The kind that stained and lingered.
He headed for his office to put away their notes and almost ran into Mama Jeanie, who was coming out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.
“Land sakes, boy! You trying to give an old woman a heart attack?” She planted both fists on her apron-clad hips and grinned to take the sting out. “Then who would cook supper for all those kids of yours?”
“The pizza joint in town.” He grinned back, grateful for the break from the heaviness that’d taken over the minute he’d popped the father question to Emma. He should have known better. But if he didn’t ask, how could he find out? It was hardly something to look up on Google.
Mama Jeanie’s wrinkled but wise face slowly drifted into a frown. “I saw that new counselor, Miss Emma, tearing out of here like a rabbit from a fox.” Her dark brows wrinkled deeper as she peered up at him with expectation. “What did the fox say?”
If anyone else had insinuated such a thing, he’d have been offended, and probably smarted off. But not to Mama Jeanie. Never to Mama Jeanie. He licked his lips, then shrugged. “Was something personal, apparently.” To put it mildly. He wondered if she saw through his attraction to Emma. The woman missed nothing. At least she stuck to the kitchen, because if she ever found that picture he’d kept of Emma and him all these years...
“If it was personal, then why were you nosing around in it?” She inched toward him, and despite the fact that she had to be almost six inches shorter, Max felt like backing up a step.
He resisted the urge and placed a friendly hand on Mama Jeanie’s shoulder. “I’m just doing my job.” He tried to step around her to his office, but she sidestepped with the spryness of someone half her age.
“I do more around this camp than just cook, you know.” She crossed her arms, the dish towel dangling from two bony but capable fingers. “I observe. I listen. And I hear.”
“You just said that.”
“Uh-huh.” She waved her finger at him and grinned, her teeth stark white against her brown complexion. “Hearing and listening are not the same.” She leaned closer, and this time, he backed up. “You should try more of the latter.”
Well that was cryptic.
“Anyway.” She waved the towel like a white flag. “Turkey and dressing all right for the Thanksgiving dinner?”
He blinked in an effort to keep up, feeling as winded as if he’d just run a 10k. “Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Remember? Before this session started, you said it’d be nice to have a Thanksgiving feast the last week of camp. Before the real holiday began.”
Oh, yeah, he had said that—especially considering several of these kids came from home situations where they might not have a traditional meal. He nodded, grateful for the subject change. “Yes, that sounds perfect. With all the usual trimmings. If we need more for the grocery budget, let me know. I’ll call the church.”
Broken Bend Church of Grace was their biggest supporter, along with several other wealthier families in the county. He’d get whatever donations were needed—when it came to the campers, he learned a long time ago to choke off any lingering traces of his self-pride. The kids were worth it.
“I’ve cooked on a shoestring budget for years, my boy. I’m not afraid of the challenge now.” She snapped the towel good-naturedly at him before heading back to her kitchen haven.