit when Jedd Flemming enters the bar with his fiancée, Beverly.
“Big Poppy,” he cheerfully calls out upon seeing me. Jedd’s hard of hearing in one ear, and it causes him to be louder than necessary. “What are you doing here?” Many are surprised to find me in Green Valley as I spend most of my time at The Fugitive in North Carolina. However, lately, I find myself more and more in this damn valley.
Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9) Page 22