She was somewhat tempted to change her mind now, walking up to the house, hearing the people bustling about and talking in the back yard. But she was Maisie “Red” O’Shea, and she wasn’t about to wimp away from a little awkwardness.
Besides, she didn’t need River and Finn searching all over town for her, singing the bounty hunter theme song they’d come up with while tipsy on margaritas.
It seemed like most of the action was in the back yard, but she headed for the front of the house, figuring she’d leave her dish in the kitchen or wherever the food was being prepared. And while she wasn’t exactly a gourmet chef, she figured she should at least offer her assistance to whomever was in the kitchen.
She knocked, steeling herself for the possibility that Jack might answer. And okay, maybe she actually hoped it would be Jack…and that he’d be happy to see her.
But instead a young girl she’d never seen before opened the door, a look of skeptical boredom on her face. She was beautiful, with long dark hair and eyes as dark as her brother’s—because this was surely Iris.
“They invited more people?” she scoffed. “Where are they going to find room for everyone?”
It was an obvious challenge, and Maisie knew better than to take it sitting down. She’d basically ushered her little sister Molly through her last year of high school, and Molly was nothing like Mary. Their big sister would have had a conniption fit—or several—if she’d known about some of what had gone down, but she’d been away at law school. (Maisie had refused to let her drop out.)
“Maybe we’ll put out a kid’s table,” Maisie suggested, raising her brows. “Should solve the problem.”
Amusement flickered in the girl’s eyes, there and then gone, and she settled on an offended look.
“Who are you, anyway? One of Dottie’s weird friends?”
“Dottie and some of the others,” she said. “I’m Maisie, and I’ll tell you right now, if weird people offend you, you’re in for it today.”
Iris stepped back with a beleaguered sigh, dropped a sullen “You said it, not me,” and Maisie brushed past her.
She took a quick glance around the front room. River and Georgie sat on one of the couches, sides pressed together, but she barely had time to analyze whether that bothered her before Adalia’s big husky barreled into her. The corn casserole went flying, and the dish—her mother’s dish—cracked in two when it hit the hardwood floor.
It was foolish, really—it was just a dish—but it felt like her heart was being squeezed by a boa constrictor.
“Oh,” she said softly, watching for a moment as Tyrion started to lap up the mess.
“I am not on cleanup duty until after dinner,” she heard Iris say, maybe in response to someone asking her to help. “Jack said so.”
Then River’s hand was on Maisie’s shoulder, his touch warm and comforting and safe, and she realized she was crouched on the floor next to the dish with tears in her eyes. Tears that probably weren’t just over a broken dish, to be honest.
If she hadn’t known better than to believe in woo-woo nonsense, she would have thought this was bad luck. It sure felt like it.
“Hey,” River said softly. “That was your mom’s, wasn’t it?”
Because he knew better than anyone that every last thing they’d owned mattered to her. They were just things, she knew that, but they were their things. They were all she had left.
“Sorry,” she said, embarrassed that Georgie was seeing her like this. She shook it off and got to her feet. She shrugged at Tyrion, who was still lapping up the casserole. “At least someone got to enjoy it. That was probably my one major cooking effort for the year. Although I’m glad I don’t have to pick up his poop later.”
“Gross,” River said, bumping her shoulder. Georgie came up to them with a dishcloth that was almost laughably inadequate for the task—or maybe not, given the speed with which Tyrion was eating.
“Thanks,” Maisie said, reaching for it.
“It’s okay,” Georgie said. “I’ll get the stuff spilled on the ground. Why don’t you take the dish? Maybe it can be saved.”
There was nothing on her face to indicate she was being disingenuous, so Maisie didn’t question her motives, she just grabbed up the dish, trying to keep the goopy center contained, and shooed Tyrion away as she headed for the kitchen. Iris had gone off somewhere, probably upstairs.
River stayed behind, presumably to help Georgie, although she also thought she heard someone knocking at the door.
“Did my big lug do that?” Adalia asked, meeting her in the doorway to the kitchen.
