Kat Karras.
Sitting at a table, she lifts her head to him the same way he does, a tiny nod of the chin. “Finally. What, you aren’t answering texts anymore? Was afraid you might skip out.”
“I don’t text while I’m driving. And I said it would be after seven.”
“Fair enough. You did.” She smiles and reaches up to pat his chest. “And you brought Miss Josie. Thank you for coming,koukla,” she says to me.
“Thank you … uh, for inviting me.”
“Things may change, but you’re always welcome here,” she says, sounding as if she means it. “Over the last couple of years, Diedre’s been eating with us on Sundays every once in a while.”
She has? Wow. Usually my grandmother will only allow herself time enough to microwave takeout and eat at the kitchen counter. The surprises never end.
“You’ll have to tell her you came next time you email her,” Kat says.
Hate to break the news to her, but Grandma and I don’t enjoy an email-friendly kind of rapport. Or a communication-friendly rapport of any kind, really. She hates texting. I only see her every year or so, and we barely hug. I guess Grandma and Mom’s relationship issues are like the flu, and they’ve infected me with it too; now we’re all sick.
“Where’s Dad?” Lucky asks.
“Minding the grill,” she says, pointing. “Hope you’re hungry, Josie. Drinks are over there. A million side dishes. Save room for ice cream. Oh, and steer clear of the blue casserole dish. Aunt Helen’s been cooking with her cats,” she whispers, making a face.
“Ohshit,” he says. “Thanks for the warning.”
She pokes him the stomach, making him grunt. “No swearing in front of family.”
“She’s not family, Mama.”
“Of course she is.”
I’m caught off guard by her words. She probably doesn’t mean anything by it—just something that rolls off the tongue. But it makes me long for something I don’t have, and now I’m more emotional than I want to be.
She waves a hand to her son. “Go. Say hello to your grandparents. Find your father. And Lucky?”
“Yep?”
“Love you.”
“Mmm.”
“My son, the poet,” she says, winking and grinning at him with obvious affection.
Over by the biggest grill I’ve ever seen, standing in smoke rising from hardwood and ash, we locate the shoulder-length, curly hair and bushy eyebrows of Lucky’s dad, who pauses grilling long enough to hug my neck but is too busy chasing flames with a water bottle to chat. Then it takes us a while to wind our way through the boisterous crowd to the food. I’m reintroduced to Kat’s sister. One set of grandparents. Three of Lucky’s male cousins. An uncle on his father’s side. His neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Wong, from across the street. Two kids flying paper airplanes. And the tiny black dog that I saw running around the boatyard office that day I walked by their window …
“This is Bean the Magic Pup,” Lucky tells me as he crouches near the small ball of fluff and scratches him behind one ear.
“Why is he magic?”
“We found him roaming around the boatyard, and no one claimed him, and my mom kept feeding him.… Go on—pet him. He doesn’t bite, but he issupergassy. That’s his magic power.”
“Ah, pass,” I say, holding up my hands and chuckling.
“Still scared of dogs?”
“Not scared.”
“Ever since that Doberman, when we were nine. The one by the school.”
“I hated that dog,” I admit. “It’s not that. I don’t know … I’ve just never been around any. Not up close and personal.”
