Page 92 of Corkscrew You
“Drink?” says Danny. “I can fix you a margarita, or there’s wine.”
Every part of mecravesto knock back a jug of margarita, but I’d better keep a clear head.
“Wine would be lovely,” I say.
“Cheese puff?” Izzy holds out a tray.
Being the centre of attention might be nice, except that I’m also carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations. Anxiety dries my mouth, making the cheese puff tough going.
This isnoteased when Ava says, impatiently, “Where the hell is Nate?”
“I’ll phone him,” says Danny, and steps out of the kitchen to do so.
Max is busy by the stove, stirring and checking. He looks up.
“We’re ready to go,” he says to Ava. “Shall we wait?”
“No, it took me freaking ages to persuade Dad to eat with us,” she replies, frowning. “We’ll start without.”
Oh. That’s right. I still have to meet Mr Durant. Ignoring my own advice, I take a decent slug of wine.
Escorted by Izzy and Mrs Durant, I find myself seated at a large dining table, set in a way that would make Martha Stewart cry tears of envious joy.
Immediately, I bob up again, as a man who can only be Nate’s father enters the room. Dark hair salted with grey, lean and handsome, the dead spit of his two eldest children.
“You must be Shelby,” he says. “I’m Mitchell Durant.”
He, too, looks thin and worn, his jaw clenched as if he’s battling pain. But his blue eyes are cold as an alpine lake. I start to understand a little more about what Nate’s childhood might have been like.
“Good to meet you, sir,” I reply, hoping he can’t see that I’m quaking in my boots.
He turns his gaze to his wife and youngest daughter.
“It’s well past seven,” he says, pointedly.
“Sorry, Dad.”
Max bustles in with a big casserole dish in oven-gloved hands. Ava’s on his heels, with bowls of potatoes and green beans.
Danny enters.
“Nate’s on his way,” he announces. “He says to start without him.”
I spy Ava shoot him a hard look, but Danny is busy pouring wine for everyone at the table. Except, I notice, his dad. Guess that makes sense. Though, personally, I think wine’s good for what ails you.
Max finishes arranging the dishes on the table, counts serving spoons, checks the condiments.
“It’s chicken, with braised leek and fennel,” he informs us all. “Good for you in every way. Dad, you’re head of the family. Dig in.”
Might be my imagination, but I get the feeling Max doesn’t have the same wariness as the others seem to, when it comes to their father. He’s not disrespectful, exactly, but he certainly doesn’t choose his words as carefully.
“Guests first, Max,” says his dad.
“Oops, sorry Shelby,” says Max, with a smile. “Here. Pass your plate.”
My ears must be trained for the sound of the pickup, because I seem to be the only one who hears it. The others raise their heads only when the front door is opened and shut.
“About time,” mutters Ava.