Maisie pushed past her. “Sorry, this is still pretty hot. Kitchen emergency.”
She barreled past Finn, who was doing something to a dish of squash—when had she ever seen him cook?—and headed straight for the trash bin. Georgie had updated the house some before leaving—after basically having her arm twisted by a fire Dottie had unintentionally started—but the trash can was still in the same place. Adalia handed her a spoon over her shoulder, and Maisie grabbed it and scooped the rest of the casserole into the trash. For a moment, her hands lingered over the trash can, her gaze locked on the broken dish.
She could glue it together again, but it wouldn’t be useful for anything but decoration. And it wasn’t exactly pretty, really—it was just old.
Maybe Mary and Molly had a point. Maybe it was time to let go of some things. She’d liked the way Jack looked at her, like she wasn’t just one of those poor O’Shea girls who’d lost their parents so young. Like she was a woman who had baggage but didn’t have to be defined by it.
“Do you want to save it?” Adalia asked softly. The door had opened in the great room, and she heard River and Georgie talking to someone, presumably another guest.
“Nah.” But her hand refused to release the pieces.
Then she remembered that Adalia collected broken things, lost things, things no one wanted, and used them in her art. “Why don’t you keep it? Maybe you can use it in one of your pieces.”
Adalia took the remains of the dish from her and rinsed both sides off in the sink, looking them over with interest before glancing back at Maisie. “You sure? Because this is a seriously cool vintage dish, and I’m not going to ask you twice. I am totally, one hundred percent going to take advantage of you.”
Finn moseyed over, having finished whatever he’d been doing with the squash.
“Oh man, was that the corn casserole?” he asked. He was a total glutton when it came to other people’s home-cooked meals, and he’d eaten half of it himself the last time she’d spent Thanksgiving with her friends.
“The first casualty of Thanksgiving,” Maisie confirmed. “Sorry, guys.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Adalia said. A door opened and closed again. “It’s my fault for not putting Tyrion outside. I just get a little twitchy when he’s out there without Finn or me. God only knows where Jezebel is. She snuck out when River and Georgie got here, and I have a feeling she’s going to come back with a live turkey at some point. Why don’t you grab a beer and head out back? Take a breather?”
“I can help out in here if you want,” Maisie said, glancing around. There were dishes piled everywhere, including some that were unmistakably Dottie’s handiwork—a huge bowl of mac and cheese with a note reading “comfort” on the side, a vat of vegetables that read “health,” and a huge bowl of mashed potatoes that read “happiness.” And it wasn’t a lie. Dottie made the best mashed potatoes on the planet, plus she always made a special vegetarian gravy just for Maisie, although Adalia, a pescatarian, would likely eat some too this year.
“We’ve got this under control,” Finn said proudly, which was hilarious and kind of sweet. Before meeting Adalia, he’d struggled to make frozen pizza.
Adalia nodded in agreement. “Dottie’s out there. Jack—”
At first she thought Adalia had started a sentence without finishing it, but then she realized her friend was looking over her shoulder. She turned arou
nd, and the sight of him almost made her stumble. Because he was staring at her with an intensity that told her he hadn’t forgotten a single minute of the night they’d spent together. He had on a long-sleeved shirt that clung to those amazing biceps, covered by an apron.
So he’d been outside helping Dottie cook something—or maybe create something. She liked the thought of him out there with Dottie, playing along with one of her games or ideas. It endeared her to him.
As if you needed to like him more.
“Play any poker lately?” Jack asked, lifting his eyebrows.
She gulped back a laugh, all too aware that Finn and Adalia were looking at them strangely.
“Not for a few weeks,” Maisie said. “But they say it’s like riding a bike. You don’t lose any skills if you take a little time off.”
