“Les, I’ve asked you not to put him on an ATV. He’s small for his age. It’s not safe,” I told him.
Les dismissed my concerns like he always did. “Ah, Robbie and I used to do it all the time at his age. It’s fine. Trust me. When you’ve been at parenting as long as I have, you’ll be able to tell the difference between real danger and worrywartin’. Besides, I have to teach the boy how to be a man.”
It struck me that Rob had learned much of how to be a husband from Les. Dismissal. Condescension. And when that failed, falling back to the old “I’m a man and therefore know better than you, silly woman” stance. There were times I really wanted to punch my father-in-law in the kidneys.
Of course, if I did that now, I would probably kill him. Still, something to consider.
At the moment, I simply wanted them away from the house before they figured out that there was something different about me. So I was willing to let his mansplaining go . . . for now.
“What do you say to Mamaw and Papa for taking you camping?” I prompted Danny.
“Thank you!” Danny picked up his backpack and ran into the house, going past Jane without a second look. He’d gotten used to all sorts of people coming into the house to help care for me. We were going to have to do something about his stranger awareness.
Marge patted my cheek, and I was overwhelmed by the scent of White Shoulders. White Shoulders and blood—warm, delicious, sweet blood that would taste like the cinnamon Marge always sprinkled on top of her coffee. I could sense it, pulsing through her veins, throbbing at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. My mouth watered at the thought of sinking my fangs into her neck and drinking deep. I could almost feel the warm tide of it slipping past my lips.
“Libby,” Jane said in a warning tone. It seemed that Jane did not appreciate the violent slide show going on in my head.
My fangs dropped. My mouth clamped shut, and I took a tiny step back. An expression of hurt crossed Marge’s features. I concentrated on unappetizing thoughts and willed my fangs to go away. Roadkill. The smell of Danny’s sandals at the end of the summer. James Franco’s paintings.
“You must have gotten your rest while we were gone,” Marge said. “You’re looking much better. Still a bit peaky, mind, but better. Your skin doesn’t look so dull. And did you do something new to your hair?”
“I had it done,” I said, nodding, letting the buttery waves bounce around my face. I couldn’t help it. Marge had been after me to “spruce myself up” for months. Because “you’re looking a little frumpy” is just what someone with a terminal disease wants to hear. “Do you like it?”
“Was it Tammy, over at the Beauty Mark?” Marge asked, peering closer at my face, as if she was trying to figure out what sort of moisturizer I was using to give my skin that flawless undead porcelain glow. If I said yes, that my new look was the result of Tammy’s work, Marge would be in her chair the next day, grilling my poor hairdresser.
“You using a new makeup, too?”
“Uh . . .”
But I was saved by the nosy father-in-law. Les gave a sort of chin nod at Jane, who was hovering by the front door. “Who’s this?”
It made sense that Les was giving Jane the “I think I recognize you from church, but I’m not quite sure” look most Hollow residents did when we ran into someone new. Heck, I barely recognized Jane when I crawled out of my grave. She was a few years ahead of Rob and me in school. And Jane’s appearance had changed quite a bit since she’d dropped out of the Hollow’s “daytime” social circles.
“Oh, this is Jane, from the PTA. We’ve got the Pumpkin Patch Party coming up, lots to plan,” I explained airily. It seemed that once you had no pulse or blood pressure, lying came a lot easier. Yay for me and my already slippery morality.
“School hasn’t even started yet,” Les noted. “And you haven’t been able to help at the school in months.”
“PTA business never stops,” Jane supplied helpfully. “And Libby has been feeling better lately. I’ll bet in the next few weeks, you’ll see a real turnaround. Right, Libby?”
I stared at Jane, who was smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth—which, given her lower body temperature, was plausible. She seemed to be enjoying this just a little too much.
“It’s not fair to give her false hope,” Marge admonished Jane.
“I am feeling better,” I told Marge, and before she could object, I called after Danny. “Honey, come tell Mamaw and Papa good-bye, and then it’s time for bed!”