“I’m not even sure I know what a Gilded Age spinster is, Banks. I just know that I hadn’t ever heard your dad talk about someone the way he talked about you, and if you could impress Carter Banks, then you must be something special.”
“I wish I knew him the way you do. The person you’re describing couldn’t be more different than the father I grew up with.”
“Maybe he’s not the same father anymore.” He takes my hand, and something about it just feels right. “You’re not the same daughter. Maybe you both need a reintroduction, and maybe this business venture of yours is the way to go about it. You’d get to see him in his element, and he’d see you in yours.”
“I’m asking for a loan,” I say. “Not a business partner.”
“Your dad isn’t the silent-partner kind of guy, Banks. If you want his money, he comes with it. That’s a good thing. You want a guy like your dad in your corner. Anybody can give you money to run a business, but your dad can show you how to make a business thrive.”
We stop in front of my house, and I make a point not to look at the Mackenzies’ place. Poor Ozzie’s panting so hard, I think he’s syncopated his breaths to say Help me, help me. My heart rate is up too, only I’m pretty sure mine has to do with the idea of my father being my business partner. Of course he’d want to be a part of it! I was an idiot not to realize that on my own.
“My dad can’t be my business partner,” I say. “He’s not even a part of the Smut Coven.”
“Let me help you come up with your pitch and plan.” Martin rests his hands on my shoulders. “I know how your dad thinks about business. I can help you position yourself so that you feel safe and stay in charge.”
“OK.” I glance over my shoulder at my parents’ front door. “Any chance you want to come inside with me and defile a turkey?”
“You’re into some kinky shit, Banks.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze. “I’m actually going to keep walking a little longer. I do my best thinking when I’m walking, or when I’m in the shower.”
“You must get really excited when it rains.”
“Not nearly as excited as my neighbors get.” He raises his eyebrows. “Be gentle with that turkey. It’s had a rough go.”
“I can relate.”
I hurry into the kitchen and wash my hands, dragging out the process like I’m a surgeon prepping for the OR. Diced onions and garlic sizzle in a cast iron frying pan, filling the kitchen with their salty, sweet scent. Phoebe pushes them back and forth in the pan with a wooden spoon while Falon rips apart a loaf of French bread. They’re side by side in matching turkey aprons, lost in conversation. Meanwhile, my mother is at the helm of her standup mixer with Nana Rosie barking orders in between sips of her mimosa.
“Where’s my coffee?” Phoebe glares at me. “Martin promised me coffee.”
“I drank it.” I smile. “And it was delicious.”
“You are the worst sister in the world. You know that, right?”
“Obviously. I keep the certificate over my bed, and once a year, the town throws a parade in honor of all the worst siblings, and I always get to sit in the lead float. It’s a real honor.”
“Here. Grate this.” Falon sets a cutting board and a bag of carrots next to me. “And if you accidentally cut off your fingernail, do not simply continue grating.”
“Oh my god, that was one time, Falon, and you weren’t even in the family yet.” I throw a carrot at Phoebe’s back. “I can’t believe you told her about that.”
“She’s never been able to trust carrot cake since.” Phoebe kisses Falon’s cheek. “She’s counting on you to not screw it up this time.”
I grab a strainer from the cabinet and throw the bag of carrots in it. I rinse them in the sink and cut off the tops, hoping that Nana Rosie will continue to micromanage my mother’s cooking instead of mine.
“Silvia, if you put any more sugar in that batter, we’re going to have to stick a candle in the cornbread and sing it ‘Happy Birthday.’” Nana Rosie takes a sip of her mimosa. “Cornbread is a savory dish, not a diabetic coma.”
“I’m following your recipe exactly.” My mother wipes a bit of sweat from her brow. “You specifically call for a cup of sugar.”
“Let me see that thing.”
My mother hands Nana Rosie the yellowing index card from her recipe box. Nana Rosie puts on her glasses and inspects the card closely. Odds are that my mother is right and Nana Rosie is wrong, but the thing about being in your late nineties is that you have the luxury of not giving a shit and never having to admit your mistakes.