me a glass of sweet tea? I’m mighty thirsty.” Her eyes stay trained on Mr. Corbeau. I glance at the table next to her wheelchair. Her glass is still full.
“You’ve got plenty of tea, Great-gran.” Taneea steps off the porch in a pair of black peep-toe sandals.
“I suppose I do,” Miss Delia answers without taking her eyes off her visitor.
“You going to introduce me to our guest?” Taneea asks.
Mr. Corbeau beams. “Well hello—Taneea, was it? You can call me Claude. Clearly, you’re a young Ms. Whittaker. I can see the obvious resemblance.”
Is he blind? They might be related but they look nothing alike.
Claude turns his attention to Miss Delia. “Lord, you must have been a gorgeous woman in your prime.” He whistles.
Mrs. Delia crosses her arms. “Sweetmouthing me won’t get you very far, Mr. Corbeau. How about you tell me the reason you’ve come to call?” Her lips mash into a thin line.
He stands on the edge of the garden. “Is that an invitation? It’s so much easier to speak face-to-face than shout across your lustrous garden.”
“Sure, come on up,” Taneea answers before her great-grandmother has a chance to say a word.
Quick as lightning, Claude opens the gate on the picket fence then bounds up the walkway, almost a skip in his step.
Miss Delia’s gnarled hands tighten into liver-spotted balls. She shoots me a cautionary glance. This is where I’m supposed to use that strength she warned me about. Against what I’m not sure, but I breathe deep and brace myself just the same.
Approaching the chair, Claude extends his arm toward Miss Delia, a stiff, ivory-colored business card wedged between his first two fingers. “I appreciate you agreeing to my visit on such short notice.”
“You mean no notice.” Miss Delia doesn’t reach for his card.
He pauses, taking her in. “Yes, coming unannounced is unforgivably rude. But given your reputation for generosity, I thought you’d find in your heart to be hospitable.” He shoves the card in my direction.
Huh? What the heck is he talking about? I glance at the embossed print on the thick card stock. A surge of electricity zips up my limbs. “You’re from the King Center?” The words blurt from my suddenly unfrozen mouth.
He turns his head in my direction. “I just started actually. Are you familiar with the organization?”
I nod. “Y-yes.” Only too well.
“What is it?” Taneea twists a fuchsia strand around her index finger.
“It’s the Lowcountry’s premier Gullah museum.” Claude beams with pride. “We house the most impressive collection of Gullah art and historical artifacts in the country.”
“Do you have air-conditioning?” Taneea asks.
He laughs. “Of course. The exhibits require a climate-controlled environment.”
“Nice. Is it open to the public? Because when I’m not melting from the heat, I’m losing my mind on this frigging island.”
Claude laughs. “Then you must absolutely visit. Our collection is extensive and we’re always searching for volunteers. I promise you’ll be quite cool. And while you’re there, you could see your…grandmother’s donation.” He scans Miss Delia’s face for some confirmation of their relation, but she doesn’t twitch.
“Grammy’s in Chicago. Delia’s my great-gran. She won’t buy a new TV or get cable so I seriously doubt she’d donate anything decent to a museum.” She laughs as if she’s just made some hilarious joke, but instead she’s only managed to humiliate the only person willing to take her in.
“That’s enough now, child. I think you’ve got some tidying up to do in the house, don’t you?” Miss Delia asks.
Taneea shakes her head. “Nope. I’m done for the day. Your house is so small it doesn’t take long to clean.” She bats her lashes.
My tongue burns like fire, desperate to utter every nasty insult that’s piling up in my brain. If I wasn’t trying to make nice in front of a guy who works for the museum I stole
“You’ve got plenty of tea, Great-gran.” Taneea steps off the porch in a pair of black peep-toe sandals.
“I suppose I do,” Miss Delia answers without taking her eyes off her visitor.
“You going to introduce me to our guest?” Taneea asks.
Mr. Corbeau beams. “Well hello—Taneea, was it? You can call me Claude. Clearly, you’re a young Ms. Whittaker. I can see the obvious resemblance.”
Is he blind? They might be related but they look nothing alike.
Claude turns his attention to Miss Delia. “Lord, you must have been a gorgeous woman in your prime.” He whistles.
Mrs. Delia crosses her arms. “Sweetmouthing me won’t get you very far, Mr. Corbeau. How about you tell me the reason you’ve come to call?” Her lips mash into a thin line.
He stands on the edge of the garden. “Is that an invitation? It’s so much easier to speak face-to-face than shout across your lustrous garden.”
“Sure, come on up,” Taneea answers before her great-grandmother has a chance to say a word.
Quick as lightning, Claude opens the gate on the picket fence then bounds up the walkway, almost a skip in his step.
Miss Delia’s gnarled hands tighten into liver-spotted balls. She shoots me a cautionary glance. This is where I’m supposed to use that strength she warned me about. Against what I’m not sure, but I breathe deep and brace myself just the same.
Approaching the chair, Claude extends his arm toward Miss Delia, a stiff, ivory-colored business card wedged between his first two fingers. “I appreciate you agreeing to my visit on such short notice.”
“You mean no notice.” Miss Delia doesn’t reach for his card.
He pauses, taking her in. “Yes, coming unannounced is unforgivably rude. But given your reputation for generosity, I thought you’d find in your heart to be hospitable.” He shoves the card in my direction.
Huh? What the heck is he talking about? I glance at the embossed print on the thick card stock. A surge of electricity zips up my limbs. “You’re from the King Center?” The words blurt from my suddenly unfrozen mouth.
He turns his head in my direction. “I just started actually. Are you familiar with the organization?”
I nod. “Y-yes.” Only too well.
“What is it?” Taneea twists a fuchsia strand around her index finger.
“It’s the Lowcountry’s premier Gullah museum.” Claude beams with pride. “We house the most impressive collection of Gullah art and historical artifacts in the country.”
“Do you have air-conditioning?” Taneea asks.
He laughs. “Of course. The exhibits require a climate-controlled environment.”
“Nice. Is it open to the public? Because when I’m not melting from the heat, I’m losing my mind on this frigging island.”
Claude laughs. “Then you must absolutely visit. Our collection is extensive and we’re always searching for volunteers. I promise you’ll be quite cool. And while you’re there, you could see your…grandmother’s donation.” He scans Miss Delia’s face for some confirmation of their relation, but she doesn’t twitch.
“Grammy’s in Chicago. Delia’s my great-gran. She won’t buy a new TV or get cable so I seriously doubt she’d donate anything decent to a museum.” She laughs as if she’s just made some hilarious joke, but instead she’s only managed to humiliate the only person willing to take her in.
“That’s enough now, child. I think you’ve got some tidying up to do in the house, don’t you?” Miss Delia asks.
Taneea shakes her head. “Nope. I’m done for the day. Your house is so small it doesn’t take long to clean.” She bats her lashes.
My tongue burns like fire, desperate to utter every nasty insult that’s piling up in my brain. If I wasn’t trying to make nice in front of a guy who works for the museum I stole
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