Queso comes racing around the front of the house to greet me, yapping, with Tater and Bean in hot pursuit. I give them scratches and head inside to deal with Presley.
“Hey, Mom!” I call out when I open the door.
“In here, honey,” she answers from the front room, exactly where I expect to find her. JP and Presley are seated on a sofa across from my parents, although my mom is already up and coming for a hug.
“Hi, baby.” She squeezes me tight, and I hug her back. She always smells like lemon, and it calms me, even though I can see Presley climbing to her feet to make a run at me too.
My mom steps back and tugs me over to the sofa. “Come have a seat while your dad makes you a drink.”
“I’ll do it, Mom.” It lets me divert to the wet bar, and Presley has to sit down. “Can I get anyone anything while I’m here?”
“Vodka and cranberry,” Presley says.
“You got it.” I pour myself a gin and tonic and then mix her drink, bringing it to her with a polite smile. “Good to see you, Pres.”
She accepts the glass, making sure her fingers linger on mine as she takes it. “You too, Josh. Can’t wait to catch up.”
I choose a chair where she can’t join me, and the next fifteen minutes pass in small talk about the baseball team JP is part owner of and the state of the state while skirting around politics. The Reillys and my parents vote opposite, and I actually align more with the Reillys. But since everyone is super passionate about their opinions—I have a sister namedReagan, for pity’s sake—we’ve all learned to leave politics alone over the years.
A buzzer sounds and my mom gets up. “That’ll be the beef tenderloin,” she says. “Josh, come and help?”
“Glad to.” I follow her to the kitchen while I hear my dad inviting JP and Presley to the family dining room.
We do have a formal dining room, but my parents rarely use it. It’s “for company.” The family dining room is for friends.
In the kitchen, my mom hands me hot pads and gestures to the oven. “Go ahead and take it out,” she says. “It can rest on the table while we start with salad.”
It would normally be a gamble to serve filet mignon to a steak-loving guy like JP who loves his meat heavily marbled and almost mooing, but Elizabeth Brower is a dang good cook, and anyone she’s fed once is anxious to repeat the experience.
I pull out the roasting pan and transfer the tenderloin to a waiting platter, then carry it out to the table and set it down. My mom is right behind me with a salad bowl, the dressings already waiting on a table that looks like it should be in a magazine about casual elegance.
She’s opted to sit beside me instead of at the foot of the table, and she’s put Presley across the table and diagonal from me. She’s trying to create a buffer for me, and I appreciate it.
Presley makes her move after steak and before dessert.
“So how has it been at the firm, Josh?” she asks.
It’s a polite question. A normal one, even, and anyone who doesn’t know how Presley operates would miss this as her opening shot. But this is where she’ll begin a subtle campaign to split off from our parents during dessert that will end with her backing me into a literal corner and trying to make out with me or something.
Ask me how I know.
But I have to answer or look rude, so I do, all the while calculating what her next move might be and how to derail her. “It’s been good. Long hours. Spending a lot of time at the office.” Subtext: I don’t have time to date.
“That’s admirable, son,” Mr. Reilly says. Subtext: Billing lots of hours means you can support Presley in the style to which she’s accustomed.
“Not too much time, I hope,” Presley adds. “Need to have that work/life balance, right, Miss Elizabeth?” Subtext: As my future mother-in-law, please remind Josh to make time for me.
“I wish it were that easy,” I say. Subtext: No way. “But we’ve got a huge case I’m on right now.”
“Good thing you know the boss,” Mr. Reilly says with a wink but also a slight edge to his voice. Subtext: Steve, you better give Josh time off to spend with Presley.
I stifle a sigh. This is classic JP Reilly, trying to corner my dad. Presley learned from a pro. I have to come up with something fast or my dad is going to be forced to give me time off for Presley to drive me crazy.
“It’s not my dad who makes me work so much,” I say. “I find it interesting. Anyway, good thing my girlfriend is patient about it.”
My mom’s eyebrows fly up, and she and my dad exchange glances.
“Your . . . girlfriend?” Presley asks, hesitating before “girlfriend” as if to make sure she won’t choke on it.
