“Guess again, smarty-pants,” I said, pointing at the sign in the window.
Home Delivery Available.
“Aww, man,” she groaned.
“Now we can get a truckload of vegetables,” I said cheerily.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?” I demanded, waggling stalks of asparagus at Waylay.
“No to asparagus,” Waylay said. “It’s green.”
“You don’t eat green foods?”
“Not unless it comes in candy form.”
I wrinkled my nose. “You have to eat some vegetables. What about fruits?”
“I like pie,” she said, poking suspiciously at a bin of mangos as if she’d never seen them before.
“What do you usually eat for dinner with…with your mom?” I had no idea whether Tina was a touchy subject or if she routinely left Waylay to fend for herself. I felt like I was blindfolded and being forced to shuffle out onto a frozen lake. The ice would break under my feet sooner or later, I just didn’t know where or when.
Her shoulders hiked up toward her ears. “Dunno. Whatever was in the fridge.”
“Leftovers?” I asked hopefully.
“I make Easy Mac and frozen pizzas. Sometimes nuggets,” Waylay said, growing bored with the mangos and moving on to frown at a display of green leaf lettuces. “Can we get Pop-Tarts?”
I was getting a headache. I needed more sleep and coffee. Not necessarily in that order. “Maybe. But first we have to agree on a few healthy foods.”
A man in a Grover’s Groceries apron turned the corner into produce. His polite smile vanished when he caught sight of us. Eyes narrowed, lip curled, he looked as if he’d just spotted us drop-kicking a plastic, light-up Baby Jesus in an outdoor nativity scene.
“Hello,” I said, adding an extra punch of warmth to my smile.
He gave a harrumph in our direction and stalked off.
I glanced at Waylay, but either she hadn’t noticed the eye daggers or she was immune.
So much for southern hospitality. Though we were in Northern Virginia. Maybe they didn’t do the Southern hospitality thing here. Or maybe the man had just found out that his cat had a month to live. You never knew what people were going through behind the scenes.
Waylay and I worked our way around the store, and I noticed a similar reaction from a few other employees and patrons. When the woman behind the deli counter threw the pound of sliced turkey breast at me, I’d had enough.
I made sure Waylay was busy leaning over an open freezer of chicken nuggets. “Excuse me, I’m new here. Am I breaking some kind of store etiquette that results in hurled deli meats?”
“Ha. You ain’t fooling me, Tina Witt. Now, you gonna pay for that turkey or try to stuff it in your bra like last time?”
And there was my answer.
“I’m Naomi Witt. Tina’s sister and Waylay’s aunt. I can assure you I’ve never stuffed deli meat in my bra.”
“Bullshit.” She said it cupping a hand to her mouth like she was using a bullhorn. “You and that kid of yours are no good, shoplifting pains in the ass.”
My conflict resolution skills were limited to people-pleasing. Usually I would squeak out a terrified apology and then feel compelled to buy the offended party some kind of small, thoughtful gift. But today I was tired.
“Okay. You know what? I don’t think you’re supposed to talk to patrons like that,” I said.
I was going for firm and confident, but it came out tinged with hysteria. “And you know what else? Today I’ve been yelled at, robbed—twice—and turned into an inexperienced instaparent, and that was before lunch. I’ve slept about an hour in the last two days. And you don’t see me hurling deli meat around. All I ask from you is that you treat me and my niece with a modicum of respect as a paying customer. I don’t know you. I’ve never been here before. I’m sorry for whatever my sister did with her breasts and your meat. But I’d really like this turkey sliced thinner!”
I pushed the package back over the top of the cooler at her.
Her eyes were wide in that “not sure how to handle this unhinged customer” way.
“You’re not shittin’ me? You’re not Tina?”
“I am not shitting you.” Damn it. I should have gone for the coffee first.
“Aunt Naomi, I found the Pop-Tarts,” Waylay said, appearing with an armload of sugary breakfast treats.
“Great,” I said.
“So,” I said, sliding a strawberry kiwi smoothie in front of Waylay and taking the seat across from her. Justice, the man of my dreams, had made my afternoon latte in a mug the size of a soup bowl.