The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue #2) - Jessica Hawkins Page 0,115
mom jokes, he’s been nothing but polite tonight.
“It’s no trouble. What’s the occasion anyway?”
“Beckwith needs the stick removed from his ass,” Pico says. “We figured your spaghetti bolognese’d do the trick.”
Bell swaps her brown crayon for pink, inspects the bananas, and says, “Let’s turn the page. The next one is under water.”
Sammy shrugs.
“What’s the matter, Andrew?” Flora asks. “Lady problems got you down?”
Amelia wasn’t at the baby shower when I returned to get Bell. It was better that way. I didn’t say I’d show tonight, and she shouldn’t expect me to. I don’t really have much to say to these guys about that. Amelia’s an alien in our world of coveralls, carbs, and car parts. There is, however, one name that will make them all understand the reason for my permanent scowl.
I glance once more at Bell. The tip of her tongue is stuck out the side of her mouth as she alternates between green and blue to fill in fish scales. “Bell, ears.”
She slumps her shoulders and makes a noise from the back of her throat. “But—”
“Ears.”
She slams her crayon on the table, puts both hands over her ears, and begins reciting the alphabet.
I look back at the table. “Shana’s back in town.”
“What?” Pico asks.
Flora brings an oven-mitt-clad hand to her mouth. “No.”
I nod at Bell. “Showed up at gymnastics last week.”
Bell giggles, the way she always does when she hears Pico’s full name, and I realize she’s stopped talking.
“What comes after G?” I ask.
She sighs. “H, I, J . . .”
“What’d she want?” Randy asks.
I shake my head. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Flora tsks, shaking her head as she pulls a stack of dishes from a cupboard. “You better find out. That girl won’t just go back where she came from. Not until she gets what she wants.”
My muscles clench, some animal reflex to feeling threatened. “Good thing I’m too busy to worry much about it,” I say, which is only partly a lie. I haven’t thought about Shana since seeing Amelia this afternoon, that’s for sure. My stomach drops. Dusk is setting in. Amelia must be expecting me soon.
“Is that Bell’s mom?” Sammy asks, saving me from my own thoughts. We all look at him. He taps his crayon on the table.
He might be too young for this conversation, but he looks about as concerned as I feel, and it’s a small comfort. “Remember the woman who gave Bell the red envelope?” I ask him.
He nods. “That was her?”
“Yeah. But Bell and I haven’t talked about that yet.”
“I won’t say anything,” he says, nodding.
“I think I have some garlic,” Flora says. “Want to take it with you?”
I furrow my eyebrows. “What for? I have garlic at home.”
“Not for cooking,” she says, a smile sliding over her face. “For warding off evil.”
“What evil?” Bell asks, bouncing excitedly in her seat. “Zombies? Monsters?”
“Something like that,” I mutter and point at the drawing. “Look—Sammy’s coloring outside the lines.”
“What!” She grabs his crayon. “What are you doing? Do you have a stick up your ass?”
“Bell Beckwith,” Flora scolds, but the rest of us burst into laughter. She has no idea what she’s saying, but she looks pleased with herself to have gotten such a raucous reaction.
“I don’t know where she gets this stuff,” I say, looking pointedly at Pico and Randy.
Flora dishes out pasta. Except for Myra and Flora, we each eat portions as big as our heads, Bell included.
Later, while Bell’s in the bathroom, Flora says, “Why don’t you all go get a drink? I can watch the kids.”
I shake my head. “I’m not in the mood to fight with Bell tonight.”
“She won’t even notice. Sammy’s here.”
She means to comfort me, but her words sting. Is that what I have to look forward to? Bell blowing me off for boys? I make a mental note to revisit the idea of locking her in the house until her hair is gray.
“I can help.” Sammy rolls his eyes but blushes. “I’ll even watch Beauty and the Beast.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “You’d do that?”
He suppresses a smile. “Sure.”
He knows Bell’s moods, her favorite movie, and he’s got her back. Maybe I don’t have to be so terrified of what’s to come. “You’re a good man, Samuel.”
“Thanks, Mr. Beckwith.”
I grin. “Call me Andrew.”
Buck, Timber Tavern’s longest standing bartender, hands me a pint. “You got company, Beckwith,” he says, nodding behind me.