“Aren’t you proud of her?” Lamar asks him.
“Definitely,” Logan says, but I can read the uncertainty in his eyes, I guess about my cooking skills. I’m a little hurt, but I hide it.
“I promise it’s going to be delicious,” I say. Then, I ask Lamar, “Where do we want to set up?”
“Outside, I thought.”
He reaches up to the cabinets to get plates, which I wait to take from him. Logan heads for the utensil drawer. As I carry the dishes outside, Jazzy barrels into the backyard from the side gate, calling for Bean. My dog looks up from the bush she had her head stuck in and runs to greet my niece. The resulting kid and dog hug is reminiscent of a military homecoming. It’s like they haven’t seen each other in years.
Mom lays her phone down on the side table and stands. “Sorry, everyone. I had some clients who needed to be talked off the ledge about the contract they’re about to sign.”
She hugs me, then Logan, who stepped out of the kitchen behind me, waves to Tamara and Dean, and when Jazzy untangles herself from Bean, Mom twirls her granddaughter around in a grandma greeting.
“Oh, I’m so happy you all can be here. I love having my family around!” Mom says.
We laugh. My mother isn’t shy about expressing her feelings, that’s for sure. I glance at Logan. He’s looking at me, his expression hard to read again. But when I smile, he smiles back.
We all catch up on our weeks as we help bring the food to the table. I’d made a green salad earlier to go with the stew, and Lamar had bought and warmed crusty, fresh French bread to serve as well. When we finally tuck into the meal, I realize I did an okay job on the gumbo. The dish might be missing some of the culinary magic Lamar sprinkles into his own food, but it’s thick, rich, and perfectly seasoned, according to Tamara, who’s eaten her dad’s gumbo since . . . maybe not birth, but soon after. Even Jazzy, whose meal consisted of a dollop of gumbo beside small piles of shredded chicken, vegetables, and fruit, takes a taste and declares it “not that icky.”
“Thank you again for teaching me, Lamar,” I say after everyone compliments the flavor.
He smiles and raises his wine glass to me. “I was pleased to help check it off the list.”
The sun has set, casting the patio in shadows. Mom lights a few candles on the table which add to the festive feel. After finishing the meal, we chat about Tamara and Dean’s Adventure Thursday kayaking trip last week and their visit to some hot springs in the Collegiate Peaks area near Salida a few days ago, Jazzy’s movie date with me, and a new restaurant downtown that Lamar and Mom tried last night.
“What have you been up to, Logan?” Mom asks. “We haven’t seen you in a few weeks.”
“Working, running, gaming. The usual,” he says. “I’ve also been going to the disc dogs club meeting with Stevie and Bean.”
“That’s right,” Mom says. “Stevie, you said you’d show us what she’s learned.”
“Ooh, yes.” I grab the tooth marked disc out of my backpack, along with a packet of peanut butter in case Bean needs extra motivation. Although only a week or two old, the disc already has puncture marks and the beginning of a crack in the rim. Jude and Emmy had warned me that discs made for dogs were notoriously short-lived. Depending on how often dogs play with them, and how soft or hard they bite the disc, the cheaper ones last a few weeks and the pricey varieties about a month. Jude had advised me to stock up if I ever saw them on sale.
Bean, who’d sat in the grass during dinner keeping a watchful eye out for the scraps that inevitably came her way from Jazzy, jumps up, her tail wagging when she sees the disc.
I smear a little peanut butter on the edge of it and let her sniff but not lick it. “Ready to work, girl?”
I wave the disc around slowly in front of her face. Then, using my new throwing technique that Jude taught me, I spin the disc into the corner of the yard near the hammock. Bean tears off through the grass and with a quick glance back over her shoulder, turns and catches it neatly in her mouth.
My family applauds. Jazzy scrambles out of her chair. “I want to throw for her! Can I throw for her, Aunt Stevie?”
“Of course.” I give Bean the order to bring the disc back, but she hasn’t quite gotten that down yet, so I retrieve it myself. Then I hand it to Jazzy, who tries to replicate what I did. We wipe more peanut butter on the disc’s edge, she lets Bean sniff it, and throws. It lands about two feet away. Jazzy—and Bean—look so disappointed, we all chuckle. Tears fill my niece’s eyes.
“Don’t laugh,” she says.
I squat beside her. “We’re aren’t laughing at you, sweet pea, only at Bean.”
Jazzy pouts. “She doesn’t like being laughed at, either.”
“You’re probably right. I’m sorry.” I snuggle her for a moment and then reach to pick up the disc. “Let me show you how to throw this thing.”
I kneel, and putting my arm around Jazzy, slowly show her the movement, the way Jude did with me at the park. It had been helpful to learn exactly how to hold the frisbee and how to keep everything level, so it flies straight.
“Got it?” I scoot back.
Jazzy’s eyes narrow with determination, and her full lips purse. “Ready.”
Bean runs as Jazzy curls her arm and throws. The frisbee goes twice as far this time. It lands in the grass, but Bean quickly circles back and scoops it up when Jazzy tells her to. We all clap.
“Well done, Jazz,” Dean says. “And Stevie, it’s amazing that Bean already gets the gist of this.”
I grin, proud of her. When Jazzy lines up to throw for Bean again, I stay with her to help correct her wind up and throw. Behind us, the conversation at the table turns to other things. After a couple more tosses, I hear my name.
“Thirty,” Mom says. “I really can’t believe it. How’s it going with the list?” I can tell she’s lowering her voice intentionally, but it doesn’t quite work. Although my mother is a lot of things, quiet isn’t one of them.
Hot blood creeps up my neck and burns my ears. Why does my family ask Logan things about me? We’re close, but why would he know more about my life than I do? Then again, maybe he does. Maybe I should keep listening and learn something about myself.
“And you,” Mom says, “I can’t believe you’re already thirty. It seems like yesterday that you were peeing in the corner of our backyard because you didn’t want to stop playing and come inside to use the bathroom.”
Everyone laughs, including me, although I smother it.
Then Logan says, “I’m having trouble believing I’m thirty and still solidly single.”
Mom makes an mmm noise of understanding. “That can be remedied, Logan Stephens.”
The conversation moves on, but I chew on what I’d heard. Logan sounded unhappy about being single. Like he’s lonely.
And who can blame him, living with me? He probably feels like he’s sharing a house with a disorganized vampire or something. I work all night and sleep during the day, I’m a terrible housekeeper, I’m pretty moody, and my dental hygiene definitely needs work. Logan deserves a loving, kind, smart, beautiful, organized, mature woman.
A woman like—