Page 113 of Roommate
“Okay?” That sounds ominous.
“Do you want me to find your biological father? Your mother told me about him this morning. I’ve never met the man, but I’m sure I could track him down. If that ever becomes important to you, just say the word.”
“I don’t think so,” I say abruptly. “But thanks.”
He gives me a quick hug. “You call me if you need anything. My door is always open to you. Both of you,” he says, including Roderick. And then he strides out of the waiting room.
“Whoa,” Roddy says, rising to his feet. “Would you ever want to meet your sperm donor?”
I’ve wondered about him, for sure. But the man got a parishioner pregnant and then made himself scarce. “Parents are difficult. I think I already have all the parents I can handle.”
“Aw. They sure are.” Roderick wraps his arms around me and gives me my second hug in as many minutes. “Are you ready to go out for noodles with me?”
“More than ready,” I admit. And I give him a tight hug back.
Roderick
Let it be said that Audrey makes terrific fried chicken. It’s crispy and juicy and even a little spicy. I’m in heaven as I sit elbow to elbow with my man, eating this terrific food.
And I’m pleased to report that during the blessing, Kieran did hold hands with me under the table. I never thought this day would come. But here we are.
Kieran was a little quiet on the ride to Tuxbury. He hates attention. And tonight is the first time he’s seen all his extended family at once. But now he’s communing with his dinner and spreading butter on a piece of cornbread that I made for tonight’s feast.
There have been several not-so-subtle glances toward this end of the table, but—lucky for Kieran—it’s not us they’re looking at. In a bizarre twist of events, we’re not tonight’s biggest story. Not even close.
Grandpa Shipley invited a guest for dinner. A woman. Her name is Lydia. She’s seventy-nine years old, and she’s eating her fried chicken daintily with a knife and fork.
The Shipleys are mesmerized. Every one of them.
“So, Lydia,” Ruth says sweetly. “You’re new in town?”
“I was new in town when FDR was president,” she says. “But my family traveled extensively. My father was in the army.”
“We met in high school!” Grandpa says, reaching for another piece of my cornbread. “I thought I might ask her to marry me, but she moved away again. If she hadn’t, you all might be different people.”
Lydia sets down her fork and turns to him. “That is a creepy thing to say to your lovely family. And you don’t even know if I would have said yes.”
Grandpa blinks. “I’m sorry, Miss Lydia. You’re right. I shouldn’t presume.”
Every Shipley jaw hits the floor.
He doesn’t notice, though. He uses his knife to swipe a pat of butter, which he applies in a thick layer to the cornbread. “Roderick, this is fabulous stuff. You can come back any time.”
“Thank you, sir. Good to know.”
“Do you make this for my grandson?” he asks, giving me a pointed look.
“Well, I make lots of things. But I don’t think I’ve made the cornbread at home.”
“Hrmf,” he says through a bite. “Well, you should. It’s delicious. And that boy works hard.”
“Indeed,” I agree, although I feel as if I’ve been cast in the role of a fifties housewife, somehow.
“He doesn’t know how to cook,” Grandpa continues.
“Actually—” I start to argue.
“If he did know how to cook, I’d’ve been invited for dinner already at your new house in Colebury.”
