I stop in the foyer. To my left, the game’s on in the living room, and I can see it from here. Noah’s on the couch with Maverick bouncing on his knee. Ben’s beside him with one of his boys asleep against his chest, Elle tucked under Ben’s other arm holding the second. Mack’s sprawled in the chair closest to the TV, and Beau, Ben and Elle’s Labradoodle, has claimed the rug. Somebody scores, and Noah throws both of Maverick’s fists in the air. The baby shrieks. Straight ahead, the front door and a driveway full of cars. To my right is the dining room, and past it the kitchen, where I can hear Josie.
I head for the kitchen.
Paige is at the island, laptop open, Amelie on the stool beside her with her chin on her knees. I rub the top of Amelie’s head on my way past, and she leans into it without looking up. Paige is showing her how she cuts the show clips. Trim here, caption there, the waveform bouncing along the bottom. Amelie hangs on every tap of the keys.
Josie’s at the stove, a wooden spoon in one hand, her hip cocked against the counter. I cross to her and kiss the side of her head. She tips it toward me, eyes never leaving the gravy. Peyton’s next to her with Junie on her hip and Jace strapped into the highchair, spooning sweet potato into him that he’s wearing more than eating. Junie throws both arms up when she sees me. I take her, and she fists my collar and shoves it in her mouth.
“You’re putting too much salt in that,” Talisa says, stepping in at Josie’s elbow.
“I have been cooking this meal for thirty years.”
“And it has been too salty for thirty years.” Talisa takes the spoon out of Josie’s hand and tastes the gravy. She reaches for the cream without asking, and Josie lets her. Nick brought her back from Johannesburg to help with Mack and Amelie. Ever since, she’s taken on the role of nanny to the triplets and helps out with the twins when Elle and Ben are in town.
“She’s right, you know,” I say.
Josie points the dish towel at me. “Nobody asked the singer.”
“Former singer. I talk for a living now.”
“God help us all,” Talisa mutters, and Josie laughs so hard she snorts.
I shift Junie onto my hip and reach past Josie to steal a piece of bread off the cutting board. She swats my hand without looking. I don’t move. I drop my mouth to her ear.
“Smells good.”
“The food or me?”
“Both.”
“I can hear you,” Paige calls from the island, not looking up from her screen. “Both of you. We can all hear you. There are children present.” Junie shrieks and slaps a wet hand against my jaw.
Talisa says something in Zulu that shakes her own shoulders. She holds the spoon up to my mouth, and I taste the gravy,keeping my opinion to myself. Josie grins into the pot, her cheeks gone pink.
Peyton catches my eye over Jace’s head and mouths thank you. I shake my head, and she goes back to the sweet potato.
“Grab the good plates,” Josie tells me. “We’ve got the Millers tonight, so we’re short.”
“I can’t. I’m holding precious cargo.” I bounce Junie lightly, making her laugh.
Josie rolls her eyes and takes the plates down. Her shirt rises above the apron tie, and I shield our granddaughter’s eyes.
“Easy there, Grandma,” I say, jokingly. “Don’t want to show our little miss Juniper the goods.”
The glare I receive is enough for me to back off. Juniper and I turn our backs on her not to be messed with Grandma.
The front door bangs open, and Quinn comes through first, loud, taking up the whole frame. Peyton lifts Junie off my hip on her way past. Justine’s behind Quinn with a casserole dish held flat in both hands.
“That better be the green bean thing,” Josie says.
“It’s the green bean thing.” Justine slides it onto the counter and ducks behind Quinn, who’s already got a hand in the breadbasket.
Josie smacks his knuckles. “You’re as bad as him.”
“Who do you think taught me?” Quinn grins around a mouthful of stolen sourdough, all jaw and confidence. For a second, he’s pure Harrison. He used to spin a drumstick in the wings while his dad and I argued set lists. Now he’s the lead singer in a very successful band and has a young bride by his side.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask.
“LA. He says, and I quote, his shoulder would rather be anywhere than on a plane.”
