I send him a warm smile and hand him the bowl. I’m pretty sure this is his third helping, not that I blame him. Meemaw cooks up some of the best food in the county (and isn’t shy about making it known).
It’s always a treat dining at the Gamble family table. Not only is the food consistently excellent, but the company’s far from boring.
At the head of the table, we’ve got the family patriarch, Emmett Gamble, who everyone from here to East Jesus calls Pops. To his left is his mother-in-law, Francis Ridge, known as Meemaw far and wide. Next to her sits Frankie, the youngest and most well-adjusted member of the Gamble family. And then Frankie’s wife, Morgan Proctor, a librarian who’s the spittin’image of Barbie. When they got hitched, Morgan somehow talked Frankie into hyphenating their last names in the most head-scratching way to make them the Proctor-Gamble family. Neither of them appears to notice when people raise their eyebrows at that one.
I’m seated on Pops’s other side, with Dallas’s adorable son having claimed the chair next to mine, leaving Dallas on Ryder’s other side. The seating arrangement has worked in my favor so far, evidenced by the fact that the words “marriage,” “fiancé,” and “my woman” have yet to be uttered.
We’re short a slew of regulars at the worn oak table tonight, though. Ridge, the oldest Gamble offspring, and his wife, Tiff, are MIA. That last one I don’t mind much, but Ridge is good, solid folk, if a bit grouchy. We’re also missing Dallas’s big sister, Skye, who’s probably off rescuing a goat she’ll inevitably beg me to come check out tomorrow. I don’t mind, though. Animals are way more predictable than people, and Skye is one of my best friends.
“Save room for Morgan’s pie, Pops!” Frankie scolds her father as he heaps another giant spoonful of potatoes on his plate.
Dallas coughs into his fist, and I stifle a grin because, as usual, I know exactly what he’s thinking.
And I’m not the only one, it seems, since Ryder interjects with, “Morgan’s not very good at baking,” in the most matter-of-fact tone you’ve ever heard.
All eyes dart to Morgan, where she sits slack-jawed and sputtering, her tanned skin turning red with embarrassment.
“Ryder!” Dallas scolds. “That’s…” He trails off and then shuts his mouth entirely—because, well, it’s not like the kid isn’t speaking the truth.
I find myself choking on a suppressed laugh because I’m confident there’s not one person seated at this table who doesn’trecall the great “Garlic Cake Incident of 2024.” Pops is still probably paying off that plumber bill.
Frankie, ever faithful, jumps to her wife’s defense. “I disagree wholeheartedly, Ryder.” She lays her hand over Morgan’s and gives it a squeeze. “Morgan is very talented.”
“Not at baking, she ain’t,” Meemaw murmurs under her breath. Or at least I assume that was her intention. Due to her crappy hearing, however, it comes out just under the volume of a megaphone. See? We really do need an otolaryngologist in Big Knob!
Frankie and Morgan both gasp while Pops chokes on his potatoes, trying to stifle his laughter. Ryder beams at Meemaw before sending Dallas a challenging hitch of his eyebrow and saying, “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Dallas’s eyes dart from his son to Pops, to Frankie and Morgan, and then to me. His mouth does its best imitation of a goldfish as he grasps for the right thing to say to smooth things over with his sister-in-law without throwing his son—or himself—under the bus.
What he ends up with is unquestionably the last thing anyone expects, most of all me, when he blurts out, “Shelby’s movin’ in with me!”
I’m seriously starting to wonder if he got kicked in the head by a horse this morning.
Silence falls over the table, broken only by Ryder talking casually around his mouthful of dinner roll. “You can sleep in Dad’s room, Shelby. I need my own space. And, besides, my room smells like farts.”
It’s now my turn to be the goldfish. But before I can gather my wits to respond to either Dallas’s insane declaration or his son’s sleeping arrangement plans, the doorbell rings, followed by a series of insistent rapping.
Nelly takes off for the hall, barking his furry head off. My back goes ramrod straight at the same time Dallas lunges to his feet so hard his chair falls over behind him. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I’m suddenly having trouble catching my breath.
What is wrong with me? Even if itisShane on the other side of that door, it’s not like he’s any real danger to me. I could take that asshole in a fight. Maybe. Hell, I just don’t want to see the man, that’s all.
Dallas, on the other hand, moves with purpose toward the hall like he’d take Shane’s appearance as his most cherished birthday and Christmas presents wrapped in one. Sweet mother of Mariah Carey! I need to stop this insanity.
I spring from my chair as everyone else does the same—I should have known my business had reached every ear in town by now—all of us chasing after Dallas, intent on keeping him from committing homicide on the front porch.
“You’ll run if you know what’s good for you, Conover! I’ll even give you a head start!” Dallas snarls as he swings the door open, nearly tearing it from its hinges in the process.
But it’s not my ex-boyfriend standing on the other side. It’s a terrified-looking delivery driver who may or may not have just pissed his pants.
“I…uh,” he stutters, “need a…s-s-signature for this package. Th-there are hazardous materials inside.” He extends the signature device, and Dallas grabs it, shifting his eyes to glare at Meemaw before scribbling his name.
Meemaw darts her gaze to the ceiling, scanning every inch as if it holds not only the secrets of the universe but next week’s winning Lotto numbers as well.
“Dammit, Meemaw,” Pops grumbles. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop ordering shit online when you’re smokin’ the ganja?!”
She dips her chin to give him the dirty eyeball before prancing to the door and snatching the package from Dallas’s hands. “At least I know how to have fun!” she calls over her shoulder as she escorts the shaken delivery guy back to his truck. Oh, good! His pants are dry.
My lungs having recovered to their normal level of life-sustaining function, I hustle back to the table, hoping to quickly help clear up and avoid any more drama for the evening. There’s a book titledHis Lordship’s Unbuttoned Desirewaiting for me on my bedside table and a deadbolt keeping any unwanted guests out of my house. It’s time to go home.
