Page 8 of All Hale the Queen

“I’ve told him that, but he argues that he can’t take care of another person until he can take care of himself. And being the drummer for a house band at a honky tonk is apparently how he ‘takes care of himself,’” she says, doing air quotes, and I don’t miss the hint of bitterness in her tone. She holds out one of her spiral curls. “Meanwhile, I’m getting gray hair from being divorced, having my only son move away, and gaining a new little person to take care of just when I thought I was skidding toward a nice, easy life of retirement. All within the span of a couple years. Not to mention, I’m still reeling from Sharlene’s death as well. She was more than just a daughter-in-law to me.”

I drape an arm around Claudia’s shoulders, pulling her toward me until she rests her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

Her sniffle breaks my heart, and I reach for a tissue on a small marble table. She dabs her nose. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just having a pity party today. I’m really lucky I have Jayden in my life. As wild as he is, he makes me so happy. It’s like seeing a little version of Sharlene running around, so in a way, that’s therapeutic.”

“True. He does look just like her. Maybe that’s hard on Ronnie too.” I give her a squeeze. “Not that I’m excusing his behavior. Sure, he has to go on without his wife, but that poor baby has to live without his actual mother.”

She lifts her head and offers a weak smile. “Okay, enough about me. Let’s circle back to your menopause symptoms.”

I let out a hearty laugh. “Other than the rogue facial hair and a few hot flashes, I’m doing pretty good.”

“Any lack of, um, desires?” she asks, dropping her voice to a whisper on the final word.

Hesitating for a second, I admit, “Actually, I’ve experienced a bit of an uptick in that department for the past few days.”

Claudia’s perfect eyebrows rise slowly. “Is there a particular man behind this uptick?”

An annoyed noise escapes from my throat. “Why do you know me so well?” She crosses her arms over her ample chest and gives me an eyebrow lift that says she has no intention of answering my rhetorical question. I relent. “Fine, I had dinner with a very nice gentleman a couple days ago, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since then.”

“Just dinner?” Claudia asks in her cross-examination voice. “No extracurricular activities of the bedroom variety?”

I lift one hand in the air. “Objection. Leading the witness, Your Honor,” I call, and my friend smirks. She may have retired from being a county prosecutor when her daughter-in-law died in order to help her son with the new baby, but she’s still got that lawyerly vibe when she’s feeling nosy.

“Sorry, Your Honor, but the witness is unresponsive. May I treat her as a hostile witness?” she asks, playing along. Then she glares at me. “The judge said answer the damn question, Ophelia Oakley-Hale.”

“It was only dinner,” I admit, “but I felt a definite spark.”

“Where did you meet this sparky man?” she asked.

“He’s…” I mumble the rest of my sentence.

Claudia’s mouth drops open. “Excuse me, madam. Did you say he’s your son’s driver and personal security?”

“I forgot you have supersonic hearing,” I lament.

She waves away my complaint with one hand. “He’s the big guy with the Irish accent, right?”

“Yes.”

“Hot damn. An accentanda beard? Yes ma’am, you should be all over that.”

“He’s younger than me by seven years,” I protest.

“So am I,” my friend retorts. “And yet we get along like there’s no age difference whatsoever.”

I tap the small space between my nose and my mouth. “That’s true. I didn’t think of it like that.”

Claudia preens. “That’s what I’m here for. To be the voice of reason for all things.” She gives me a nudge in the ribs. “Why don’t you just back the hell off and let me have the bodyguard? I look more like Whitney Houston than you anyway.”

I laugh at her reference to the movie starring the singer and Kevin Costner. “You do actually look a lot like her.”

She sighs. “If only I could sing like she could.”

“To be fair, great singers may come and go, but there will never be another Whitney.”

“Facts,” she says before turning the subject back to Antonio. “Now, what are we going to do about you and your Irishman?”

Worry floods my system, and my shoulders droop. “Nothing, I guess.”