Page 4 of The Usual Family Mayhem

Hey...“That’s rude. Right but rude.”

“Her cooking skills don’t matter.” Celia shrugged. “We bake.”

Gram managed a double snort. “Not her strength either.”

“Listen up, you beautiful ladies.” I spied what looked like homemade scones at the end of the massive kitchen island andgrabbed one as a diversionary tactic. I ripped it in half and took a bite, barely swallowing before continuing. “I missed you and... sweet baby Jesus, what is in this thing?”

Celia beamed. “Peaches.”

“It’s our newest addition. The menu expansion opened us up to a whole new clientele.” Gram’s hand slid over Celia’s forearm for just a second. “Celia perfected this recipe.”

Pride. Love. I heard and saw both, as I had since I moved in almost a year after Celia did. Even at age six I understood they were a team. But back to the outside crunch and pillowy, buttery inside goodness of the scone. I dropped the pastry before I stuffed the whole thing in my mouth and dove in for a second.

“At least now I know where my carb addiction comes from.” As if that had ever been a question.

“Oh, please.” Gram snorted for the third time in the same conversation, which was nowhere near her record. “Carbs never hurt anyone.”

“The entire healthcare industry would argue otherwise.” That made me think about my doctor and hisyou could stand to lose a few poundslectures. All that meant was I needed to find a new doctor, preferably one who didn’t blame every problem on weight. Mine, by the way, was perfectly fine and within the range for my height... or close enough.

Doctors meant health insurance, which meant I had no choice but to hold on to this job. Which meant the time had come to spill the truth about what I’d done.

Gram and Celia liked new clients. It just so happened I could help with that.

“I thought we could...” Looking at their two shiny, loving, totally skeptical faces made me stumble over my words. Probably from the rush of adrenaline and panic. I fell back on my greatest skill—avoidance. A business discussion could wait one more day. “DC sucks and the dating pool is enough to make me yearn for a dog, so I needed some family time.”

“Aw, honey.” Celia unleashed another loving hug. “Dogs are always better than men.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you needed home cooking and lots of spoiling?” Gram asked.

Because that wasn’t the real reason for the visit, but the idea grew on me as I stood in the homey kitchen with those yellow-and-blue-flowered curtains. A few days of carbo-loading? Excellent.

Gram walked over to the cabinet and took out three fancy antique teacups with matching saucers. “You stay as long as you need.”

She said thatnow. Chances were her good mood would vanish once I coughed up the truth. Until then? More scone eating.

Chapter Three

Jackson Quaid ruined everything.

Probably not fair and a bit too general but I’d known him for a long time and had some experience in this area. He was Celia’s nephew. A real nephew. Not a “nephew” in one of those Southern everyone-is-considered-family kind of ways. Actual kin.

Jackson’s mom, Savannah, was Celia’s baby sister. Two of the five kids in the Windsor clan with Celia being the oldest and Savannah being the youngest. That was the good side of the family. Then there was Harlan, Jackson’s father. A glad-handing, rarely genuine lobbyist type who had been immersed in politics for so long that he’d forgotten how to tell the truth.

Harlan came from a long line of blowhard, pontificating Quaid men. He was the kind of guy who made a compliment sound condescending. He used to talk about what a good housewife Savannah was... then would say she didn’t have the skills to be anything else.

Maintaining a certain public image guided every move Harlan made. Except when it came to women. Dealing with women made him extra messy. He’d waited five whole weeks after Savannah died following a lengthy battle with breast cancer before moving his pretty “real estate friend” into the family home. He, and only he, was shocked when people gossiped about his appalling timing.

It might be faint praise, but Jackson was the best of the Quaid men by a mile. He was also an only child. His parents clearly realized their tragic mistake after having him and stopped making kids. At least that was my working theory.

People described Jackson as focused and smart. I’d add humorless and prone to mumbling under his breath. He was a successful lawyer because he’d actually finished law school without dying of boredom or failing out. The show-off.

He stepped out of the French double doors off the dining room and onto the back flagstone patio. He wore a buttoned-up dark suit, giving off his usual put-together vibe. Objectively handsome—not that I noticed—but only as long as he didn’t talk.

I’d been at Gram’s place for two hours and outside in the backyard for ten minutes before he showed up. He usually sniffed out when I crossed the state line and came running as I pulled in the driveway. Waiting over 120 minutes to pop up and spread his joy meant he must be slowing down in his old age, that age being thirty-three.

Jackson sat on the half of the wicker couch I wasn’t using. The cool steel-blue cushions looked out of place. Not a flower or sunburst pattern in sight, so nothing Gram picked.

I didn’t have to look up to know Jackson started doing his staring thing. I did anyway. As usual, his scowl conveyed his disappointment in my life choices. He glided along, operating by a set of rules only he knew. I’d never been able to figure out what those rules were, but I clearly violated them.

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