Page 60 of Business Casual
Mrs. Lucy Porter looks up from the head of the table, an easy smile on her face and her chin in her hand. I hand her the flowers and bend so I can press a kiss to her cheek. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up.” I hesitate, then hold up the book. “I also stopped to get you this.”
She makes grabby hands. “For me?”
I nod and catch Nova’s eye on the other side of the table. She rolls hers and mouthsSuck-up.
I shrug. It’s true. I’m happiest when the people around me are happy. I’m uncomfortable when there’s tension and I want to be liked. I’ve never seen any of those things as a bad thing.
“Sit, sit.” Lucy gestures to the chair next to her. “Sorry I couldn’t keep these barbarians from eating. Harper turns into a harpy when she’s hungry.”
“It’s mac and cheese night,” floats up from somewhere near theend of the table. It sounds like there are three different conversations going on, at least one of them at a decibel level that seems unnecessary for indoors. Harper and Vanessa are gesticulating wildly with their hands, and Mr. Porter is using his steak knife to illustrate something on the table. Evie is half standing from her chair, leaning over Beckett to nod and point. Nova tears apart a dinner roll and watches the back-and-forth with narrowed, calculating eyes. There’s a phone propped up against a half-empty dutch oven casserole dish, Evelyn’s dad in the tiny picture, his hands folded under his chin and his glasses low on his nose.
It looks like the floor of the stock exchange…but more aggressive.
“They’re talking about the last episode ofReal Housewives,” Lucy explains.
Beckett, sprawled in his chair on the other side of her, doesn’t look up from his plate. “It’s been forty-five minutes.”
I study him carefully. There’s a reason he chose a job where he spends a majority of his time in empty fields. “Hanging in?”
He nods and gestures at his ears. He’s wearing foam earplugs, sensitive to the level of noise in this tiny room. “Shockingly, I can still hear everything that’s going on.”
Lucy pats his bicep. “You know how the girls get when they’re all together.”
Beckett grunts.
It’s not just the girls though. Mr. Porter and Mr. St. James seem to have a lot of opinions about the women of New Jersey. They gang up against Harper and Vanessa, exchanging an air high-five through the phone after a very detailed and obviously rehearsed closing argument.
“Is your dad a lifelong fan of the housewives?” I ask Evelyn.
Evelyn rolls her eyes. “This is a recent development.”
“Perhaps if you and that husband of yours decided to communicate with your families better, we would have found common interests sooner,” comes the tinny voice from the phone. Evelyn’s dad presseshis glasses up his nose with both eyebrows raised. I guess Layla isn’t the only one salty about missing the wedding.
“It’s my fault, Mr. St. James,” Beckett pokes his head into the frame, the tips of his ears red. “I couldn’t wait to marry your daughter.”
The table releases a collective groan. Nova boos and tosses a piece of her roll at Beckett’s forehead. Evelyn beams behind Beckett, and her dad chuckles on the other end of the phone.
“You’re not sorry.”
“No,” Beckett ducks his head. “I’m really not.”
Lucy passes me various dishes to load my plate and I sit back and observe. I have no idea what’s going on, but it’s clear that everyone is enjoying themselves. Mr. Porter tilts the phone so he can continue his conversation with Mr. St. James. Not just a family born but a family made too.
Nova keeps to herself, adding a quiet comment every now and again that sends everyone into a fit of laughter. My eyes keep cutting back to her—that damn braid over her shoulder and a peek of ink at the collar of her sweater. I’m looking at her more than I should. I know I am. But I want to know what makes her laugh. I want to catch all of those reluctant smiles, right as they bloom across her face. Pink on her cheeks and that scrunch in her nose.
“So, Charlie.” Lucy rests both hands on top of her brand-new book and fixes me with a look. The kind of look that someone perfects after they’ve raised a flock of children and taken exactly none of their shit. “Tell me how you are.”
“I’m good,” I tell her, reaching for another heaping spoonful of something that smells like buffalo sauce and heaven. Her face twists in comic disbelief and I laugh. “I heard this might be a welfare check.”
“Is that so?” She turns her face to her son. Beckett keeps pushing his noodles around his plate. She sighs and rolls her lips. “I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. You’ve taken on quite a bit.”
I shrug. “The farm basically runs itself. I mainly eat cinnamon rolls at the bakehouse. And occasionally dig fence posts.”
“That’s not true.” Beckett spears a piece of broccoli with his fork. “You organized Stella’s filing system. Which hasn’t been a filing system since I’ve known her.”
“And you charmed Layla’s dairy vendor into lowering their prices,” Evelyn adds, chin on Beckett’s shoulder. “You also patched the hole in the roof on the tractor shed.”
I almost killed myself doing it too. I don’t know what made me think I was qualified to replace shingles, but it didn’t stop me from climbing on top of the damn thing. I slid halfway down on a skid and managed to catch myself on the weather vane shaped like a candy cane. I’ve never been more glad for Stella’s impulsive thematic purchases.
