Page 116 of Holiday Hopefuls
21
Callie
Sunday afternoon, the oven timer and a knock on my door sound at the same time. Looking at the microwave clock, I frown knowing Oliver should still be with John right now. Besides, he already let me know he was planning to stay with Blythe tonight since she’s back from her trip. That way he can fill her in on everything.
But I get to keep Nacho with me. So, really, I win.
An insistent knock hammers on the door again.
“Just a sec,” I call. There may be someone freezing outside, but burning down my apartment by leaving my food in the oven too long won’t do anyone any good. So they can wait.
Nacho barks, clearly siding with me.
Glancing down at my favorite green sweats and Oliver’s old university shirt, I shrug to myself. If people don’t want to see me dressed down with no makeup and a messy bun, they should really call first.
Depositing the chicken casserole on the stovetop to cool, I make quick work of wiping my hands on a dishtowel and rush to the door. “No way,” I mutter, checking the peephole. Confusion settles deep in my stomach, curious about what ball is about to drop here in my own home. Especially considering the last time we were all in the same room, when things did not go supremely well.
I open the door and sure enough, there waits all four of my siblings.
“Geez, Calloway, let us in.” Connie’s teeth chatter in spite of her being wrapped up in a down winter coat and boots. Moving me aside, she leads the pack into my apartment.
Each of them look around the space in wonder. Never having been here before, they all take in the insane amount of plants, no doubt wondering if I’ve lost my mind. Or if all the plants have kept too much oxygen in the place and have thus made me the defective Rutherford they’ve come to know.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” I grumble, heading back into the kitchen to cover the chicken in case Nacho gets any bright ideas while I’m distracted by having the entire Rutherford legion in my living room.
“You didn’t attend that school,” Connie teases, smirking down at my shirt, “but I bet I can guess who did.”
Rolling my eyes, I grin and turn to grab the tin foil.
They all remove their coats, hanging them off the two barstools as they wander farther into the space that’s much too small for the five of us.
Prescott hightails it to the single chair on the far end of the living room, as if he’s been on his feet all day and can’t wait to sit down. Given that it’s the weekend, I know he wasn’t in court today. Maybe Mom had him walking from place setting to place setting at their house to help with the New Year’s party planning.
Frankly, that would exhaust me, too.
Prescott clears his throat. “Man, something smells good, Calloway. I guess you really can cook?”
“How else do you think I eat?”
“Take out?”
I snort. “All the time? On a teacher’s salary?”
His lips form a flat line. “Fair point. Are you ever sorry that you didn’t choose something more lucrative?”
“Money’s not everything, Scotty boy.”
The nickname he usually despises earns me a small smile. “No, but then you wouldn’t have to cook all the time.”
Shrugging, I put some fresh water in the electric kettle. If I’m going to make it through having my siblings spend time in my apartment, I’m going to need some gourmet hot cocoa, stat. “I really like cooking, actually. I even grow some of my own herbs.” I nod to the row of basil, thyme, rosemary and oregano on a shelf above the sink.
Imogene sits down on the couch … right in my spot.
I try not to dwell on that fact.
“I didn’t know you have a dog,” Imogene says absently. Nacho leans into the timid pets my oldest sister offers.
“Or so many plants,” Chris gripes.
