“But—”
“It’s fine, kiddo. Stop worrying.”
She studied his strained expression. His salt-and-pepper hairand smile lines that peppered his tan skin revealed his age. It was becoming harder and harder to remember the larger-than-life dad from her childhood who used to carry her on his shoulders at the beach and who helped her and her sisters dig holes in the sand to reach the center of the earth.
He caught her expression and sighed. “Why don’t you go inside and grab some food?”
“Okay.” She reluctantly nodded. “Want me to bring you anything?”
He made another gruff sound as he set the wrench down and picked up his pliers. “No. Your mother won’t let me put salt on anything anyway. I’m good.”
She gave him a small salute and started up the metal steps to the deck.
“Shut up!”
Lydia’s voice rattled the house before Lizzy was even through the front door.
There was a familiar wall of sounds and smells to welcome her. The clatter of pots and pans and glasses. The smell of sugar and butter wafting through the air… and burning. Yes, something was definitely burning.
Lizzy left her bag by the door and wandered from the small foyer into the living room, which opened up to the kitchen just beyond. Lydia was curled up on one end of the couch, her phone to her ear as she filed her nails while an episode ofLove Is Blindplayed on the TV.
“That is insane. So insane,” she squealed. “What did you say?”
Behind her, Mrs. Bennet flitted from the refrigerator to where her wineglass was on the countertop, refilling it with her trademarkpinot grigio and ice—a staple for the summer months—while Kitty tried to move around her. Mary was there, too, her short blue pixie cut bent over the kitchen table as she folded a pile of pamphlets. She was only a year older than the twins, and looked a lot more like them than she would ever admit. Maybe that was why she seemed to work so hard to distance herself from the fact, both physically and philosophically. Right now that meant wearing a smallNo Nature, No FutureT-shirt and a recently acquired septum piercing.
“Somebody turned off my timer!” Kitty wailed as she opened the oven. She pulled out a muffin tray that was almost entirely black.
Mary ignored her, not looking up from her pamphlets as she asked, “Does anyone know where that leftover red paint is from Christmas?”
The question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. They never were. Trying to get answers in the Bennet household was a bit like fishing: you had to just throw a line out and wait for someone to tug.
This time, it was Lizzy.
“The one from the Santa Claus decorations?” she asked, reaching into a nearby cabinet for a bowl.
“Yeah.”
“It’s in the garage. Benjamin Moore, Hot Tamale.”
Mary nodded, as much of a thank-you as anyone could expect.
Kitty cradled her tray of charred baked goods, looking for a place to set them, while their mother took a sip of her wine. Her own cell phone was wedged between her shoulder and chin, and the conversation seemed to require so much attention that she barely noticed Lizzy’s arrival.
“Okay, Donna. Let’s go over it again. You buy a box of Lux Leggings from me, which you go out and sell yourself,” Mrs. Bennetsaid into her phone, her voice sweet as honey as she waved Kitty away from her corner of the kitchen. Lizzy maneuvered around them both as she headed to the pantry and grabbed a box of cereal. “Then you recruit other people to buy boxes of leggings from you to sell, then share the profits with me. Got it?”
Kitty finally settled at the butcher block island, setting her muffin tin next to where Lizzy was pouring Frosted Flakes into her bowl.
“They’re ruined,” Kitty moaned.
“Oh myGod, that’s amazing!” Lydia yelled into her phone from the sofa.
“Did someone move my vegan glue?” Mary seethed, looking around the table.
“No, Donna, it is not a pyramid scheme!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed.
“What were you going for this time?” Lizzy asked Kitty, eyeing the blackened muffin tray.
Kitty sighed. “Paprika popovers.”
