swallow.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Joyce said, her tone belligerent.
Time to take off the kid gloves. Charlotte leveled a no-nonsense look at her. “I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Joyce. I truly don’t know what to believe about you anymore. I want to believe you—I really do—but trust is a delicate thing. Once trust is broken, it’s almost impossible to win back.
“And another thing, if you’d been honest with Louis in the first place about these so-called bad dudes, he would have helped you. For pity’s sake, Joyce, he’s a retired police detective, plus he works as a security guard now. Who better to have on your side? I’m telling you, he would have helped you.”
Joyce simply stared at Charlotte with a pitying expression on her face, and then she slowly shook her head. “No, he wouldn’t have, Charlotte. Not in my reality. Maybe in yours, but not in mine.”
On Wednesday morning, Charlotte poured birdseed into Sweety Boy’s feeder, then placed it back inside his cage. “There you go, Boy,” she murmured, giving the little parakeet a head rub with her forefinger. “Now you be a good little bird today. We’ve got company, so none of that squawking and carrying on like you do when Madeline and Louis come over.”
For the life of her, Charlotte had yet to figure out why the silly parakeet reacted like he did when her sister, Madeline, and Louis were around. There had been a couple of times she’d had to remove him and his cage from the room to keep him from injuring himself as he’d thrashed against the inside of the cage.
“Be good,” she repeated as she rubbed his head one last time. Not for a second did Charlotte believe the little bird understood what she said, but she did believe he could understand the tone of her voice. Or was that dogs? Whichever, she thought. Talking to Sweety Boy beat talking to herself all the time.
She pulled her hand out of the cage and latched the door. Glancing over at the cuckoo clock, she decided that if she hurried, she could get the dishwasher unloaded before it was time to leave for work.
With a sigh, Charlotte hurried to the kitchen. Today was her regular day to work for Sandra Wellington. Sandra’s Italianate-style mansion was gorgeous on the outside and exquisitely decorated on the inside, but cleaning it usually took her all morning and half the afternoon. Sandra was a really sweet woman who paid Charlotte better than any of her other clients, but she was a dreadful housekeeper.
Charlotte had just put away the last of the clean dishes when Joyce, fully dressed, entered the kitchen.
“Thank goodness,” Joyce said. “I was so afraid I was going to miss you.”
“You almost did. I’m just about to walk out the door.”
“Well, if it isn’t too much trouble, I was wondering if I could catch a ride with you as far as the streetcar line on St. Charles Avenue. I have several appointments lined up today to look at rental places. I’m ready to go,” she added. “I just need to grab my bag and my lunch.”
“Your lunch?”
Stains of scarlet darkened Joyce’s cheeks. “Well—ah—I—I hope you don’t mind, but—but I took the liberty of making myself a sandwich last night before I went to bed, so all I’d have to do this morning was grab it out of the refrigerator.”
“I don’t mind, Joyce.”
“Oh, good. And I can ride with you?”
“Sure, just hurry,” Charlotte answered. She’d be willing to take Joyce to Timbuktu if it meant getting her out of her house sooner. “I’ll be in the living room waiting.”
“Great, and thanks!” Joyce did an about-face and headed toward the guest room.
After Joyce disappeared through the doorway, Charlotte went to the living room. But as she slipped on a sweater and picked up her purse, she couldn’t help wondering how Joyce intended to pay for an apartment. As far as she knew, Joyce didn’t have an income, and it was unlikely that she had any type of savings account. After what Joyce had pulled, it was for sure that neither Louis nor Stephen was giving her money.
So why don’t you just ask her?
Charlotte shook her head. “Nope!” she whispered. “Not gonna happen.” Besides, it was really none of her business.
At that moment, Joyce appeared in the living room doorway. “What’s ‘not gonna happen,’ and who are you talking to?”
Eyeing the red, white, and blue-striped tote bag Joyce was carrying, Charlotte chose to ignore the first question and answered the second one, instead. “Just gathering wool, as they used to say. Talking to myself.” She purposely turned to look at the cuckoo clock. “Good grief. Just look at the time. I’ve got to go.”
“I saw you looking at my tote bag,” Joyce said a few minutes later when Charlotte backed the van out of the driveway. “I’m sure you recognized it, but I’m hoping you won’t mind me borrowing it to carry my sandwich and things, just for today. My purse isn’t big enough to put the sandwich in. I found the tote bag in the bottom of the guest room closet and figured you didn’t use it much.”
“I don’t mind, Joyce, but next time I would appreciate you asking ahead when you want to borrow something of mine.”
When Joyce didn’t say anything, Charlotte figured she’d ticked her off. She glanced sideways, but Joyce had turned her head and was staring out the passenger window, so all she saw was the back of Joyce’s head.
Yep, she’s ticked.
Well, that’s just too bad, Charlotte decided. Joyce could just stay ticked off. Just because she’d agreed for Joyce to stay with her a couple of nights didn’t give the woman the right to take whatever she wanted without the common courtesy of asking first.
Shame on you. Shame, shame. Since when did you become such a grumpy, stingy old woman? Some grandmother you’re going to be.
For several seconds, Charlotte grappled with her conscience. Just the thought of her yet-unborn grandchild made her ashamed of how she’d been feeling and acting lately. Any day now, her daughter-in-law, Carol, would have the baby, and after years of longing, Charlotte would finally have a grandchild.
Charlotte decided to vow, right then and there, to try to do better, to try to be more charitable and thoughtful, the kind of grandmother that her grandchild would be proud of.
When Charlotte approached St. Charles Avenue, she flipped on the right blinker and pulled over near the curb. “There’s a streetcar stop across the street,” she said. As soon as she stopped the van, Joyce opened the door and climbed out.
“I probably won’t be home till late this afternoon,” she told Charlotte, her tone cold enough to freeze ice cubes. Without waiting for a response, she slammed the door and marched away.
No thank-you or even a kiss my butt. “Humph! So much for manners,” Charlotte grumbled as she shoved the gear into drive. And for a second, Charlotte was glad that she hadn’t apologized to Joyce, but only for a second. After all, what good was knowing the Golden Rule if you didn’t live by it and use it?
Charlotte was a bit later than usual finishing up at Sandra Wellington’s house. Out of the blue, Sandra had
