Page 61 of The Reluctant Reaper
“Oh.”Why didn’t I know that?But she knew why: She never gave enough of a shit to ask. She sighed and spared the bedridden figure a last look. “Last chance, Dad. Open your eyes or La Croix and I are going to keep talking about you behind your back right in front of your face and you’ll have todeal with it.”
...
Amara turned back to La Croix, splendidly arrayed in purple and black and managing to slouch even when standing tall. She came closer when she spotted the brown crumbs on his lapel. “Who’d you get to have lefse while you watched, you weirdo?”
“I reminded your dear mother that her duties as hostess prompted her to accede to a guest’s desires.”
“Sorry, I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”Argh. Why do I keep bringing that up?“What are you saying?”
“I told her I wanted her to eat something.”
“And she did. And she let you watch, like any good hostess.”
La Croix gave her the one-shoulder-modesty-shrug. He had always been a bundle of oddities; she was just a teenager when she found out he could only enjoy vices like food and smoking if someone indulged right in front of him. She remembered thinking that was sad and weird and a little bit hilarious, like La Croix himself.
No wonder he stays skinny.“Thank you,” Amara said. “God knows she was ignoring my gentle demands that she eat a fiftieth of what she’s cooked so far.”
La Croix inclined his head. “At your service, always. But I trust you will excuse me now. Skye offered to spell me, and then I must away.”
“Big day of watching people smoke and shoot up?” La Croix raised an eyebrow, and before Amara knew what she was going to say, it was out there: “Sorry. I’m thankful for all you’re doing for my folks.”
He smirked. “I can only assume we’re in Hell, and it has indeed frozen over.”
“I know you’re just being a wiseass, but this reallyisHell and ithasfrozen over,” she said, pointing out the window.
La Croix shuddered at the chill March landscape. “Indeed. I should like nothing better than to flee south; New Orleans is lovely this time of year.”
“According to you, Nawlins is lovely every time of the year.”
“Never pronounce it like that!” he nearly shouted, and she had to laugh.
ChapterThirty
“For the love of everything, Mom,stop cooking.”
“I know, I know. You see the repast and are fretting because you think there’s no rice pudding.”
“That is not what I’m fretting about, Mom.”
“Not to worry,” Hilly continued, tapping the slow cooker with a wooden spoon not much older than she was. The runes carved into the bowl preceded Christ. “Ready in five.”
“Ready in five. Sure, sure. Totally on the same page. Such a relief.” Amara rested her face in her hands and began counting to ten. “Gaaaaaah.”
“Is Gray coming soon? He mentioned he liked smoked turkey so I made him another one.”
Amara sighed. “No. He needs a couple of hours at least. Possibly three if he shaves. It’s an adorable inversion of the guys-don’t-need-hours-to-get-ready trope.”
Her mother laughed. “I always liked your own inversion. Ten minutes to get ready, even at the height of your cat’s-eye makeup phase.”
“You know they have a stamp for that now? It looks like a Sharpie and is almost as cheap. You pop the cap off and lean in—a mirror is still crucial—and stamp yourself. The whole thing takes about half a second and you get a perfect cat’s eye. Gray’s the one who told me about it.”
“Ah. How handy.”
Amara had to smile, remembering the bathroom chaos.
“Hold still, you silly tart! Now you’ve got a perfect cat’s eye in your eyebrow!”
“Poor boy. Poor, poor, boy.”
