Page 38 of Bears Behaving Badly
He stifled a laugh. “Thanks. That narrowed it down.” Christ, she was fun. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get a cramp from all the grinning.
Never, obviously.Her face had been pink with embarrassment. Her tone had been angry.Never, obviously.
Annnnnd the grin was gone.
Just as well, his dead mother whispered.It would have ended badly.Argh. Why did he never hear his dead father? Or his grandmother? Or his speech coach? Wait. Mr. Pohl wasn’t dead… Regardless, why did doleful spirits never look on the bright side?
Speaking of doleful, when he glanced back at Caro he could see she was looking at the purple house with interest. Annette didn’t even wait until he’d stopped the car before she popped out; she was up the sidewalk and knocking on the porch door by the time he shut the engine off. He held the back door open for Caro, then fell into step behind her.
“Oh, now look who it is. Santa’s early!”
“Or criminally late,” Annette said. “Mama Mac, this is—”
“Ohmy.” A tiny woman who could have been fifty or eighty was holding the door open and beckoning them all in with short, slender fingers that looked so delicate David was afraid to shake her hand. She looked like a stiff wind would tumble her across the yard and seemed to be all brown papery skin and fragile bones and twitching nose, and she smelled like cotton and coffee and freshly mowed grass. She was wearing jeans and a red sweatshirt, had a head full of tight, grayish-blond curls, a generous mouth smeared with—was that cherry ChapStick?—and pale-blue eyes bracketed by dozens of laugh lines.
While he’d been looking her over, she’d done the same. “You’re a big fella! Our Nettie’s never brought a beau around before.”
“Your Nettie also doesn’t live in the nineteenth century. And neither do you. Beau? Really? Also, Nettie?”
“Well,” the older lady said reasonably, “you stopped answering to Honey Bear.”
“Oh my God. Honey Bear,” David murmured. “Suddenly every crappy thing that has happened in the last three days has been worth it. No offense, Caro.”
Caro snickered, thankfully declining to be offended.
“If ‘Honey Bear’ ever comes out of your mouth again, it will be followed by your tongue. This is my foster mother,” Annette added. “I lived here after my parents were killed.”
“That you did, which is why I know that look. You’re in it up to your neck, Nettie. Don’t waste my time by denying it.” The woman closed the door behind them and shooed them toward the kitchen table. “So tell me.”
“I wouldn’t say up to my neck, precisely. I think I’m only boob-deep.”
Don’t think about her boobs. Don’t think about her boobs.Instead, David sidled closer to the intriguing Mama Mac, trying to subtly scent her.
Clearly an herbivore, but what type? Not a werehare. But she doesn’t smell like a deer or moose, either. Giraffe? No, her build is wrong…
“Trying to figure me out?” Mama Mac asked, small eyes glittering.
“Of course not,” David replied as Caro nodded.
“And this is Caro.” Annette was still doing the formal intro thing, because she was either hyperpolite or a slave to appearances. “I left you a voicemail because you have repeatedly ignored my excellent advice to get a smart phone, start texting, and join us in the twenty-first century. Which I am happy to pay for!” she added, as if Caro and David were about to start yelling about Mama Mac’s fixed income.
“Didn’t you tell me you only started texting two years ago?”
“Shut up, David.”
Mama Mac’s reply was to treat them to an eye roll that looked physically painful. “I don’t know when your generation decided talking on a phone was terrible and to be avoided at all costs, but I’m not playing along with any of it.” She turned to Caro. “Yes, I heard you’re having some troubles, m’dear. Don’t worry, there weren’t any specifics. Nettie doesn’t tell tales out of school.”
“Now that we’ve—”
“Not that she needed to say anything about anything,” Mama Mac added.
“Argh. Can we stay on point? And not reminisce?”
“Nettie doesn’t hop on over with a strange child and a tight-lipped fella in the middle of a workday if everything’s peachy-perfect.” Then, to Annette: “Oz came by a bit earlier. Wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got troubles in common. Something’s on that man’s mind.”
“Something usually is.” Annette swung open the fridge door and grabbed the cupcake box on the top left shelf. She frowned—something about the smell? the weight of the box, maybe?—and flipped it open. “Oh.”
Mama Mac nodded, looking all kinds of sage. “Yup.”