Something flashed in Jack’s eyes, and he opened his mouth to say something, but she never found out what. Stella, of all people, barreled into the kitchen, followed by Lurch, who had a bright pink lipstick imprint on his bald head and a heavy-looking platter in his hands, covered by an aluminum tent. For a moment, the logistics of that kiss imprint boggled Maisie’s mind—Lurch was about a foot and a half taller than Stella, which raised questions about other logistics too. Then her gaze landed on the painting in Stella’s hand.
A naked Lurch stood next to a goose that looked like Diego, hand in wing as if they were shaking on something. Two goats stood behind them, one with a fork in its mouth, the other with a knife.
“It’s called Thanksgiving Dinner,” Stella said proudly, handing it to Adalia. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, what with the chemistry between me and your man”—she nodded to a flustered Finn—“so I brought you a housewarming gift. Well, two, I suppose.”
Adalia’s face lit up, which came as no surprise. Even if she didn’t want a naked Lurch hanging up on her wall, it was exactly the kind of gift she’d find hilarious. “Let’s hang it in the dining room so we can all admire it while we eat.”
Jack’s gaze shot from the painting to Maisie. Probably Adalia had thought he’d object, but he gave a wicked smile and said, “Sure. It brings up lots of good memories.”
Finn and Adalia were looking at him like he’d lost his mind, but Jack didn’t rush to explain himself.
“Oh, you were fond of Diego, weren’t you?” Stella said, reaching out to touch his arm. And even though she was apparently Lurch’s date for the evening, she hung on to that bicep for dear life.
Maisie couldn’t blame her, but she cleared her throat loudly anyway, giving Stella a look intended to remind her of the warning she’d issued a few weeks back. She clicked her teeth together, miming biting. Sure enough, Stella pulled away, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like “harridan.”
It was then that her earlier comment registered. “Wait, did something happen to Diego?”
Lurch lifted the platter and grinned. “You’re looking at him.”
Chapter Eight
Iris was in a mood, and the house was pure chaos. Jack had almost packed his little sister into the car and run to IHOP, which had been their Thanksgiving tradition whenever their mother had other plans, but two things had made him stay. One, he really did want to have Thanksgiving with his newly discovered half-sisters despite all the craziness that seemed to entail, and two, Adalia had mentioned that Maisie was coming.
He hadn’t heard from her, and although he’d thought about reaching out, she’d made her one rule pretty clear: just one night. She’d called him a rule follower, and he supposed that was true for the most part, but as far as he was concerned, she’d shown up on his home turf, which meant his rules.
Too bad he hadn’t figured out what they were.
Now would be a terrible time to try to start something with Maisie.
Iris’s move to Asheville hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d hoped. When she wasn’t tearful and withdrawn, she was angry with Jack for moving to “this hippie town.” He had to acknowledge that moving to a new city less than halfway through her senior year had to be awful, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back to Chicago.
Did that make him a terrible person? He honestly wasn’t sure.
Iris had begged him to let her move in with Janie and her family, something they’d agreed to, but Genevieve had been calling and harassing Jack frequently enough that he didn’t dare risk it. Janie’s family didn’t deserve the hassle of dealing with his mother, and he wouldn’t put it past Genevieve to try to coerce Iris back home. Turned out that Iris’s father had caught wind that she wasn’t living with her mother anymore and had cut off his child support checks. (Did he have someone watching her? Jack knew they weren’t on speaking terms.) Jack noticed the asshole hadn’t sent the money his way instead. Not that he would have taken it. At least Prescott Buchanan had met with Jack a few times when he was a kid, before Genevieve got pregnant with Iris (probably his mother’s desperate attempts to rekindle something with his father). His sister had never once met her DNA contributor.
So Jack had told Iris that he was truly sorry, but their lives were in Asheville now, at least for the time being, and once she graduated from high school she could go to Northwestern University with Janie, just like they’d always planned.
If she got in, which was questionable since they had an eight percent acceptance rate, and she was blowing off a good portion of her homework.
Iris needed his full attention. He’d already dragged her away from her school and her friends. He couldn’t add a girlfriend to the mix. It wouldn’t be fair to Iris or Maisie.
