Chesapeake Summer by Jeanette Baker Page A

crocodile tears and the mangled consonants, it was all she could do not to laugh. “We certainly can’t have you starving to your death, can we?”
    Gina Marie shook her head. “No.”
    â€œHow about a peach?”
    The child tilted her head, considering her options. “Can I have a soda, too?”
    â€œYou can have milk.”
    The rosebud mouth turned down. “I wike soda.” “L’s” were a problem, too.
    â€œYou know the rules. Milk and juice at home, soda and chocolate milk when we go out.” Libba changed the subject. “Chloe and Aunt Verna Lee will be here for dinner.” She held out her hand. “Let’s clean up the living room.”
    â€œNo.” Gina turned around to walk away, exposing the left cheek of her plump little behind.
    Was it worth the scene? No, she decided. She followed her daughter into the toy-strewn living room and groaned.
    Lego bricks, dominoes, marbles and Mr. Potato Head parts lay scattered across the ottoman. Two naked, high-heeled Barbie dolls, their legs twisted into Kama Sutra positions, gazed up at her from the Barbie Dream Car. The door of a miniature refrigerator swung on one hinge. Stacked in front on the floor, as if the little fridge had lost its lunch, was an unappealing mass of mini plastic pork chops, eggs, bacon, sandwiches and bread. Real cracker crumbs covered the carpet, and pea-size balls of once-multicolored, now gray, PlayDoh, filled every available niche and crevice. Worst of all, the wall behind the couch was covered with red and green crayon marks. Was it age or selective memory? Libba was sure that Chloe had never tested her like this.
    Cora Hennessey, her late mother-in-law, would have turned purple at the sight of her once-immaculate front parlor. Libba glared at her daughter. “What have you done?”
    Gina Marie glared back. “Keeping busy.”
    â€œWhat did I tell you about writing on walls?”
    The little girl laid her finger against her cheek, her forehead wrinkled in deep thought. “You said not to.”
    â€œThat’s right. You disobeyed me. Do you know what that means?”
    Gina Marie pirouetted in her impossible shoes. Dark hair floated around her head. “Time out.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Gina beamed. “But not now.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause Chloe and Aunt Verna Lee are coming.”
    Libba bit down on the inside of her cheek. Gina was too little to be awful on purpose.
    She’d swept the worst of the mess into the toy chest when a voice called out, “Hello, anybody home?”
    â€œChloe.” Libba’s face lit up. She hurried to the door. Throwing open the screen, she pulled Chloe into her arms. “Where have you been?”
    Chloe laughed and pulled away. “Mom, I left you two hours ago. After Tess and I brought Gina Marie back, we spent some time catching up. Something smells good. What are you cooking?”
    â€œChicken casserole and salad.”
    â€œSounds interesting.” Her mother’s repertoire was limited. A casserole usually meant she’d been experimenting.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œMmm, nothing.” Chloe had noticed her sister. “Hi, Gina Marie. Did you have a good nap?”
    Gina nodded. Her thumb inched its way into her mouth. “I don’t like naps.”
    â€œNaps are good for you,” Chloe improvised. “People grow when they sleep. I could be wrong, but I think you’re even taller than you were when I picked you up this morning.”
    â€œI’m three,” said the little girl, keeping her thumb wedged securely in her mouth. She held up three fingers with her free hand.
    Chloe knelt down. “Are you sure? That’s pretty old. You can’t be that old already.”
    â€œYes, I am.” Gina nodded vigorously. The thumb came out. “Auntie Verna Lee’s coming.”
    â€œThat’s great.”