Today, Sloane wore a long tie-dye skirt that skimmed her ankles and a fitted t-shirt with cuffed sleeves. She wore her hair down, creating a long, golden curtain that moved like the material of her skirt. The girl behind her was a chubby-cheeked cherub. She had dark skin, assessing brown eyes, and wore her hair in an adorable puff on top of her head.
“Hey, Sloane!” I greeted her with a wave.
The librarian’s red lips curved in a smile, and she jerked her head at the girl who followed. “Well, if it isn’t Liza, Naomi, and Waylay. Chloe, do you know Way?” Sloane asked.
The girl tapped a sparkly pink nailed finger to her chin. “We had B lunch together last year, didn’t we? You sat with Nina—the short one with black hair Nina, not the tall one with bad breath. She’s really nice, she just doesn’t do a good job with the brushing. I’m in Mrs. Felch’s class this year and I’m not happy about it ’cause everyone says she’s a mean old lady. I heard she’s even meaner ’cause she and her husband are talking about a divorce.”
I noticed that Waylay was staring at Chloe with wary interest.
“Chloe!” Sloane sounded both amused and embarrassed.
“What? I’m only repeating what I heard from several very good sources. Whose class are you in?” she asked Waylay.
“Mrs. Felch,” Waylay said.
“Sixth grade is gonna be awesome even if we do have mean old Mrs. Felch because we get to switch rooms and teachers for science, art, gym, and math. Plus we’ve got Nina and Beau and Willow in class with us,” Chloe plowed on. “Do you know what you’re wearing on the first day? I can’t decide between an all-pink ensemble or a pink-and-white ensemble.”
It was a lot of words to take in from such a small person.
“If you ever need to know anything about anyone, just ask my niece Chloe,” Sloane said, looking amused.
Chloe grinned, showing a dimple in one cheek. “I’m not allowed to visit Aunt Sloane at the library cause she says I talk too much. I don’t think I talk too much. I just have a lot of information that needs to be disseminated to the public.”
Waylay was staring at Chloe with half of her slice of pizza hanging out of her mouth. It had been a long time since I’d been in school and faced with a cool girl. But Chloe had cool girl written all over her.
“We should get our moms, or I guess your aunt and my mom or my aunt, to schedule a playdate. Are you into crafts or hiking? Maybe baking?”
“Uhh,” Waylay said.
“You can let me know at school,” Chloe said.
“Thanks?” Waylay croaked.
It occurred to me that if people in the grocery store were giving her the evil eye, Waylay might not have a lot of friends at school. After all, it wasn’t hard to imagine mothers not wanting their daughters to bring home Tina Witt’s daughter.
Inspiration struck. “Hey, we’re throwing a little dinner party Sunday. Would you two like to come?”
“My day off, and I don’t have to cook? Count me in,” Sloane said. “What about you, Chlo?”
“I’ll check my social calendar and get back to you. I have a birthday party and tennis lessons on Saturday, but I think I’m free Sunday.”
“Great!” I said. Waylay shot me a look that made me think I sounded a little bit desperate.
“Perfect! Let’s grab our to-go order before it gets cold,” Sloane suggested, steering Chloe toward the counter.
“Damn, that kid can talk,” Liza observed. She looked at me. “So when were you gonna invite me to this dinner party?”
“Uh…now?”
We ate our pizza, I ate our salad, and Liza picked up the bill like the patron saint of temporarily broke tenants. We hit the sidewalk and the Virginia heat. But Liza headed in the opposite direction of the car. She tottered down to the building on the corner and knocked loudly on Whiskey Clipper’s plate glass window.
Waylay joined her, and they both started waving.
“What are you two doing?” I asked, hurrying after them.
“Knox owns this place too and does some barbering,” Liza said with a hint of pride.
Wearing his usual uniform of worn jeans, a fitted t-shirt, and ancient motorcycle boots, Knox Morgan was standing behind one of the salon chairs, taking a straight razor to a customer’s cheek. He had a leather apron-like organizer hung low on his hips with scissors and other tools tucked in the pouches.