All the more reason to blow off dinner and go to IHOP, and yet he hadn’t left. He’d told himself he was sticking around because Adalia would hog-tie him to a chair if he suggested leaving—which was probably true—but he wasn’t a total fool. He’d wanted to see Maisie again. To figure out if that spark was still there.
The answer had been obvious to him before he even walked into the kitchen. He’d glimpsed her through the back door, handing pieces of a broken dish to Adalia, and the surprisingly vulnerable look in her eyes had drawn him away from his post in the back yard.
He was supposed to be on Dottie duty. She was frying a turkey, and River and Georgie had decided she needed strict supervision. They’d all agreed to take turns babysitting her and the fryer; Georgie had even mocked up a schedule. But if he’d learned anything about Dottie Hendrickson, it was that she thought love trumped all other causes. If she’d known why he wanted to be in the kitchen, she would have pushed him inside with both hands.
He’d walked through the door, watching Maisie for several seconds before saying something. He hadn’t planned to mention poker. The words had just flown out of his mouth.
Her sassy answer was more than what he could have hoped for—had she really insinuated she was willing to pick things up where they’d left off?
Then Stella had walked in with Lurch, touching his arm, and they’d blown everything apart by announcing that the goose Jack had charmed three weeks prior was going to be part of their Thanksgiving dinner.
Maisie gasped in genuine horror, and Adalia gave her a confused look. “Who’s Diego?”
“The goose,” Maisie said softly, gesturing to the painting in Adalia’s hands.
“He’d outlived his usefulness,” Stella said matter-of-factly. “I have a new muse.” Then she gave Lurch an adoring gaze.
“Oh, my God!” Adalia shrieked and jumped backward as though trying to get as far away from the platter as possible, not that Jack blamed her. He might not be a vegetarian or even a pescatarian like Adalia, but he figured there were farm animals and pets, and it was best not to mix the two. Besides, he’d been fond of the little guy.
“She cooked a goose?” Finn asked in confusion, looking from Adalia to Maisie. It was clear he didn’t understand the problem.
“Get that out of my house!” Adalia shouted, pointing her finger at the platter. She set the painting down, propping it against the cupboards, like she wasn’t so sure
she wanted to touch it anymore.
River burst into the kitchen with Georgie right behind him. “What happened?”
“She cooked a goose,” Finn said, still not seeming to understand what all the fuss was about.
“Not just any goose,” Adalia seethed. “The goose from her paintings!” She gasped. “Do you eat your goats too?”
Stella shrugged. “I believe in the circle of life,” she said haughtily. “Diego would want us to have a delicious Thanksgiving dinner, looking at his portrait while we enjoy his bounty.”
“But you named him,” Maisie said, wrapping her arms across her chest. “You treated him like a pet. And now you want to eat him? Can you not see that this is massively screwed up?” She glanced up at Jack, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.
Was she thinking about Jack holding the goose in his arms? If not for Diego, he wasn’t sure he and Maisie would have ever had their night together.
“The goose that destroyed my old room?” River asked, and Georgie gasped.
River looked like he wasn’t sure how to react. Then again, Adalia had shown him the pictures. That goose had crapped on just about every surface in River’s old room.
“Get it out!” Adalia repeated, pointing to the back door. “Now!”
“What’s going on, dears?” Dottie asked as she walked through the back door into the now-crowded kitchen. “Oh, Stella. You made it.”
“These young folk are carryin’ on about me cooking Diego,” Stella said with a scowl. “But I think their ingratitude really stems from this one”—she gestured to Adalia—“worrying that I’m gonna try to steal her man.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I call a truce. Your man’s off-limits today.” She shot a dark look at Maisie. “I make no promises about yours.”
“Maisie’s?” River asked in surprise, then glanced at Maisie. “You have a boyfriend I don’t know about?”
“No,” Maisie barked, a little too quickly for Jack’s taste, then turned her attention to Stella. “I thought you’d claimed Lurch.”
Getting Lucky (Asheville Brewing Book 3) Page 7
