looks up, catches my eye, and pulls her cap lower.
“A pretty young girl like you should not dress like a hobo,” I tell her sternly.
“Hobo?” she wonders.
“Yes, hobo,” I repeat impatiently. “Tramp, bum, derelict, vagrant, vagabundo. What is the politically correct term these days: housing challenged?”
“That’s not funny, Aunt Candace.”
“Shelby, I think you owe me an apology.”
“For what?”
“For saying that I never did anything nice for anyone.”
She drops her head and begins kicking at the whitewashed gravel again.
“You know what I meant.”
“No, I don’t know what you meant other than what you said.”
She sighs.
“I just meant that you have
so
much. You have this huge house and all this land and so much money, and there’s only you. Don’t you ever feel like sharing it? And I don’t mean sharing it with charities and foundations. That’s being nice, too, but I mean sharing it with someone you love.”
“But I don’t love these boys. I don’t even know them.”
“Then would you at least meet them?” she asks, a smile lighting up a face so full of innocent benevolence that I can’t help but wonder at its true intent.
“No, I most certainly will not meet them.”
The smile is gone.
“See, that’s what I mean. You won’t even consider it. Why not?”
“Shelby, this is ridiculous. It can’t happen. You have to understand. Even if I wanted to do it—which I absolutely do
not
—old women can’t walk around picking up teenage boys off the streets and installing them in their guest bedrooms.”
“You can do whatever you want. You’re Candace Jack.”
“Shelby, please. You sound like your father when you talk that way.”
“Dad says I sound like Grandfather when I talk that way.”
“It’s true that my brother might have said the same thing, but he wouldhave meant that I can accomplish whatever I want because of who I am. He wouldn’t have been implying that just because I’m wealthy and respected …”
“And feared,” she says under her breath.
“… I’m exempt from following the same moral guidelines that everyone else does.”
“Dad says that’s one of the perks of wealth.”
“Yes.” I rub my temples. One of my instantaneous Cameron headaches has arrived. “I’m sure he does say that. Legally, I simply couldn’t do it.”
“I see what you mean. You’d have to get permission from their mother.”
The smile returns, and she rushes to my side and takes my hand.
“I have a better idea. Instead of meeting them, meet their mother.”
I shake my head at her.
“Come with me,” I tell her. “Let’s take a walk.”
We start down the drive toward the road. She keeps her hand in mine and begins to swing it the way she used to as a little girl when we’d take these same walks together, and for a moment my eyes sting with tears that I don’t want or understand.
I’ve been entirely too emotional lately, and I fear it’s one more uncontrollable, annoying aspect of aging.
“You don’t understand about their mother,” she goes on. “She’s awful. She’s …”
“She can’t be that bad.”
“She is!”
“I know that she left their father for another man and left the boys with him, but you don’t know the circumstances.”
“It’s not just that.” She shakes her head vehemently. “I knew her before she left. And I just saw her again at the funeral.”
“What exactly did she do that was so terrible? Did she beat them? Did she fail to feed them or get them their booster shots? Is she an alcoholic?”
“I don’t really know about any of that. I don’t think so. She’s just mean and selfish.”
I laugh.
“You’ve just described the majority of the human race.”
“No.” She continues shaking her head. “I wish I could make you understand.”
She looks up at me and pleads with her dark eyes.
“You’re the only one who could put her in her place.”
“Don’t try manipulating me.”
“Okay,” she
“A pretty young girl like you should not dress like a hobo,” I tell her sternly.
“Hobo?” she wonders.
“Yes, hobo,” I repeat impatiently. “Tramp, bum, derelict, vagrant, vagabundo. What is the politically correct term these days: housing challenged?”
“That’s not funny, Aunt Candace.”
“Shelby, I think you owe me an apology.”
“For what?”
“For saying that I never did anything nice for anyone.”
She drops her head and begins kicking at the whitewashed gravel again.
“You know what I meant.”
“No, I don’t know what you meant other than what you said.”
She sighs.
“I just meant that you have
so
much. You have this huge house and all this land and so much money, and there’s only you. Don’t you ever feel like sharing it? And I don’t mean sharing it with charities and foundations. That’s being nice, too, but I mean sharing it with someone you love.”
“But I don’t love these boys. I don’t even know them.”
“Then would you at least meet them?” she asks, a smile lighting up a face so full of innocent benevolence that I can’t help but wonder at its true intent.
“No, I most certainly will not meet them.”
The smile is gone.
“See, that’s what I mean. You won’t even consider it. Why not?”
“Shelby, this is ridiculous. It can’t happen. You have to understand. Even if I wanted to do it—which I absolutely do
not
—old women can’t walk around picking up teenage boys off the streets and installing them in their guest bedrooms.”
“You can do whatever you want. You’re Candace Jack.”
“Shelby, please. You sound like your father when you talk that way.”
“Dad says I sound like Grandfather when I talk that way.”
“It’s true that my brother might have said the same thing, but he wouldhave meant that I can accomplish whatever I want because of who I am. He wouldn’t have been implying that just because I’m wealthy and respected …”
“And feared,” she says under her breath.
“… I’m exempt from following the same moral guidelines that everyone else does.”
“Dad says that’s one of the perks of wealth.”
“Yes.” I rub my temples. One of my instantaneous Cameron headaches has arrived. “I’m sure he does say that. Legally, I simply couldn’t do it.”
“I see what you mean. You’d have to get permission from their mother.”
The smile returns, and she rushes to my side and takes my hand.
“I have a better idea. Instead of meeting them, meet their mother.”
I shake my head at her.
“Come with me,” I tell her. “Let’s take a walk.”
We start down the drive toward the road. She keeps her hand in mine and begins to swing it the way she used to as a little girl when we’d take these same walks together, and for a moment my eyes sting with tears that I don’t want or understand.
I’ve been entirely too emotional lately, and I fear it’s one more uncontrollable, annoying aspect of aging.
“You don’t understand about their mother,” she goes on. “She’s awful. She’s …”
“She can’t be that bad.”
“She is!”
“I know that she left their father for another man and left the boys with him, but you don’t know the circumstances.”
“It’s not just that.” She shakes her head vehemently. “I knew her before she left. And I just saw her again at the funeral.”
“What exactly did she do that was so terrible? Did she beat them? Did she fail to feed them or get them their booster shots? Is she an alcoholic?”
“I don’t really know about any of that. I don’t think so. She’s just mean and selfish.”
I laugh.
“You’ve just described the majority of the human race.”
“No.” She continues shaking her head. “I wish I could make you understand.”
She looks up at me and pleads with her dark eyes.
“You’re the only one who could put her in her place.”
“Don’t try manipulating me.”
“Okay,” she
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