Page 31 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

Leonie lets out a roar from her spot, bolstered on the bed. I playfully pounce, giving her tickles and nuzzles. She’s the sweetest little pea and I’m lucky that she landed on my doorstep.

She simultaneously helps me forget the stack of unopened bills, the letters from my mother, and the little itch in the back of my mind that so desperately wants to be scratched.

“Not today, Maddock,” I singsong to Leonie even though she has no idea what I’m saying ... and I have no idea how I’m feeling other than conflicted about how much I liked when his gaze strayed to me ... and the pit of disappointment inside when it didn’t.

To distract myself, I do the “This Little Piggy” song while gently pinching my little girl’s toes. Content for a moment, I pack up her diaper bag for the day. My phone buzzes and I read the message from Mara. All three of her kids have the stomach bug. That means no sitter today.

“Since they don’t make hazmat suits that fit five-month-olds, it’s take your daughter to work day,” I say to Leonie, trying to muster up enthusiasm.

My shoulders sink, but I tell myself I can conquer this single motherhood gig without succumbing to illegal activities. Sure,it’s all I know, but there is another way. A better way than my mother’s role modeling.

I won’t land in jail, leaving Leonie to fend for herself.

But today will require some creativity of the not-illegal sort.

My single-wide isn’t far from the Laughing Gator Grille, but I need to bring reinforcements, so I pack the Porsche full of baby accouterments, including her swing, jumper, activity mat, and bouncer.

Then I call in backup.

Molly eyes my red Porsche Spyder. It’s among the top ten fastest models ever made and there’s no way she’s getting behind the wheel. I rarely do these days.

Yes, I trust her more with the baby. Leonie is nestled safely in her stroller. I will not be held responsible if Molly runs over Mrs. Halfpenny’s “dog,” Frodo.

While I review the rules, her phone beeps incessantly.

She says, “I accept payment on my new app: PayMo.”

“My flip phone doesn’t host apps.”

She bunches up her lips. “Will you make me cream brool?”

I huff. “Yes. Fine. I’ll make you crème brûlée. But this is the last time. Eggs are getting expensive.”

“And so am I,” Molly sasses back.

“Well, if Chick Jagger would do his job, maybe your hens would start producing more chicks you could open a farm stand.”

She looks from side to side. “Um, the mayor is in meetings out of town.”

“Your rooster is in meetings out of town?”

“He has important assemblies and summits to attend.” Her phone beeps again.

“You don’t know where he is, do you?”

“It’s not like I’m his assistant. He has business to take care of. So do we. Are we going to the Grille or not?” Her phone rings this time. No doubt, it’s Roxanne.

I point to her device. “Check that now. No talking or texting while walking.”

“Okay, sidewalk police,” she mutters. The call goes to voicemail, but Molly reviews the messages. Her eyes light up with the kind of fervor that tells me she just got some juicy gossip.

“Um, I’ve gotta go. Sorry. I’ll take a rain check on the cream brool.”

“But you didn’t even help me.”

“It’s early. You interrupted my beauty sleep.” She dashes off, phone to her ear.

I rock back, wondering how I’m going to get myself, the baby, and all her gear to the restaurant. I’ve already cut back the weekend hours. The Coffee Klatch—or Klatch for short, what the group of old timers call themselves even though they drink sweet tea—who camp out and complain about low crop yields and weevils weren’t too pleased about that. But it’s Wednesday and the guys are going to be lined up and cantankerous if the front door isn’t unlocked in ten minutes.

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