As I finish writing outthe totals of what’s in the cash drawer, I grab my phone and write up a message to Journey.
Me:What’s the occasion?
I’m sure she won’t give me an honest answer. If she wanted me to know what she was up to, she would have warned me before sending a rogue e-invite.
Journey:To eat dinner.
I figured it’s all I’d get out of her.
Me:Are you getting married?
Journey:To who?
I’ll keep the Satan joke to myself.
Me:Good point.
Me:Are you pregnant?
This is just to irritate her. I can bet on my life, she’s not pregnant.
Journey:From who?
Me:Another good point.
"I didn’t get any answers from her," I tell Brett.
"I didn’t figure you would."
The day dragged by, but only because I have been creating lists of potential reasons for Journey to invite Brett’s family over for a "dinner party."
Brett left an hour before I did to get Parker from school and get her settled with homework before heading over to Mom’s house.
Journey isn’t at Mom’s house when I get home, however. It’s only Mom in the kitchen, cooking away with steam pouring out of three pots on the stovetop as the microwave beeps in long successions of whiny reminders to remove whatever is inside.
"Where is Journey?" I ask Mom as I tie my hair up, ready to help her out.
"She was here helping earlier but went home to take a quick shower and change before dinner," Mom says, circling around as if she forgot what she was in the middle of doing before I interrupted.
"Do you know why she’s ‘hosting’ a dinner party tonight?"
"I do," Mom says without stopping to look at me. "But I’m not going to be the one to talk about it because she asked me not to spoil her dinner party."
This makes no sense. What could be so important that Brett’s family needs to be here to hear whatever it is Journey needs to say? It has to be about The Barrel House. There is no other logical answer.
Mom hands me a knife and a bag of tomatoes. "Could you chop these up for the salad?"
I take the clear plastic bag from her hand and place it down beside the cutting board. "Is this ‘news’ going to make me angry?" I ask Mom.
"It shouldn’t," she says, stirring the pot—both literally and figuratively.
Journey busts through the door like a windstorm, tossing her coat against the wall, chucking her boots off one by one as they hit the entryway bench, and then I hear her keys clamber into the glass dish on the entryway table.
She runs in behind me and begins inspecting the prepared food on the counter. "Everything looks great, Mom. Thanks for helping," she says.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "I’ve already set the table," Mom says. "We’re just about ready." Mom glances over at the time on the microwave. "They should be here any minute now. Perfect."
"Good," Journey says.
