“I know where plates are.”
Her head turned slowly. “Drew.”
“I live on takeout and controlled nutrition when I visit.”
“You own a house full of massage oil and recovery sleeves, but you don’t know where the roasting pan is?”
“This is not my house never my home.”
Her expression changed.
Then she set the bags down and said gently, “Then we’ll find it.”
And we did.
We found the roasting pan in a lower cabinet that had probably never been opened by a Montgomery man in the history of the bloodline. We found mixing bowls. A potato peeler. A baster still in plastic. Three different kinds of salt. A drawer full of knives sharp enough to make Richard proud.
Isa tied her hair up.
Rolled her sleeves.
Pointed at me.
“Wash your hands.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes flashed. “Careful. I like obedience in the kitchen.”
My entire body reacted.
She saw it.
Smiled.
Then handed me potatoes.
“Peel.”
For the next hour, we made a mess.
A real one.
Potato skins in the sink. Butter wrappers on the counter. Flour dusting the edge of her sweater because she claimed the rolls needed “doctoring up” and then refused to elaborate. She put me on basting duty and acted like I was one wrong spoonful from ruining Thanksgiving forever.
“You’re hovering,” I said.
“You’re under-basting.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is tonight.”
I basted the turkey breast again.
“Happy?”
“I’ll let you know in thirty minutes.”
