Page 35 of Woods of the Raven

“I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about because you’ve done it all your life. You like us all to worry about you just for a moment. It’s really childish.”

“I’ve never done that in my life.”

I shook my head at her.

“What?”

“And your four-year-old glares at you. Did you know that? Have you noticed?”

“I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”

“And I know why you want me to come to Paris with you.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I’ve worked that out.”

“Oh?” she asked haughtily.

“You need a babysitter you trust.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Where is JJ right now, by the way?”

“That very short person is at preschool, of course. Do you think I want my child going to kindergarten not knowing their colors or letters or how to spell simple words? Dear God in heaven.”

I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I loved seeing Amanda mother her kids. Not only was she loving and doting, but she was also insistent on manners, as well as modeling kindness for them. More than anything, she was extremely protective, which made sense. As a rule, she had to know you, and well, before she trusted you with her children, and even then, she was watchful. Only me and Eddie, her husband, were trusted implicitly. His mother would have been on the list, but the last time Amanda let her youngest, Julia—who wanted to be called JJ—go with Eddie’s mother, the toddler had been returned with a dress on and bows in their hair. And sobbing. The sobbing was not to be missed or forgotten.

Amanda had a seizure. Immediately, she took JJ upstairs, got them changed into the shirt and pants they preferred, and took her child to the barber shop and got the haircut JJ wanted. To look like Toby was JJ’s chief desire, and Amanda made that happen.

“You know, JJ asked me for more Barbies yesterday, and they’re carrying a mini-Birkin at the moment, just like mine.”

I nodded.

“Perhaps JJ will be fluid,” she said.

“Whatever they are, you’re awesome. Eddie too.”

She smiled at the compliment and then leaned forward, elbow on the table, chin on her hand. “Declan—that’s the man’s name—has a booth at the festival to introduce the town to his food.”

I squinted at her.

“You can meet him then.”

“I really don’t—”

“I asked him what such a handsome man was doing moving to a small town when we had no clubs or bars to go out and get lucky at.”

I groaned loudly. “You did not.”

She scoffed. “Have you met me?”

“He’s probably horrified.”

“He finds me charming. I can tell. And he said he’s not much for the club scene, unlike his last boyfriend,” she enunciated for my benefit. “Just meet him. What can it hurt?”