Gina
Mona showed up at the house this morning unannounced, like some kind of omen. In one hand, she was carrying a pot of chicken soup for my dad, and in the other, her toolbox to fix the broken door. “I can’t pay you,” I tell her as she unloads her things. “Mr. Walton hasn’t reopened the store, nor has he offered my job back.”
“It’s on the house,” she says with a wink. This is the kind of woman Mona is.
I shake my head. “They don’t make ‘em like you anymore, Mona.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She finishes unpacking the items she’s brought and she turns to me. “Speaking of—that Smith boy asked about you the other day.” Her voice is hot with mischief. She walks over to the sink and strikes a match, but she doesn’t say anything else. She just goes about her business, humming a tune.
