I handed her my beer. “She’s supposed to bring an adult to class on Tuesday to talk about what they do for a living.”
“Why can’t you go? You’re the famous author.”
“I’m not famous.” One decent book deal had been just enough to cover my bills. It hadn’t even gone to print yet. For all I knew, it could flop and I’d never get another one. “Besides, Delia already asked and her teacher said no.”
“Why?”
I glanced at my mother and lowered my voice. “Apparently, the school had some concerns about thecontentof my books.”
“You mean the sex?”
My mother stopped stirring. I kicked my sister under the table,barking out a swear when my toe connected with the steel toe of her boot. “What possessed you to bring SWAT gear to Thanksgiving?”
“I didn’t. It’s my old training gear from the Academy. Found it upstairs in the closet in my old room. Still fits,” she said proudly, patting her chest plate.
“It’s Velcro!”
“What’s this about sex in your books?” My mother planted a hand on her hip, a dripping gravy ladle poised in the other. “Why would your books have sex in them? You told me they were mysteries.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, snatching my beer back from my sister.
A mischievous gleam glinted in her eye. “Didn’t you read Finn’s books, Ma? How could you not remember the sex?” Georgia winked at me, picking a raw bean from the bowl and popping it into her mouth.
I smacked her hand as she reached for another. “For Christ’s sake, Georgia. You just changed a diaper. Did you even wash your hands?”
My mother pointed her ladle at me. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain in my house, Finlay Grace McDonnell.”
“Donovan,” Georgia and I corrected her in unison.
My mother gritted her teeth, the ladle scattering gravy as it swung toward my sister. “And Georgina Margaret, go wash those filthy hands!”
Georgia’s eyes rolled up in her head. She punched my shoulder as she stood up and slunk from the table.
“Now what’s this business about sex in your books?” my mother asked me.
“How much of them did you actually read?”
The color deepened in her cheeks. “The first chapters.”
“Only the first chapters?”
“Of the first one.”
My mouth fell open. I knew—and was grateful for the fact—that my father hadn’t read my novels. The print was too small on those tiny paperbacks for him to bother. But I had assumed my mother, who lived for the opportunity to insert herself into my personal life, would have at least made the effort to finish one.
“The one I tried,” she explained, “it didn’t appeal to me. What?” she asked as I gaped at her. “I like Nora Roberts. Have you read Nora? She’s really very good.” She grunted as she hefted the turkey back into the oven. “See, this is another reason you should have a husband.”
“I can lift my own poultry, thanks.”
She looked to the ceiling, or maybe to god, as she shook open a dish towel and wiped off her hands. “Go tell your father the turkey will be ready in half an hour, and I need him to find the electric carver.”
Still shaking my head, I carried my beer through the swing doors. A football game blared in the next room, where Vero and my father were settled on the couch, shouting at the TV and arguing over first downs.
“Hey, Pop. Mom needs you in the kitchen.” I came up behind him and kissed his cheek. He patted my hand where it rested on his shoulder.
“Not so fast, old man,” Vero teased, holding her palm out to him as he rose stiffly to his feet.
My father dug in his pocket and peeled out a twenty. “I should stick to betting online.”
