“What I think is that you should mind your own business,” Jenner answers mildly, but Betty is far too fond of her own voice to mind his. It’s not enough for some people to know that my sister is a beautiful soul, or that my son is loved by all that know him or that, degree or not, I run two successful businesses. I’ll always be another one of those Harper women who are destined to be nothing but trouble. As if in confirmation, Betty’s next refrain takes her there.
“The Harper women might not think they need a man, but that little boy does. And I think—” She pauses, peers down into her cup, then squints. “Young man, is that a penis in my coffee?”
“You should be so lucky,” Jenner mutters, his exasperation finally swinging my way.
“I have been served a penis!” Betty announces loudly and indignantly.
“Not in this century.”
“A tallywhacker! There is a tallywhacker in my drink!”
“There is? Oh, goodness!” Ursula hefts her heavy purse onto the table with a thunk as she begins to rifle through it. “Wait, wait. I just know my glasses are in here somewhere.”
The only glasses I’m interested in are wine glasses. Preferably ones the size of buckets. I just know there’s one with my name on it at the end of today. I’ll hand over the keys to the vacationer, hustle these old biddies out the door, possibly murder Jenner, feed my child, then drown this day out in cheap Chardonnay.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” Betty demands of Jenner as I hotfoot it over to their table, ready to make her stop talking by cramming her mouth full of cookies.
“Miss Betty,” Jenner begins again, his tone serene. “You’re so convinced you know what’s best for other people’s lives, so I thought I’d take a lesson from you by bringing a little of what you need into yours.”
“You think I need penis?” she almost shrieks.
“It’s an orchid,” he repeats, glancing down into the cup again. “Unless, of course that’s what you think you need. I mean, I’m sure a psychoanalyst would have a lot to say about that.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“Found them!” Ursula announces, waving her glasses in the air. “Let me see . . . oh.” She turns the cup by the handle. “I see. Well, yes. I do see what you mean, sissy, but that . . . that does look like an orchid. Though one not quite in bloom, perhaps.” Her gaze comes up as she sends Jenner an unconvincing smile.
“I see someone needs a refresher course,” I announce brightly, resisting the urge to kick Jenner in the shin as I pass. Dropping napkins and cookies to the table, I reach for the offending—offensive?—coffee. “Let me get you a fresh cup.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t happy to drink it,” Betty retorts, moving the cup from reach. “No use in wasting good coffee.”
“I have the same rule for erections,” Jenner whispers, then pulls a face as I press my heel and weight to his toe.
“Why don’t you go practise?” I suggest through gritted teeth. “Enjoy, ladies.”
I turn away, my customer service smile so tight I think it might crack. Wilder didn’t hear, I remind myself. Small minds are stupid minds. Money is money. It all helps to pay the bills. Maybe I should invest in some chickens. I hear they’re good for hiding the bodies of your murder victims.
“Why can’t Jenner be daddy to your boy?” My gaze dips to find Betty’s fingers wrapped around my wrist. For all the back of her hand looks like wrinkled parchment paper, her grip is unexpectedly strong. “All children need a father. Without one, they grow up—”
“To be like me?” My angry gaze rises to hers and, so help me, I like the shock I find there. “Don’t you worry.” I pat her fingers, resisting the urge to peel them away. “Wilder doesn’t need a father,” I say as I turn. “He’s doing just fine without one.”
Seven years. You’d think they’d have something else to talk about by now. And I would rather die than let anyone in Mookatill know I don’t know where Wilder’s father is, who Wilder’s father is, or why he isn’t around.
No, I’m not going to think about that. Better they keep guessing than learn the truth.
I slowly become aware of another customer, a spectator to this scene. I guess I somehow missed the chime of the doorbell and the arrival of the pixie house vacationer. I don’t know what’s worse, that he might’ve overheard the whole there’s a dick in my cup or that my elderly neighbour thinks the man in pink skinny jeans and tasselled shirt is father material. But the way he keeps his back to the table suggests that he’s polite enough to pretend he didn’t hear any of it. But that’s people for you. They like to keep up appearances and save their pettiness and gossip for when you’re no longer within hearing distance.