Page 102 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“And I’m sorry for yours. I knew Callum—not well, but he was a kind man.”
Annette nods gratefully, and then resumes bustling around behind the kitchen island.
“Anything I can help with?” Gramps asks as Wally sits alertly at his feet, watching us with his dark, shining eyes like he’s part of the conversation.
“Yes,” Annette says. “You can get yourself a cold beverage andsettle into a chair out back. And help yourself to some food, too. It’s all out there.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice.”
“See you in a minute,” I say to Gramps, and he and Wally trot off to the back door.
Annette arranges pita chips around the perimeter of a chip-and-dip tray with what appears to be baba ghanoush in the center. Daniel ducks around her to grab a drink from the fridge.
“Mallory, can I get you a—” he begins, but he’s interrupted by one of the brothers, returning from the backyard.
This one has dark-brown hair and a deep, Florida tan. The other one—the grill master, apparently—looks more like Daniel, though his hair is a darker reddish brown.
The dark-haired brother waves Daniel away and says to me, “Can I make you a cocktail, Mallory?”
“That sounds amazing,” I say. “What can you make?”
“Whatcan’tI make?”
Daniel rolls his eyes.
“My wife likes a Dirty Shirley.” He gestures across the room with his beer bottle; I turn and see a pretty woman with shiny black hair wearing a Lilly Pulitzer dress, talking to an older relative. “Can I make you one?”
“Sounds delicious.” I lean my elbows on the kitchen island as he pours grenadine, Sprite, and vodka into a cocktail glass.
“I’m Jeremy, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” An exaggeration, but it feels like the right thing to say. They seem to have heard about me, which is weird.
As he mixes my drink, Jeremy makes small talk, asking about where I’m from and what I do. It becomes apparent that despite his rowdy-older-brother act when we first arrived, Jeremy is a serious,earnest guy who’s only too happy to discuss his job as a realtor in extreme detail.
Daniel hovers, and once I have my syrupy-sweet drink, we cross through the living room to the back door. The McKinnons’ house has cool tile floors underfoot, a giant TV surrounded by brown leather couches (they’re the biggest sectionals I’ve ever seen; I imagine Annette bought them to accommodate three enormous teenage boys and their friends), and a back door leading out to a screened-in pool. There are a handful of kids splashing and shrieking in the pool—Daniel’s nieces and nephews, I suspect—while three grown-ups sit in lounge chairs sipping drinks and talking, occasionally glancing around to make sure the kids are still alive.
Daniel leads me across the pool deck to the other door, which opens onto a paved patio that’s decked out with a gas grill and built-in countertops, with a huge teak table, a red-and-white-striped umbrella open above it. I follow Daniel to the food spread, where he hands me a paper plate. I quickly realize that this is not your average family barbecue. These people are foodies.
There’s a platter of sticky-looking ribs that give off a heavenly aroma; a huge piece of salmon on a wooden plank, topped with some kind of green pistou sauce; a plate, resting on a bed of ice, containing scallop crudo surrounded by thin slices of lemon; a bowl of pale-orange gazpacho with diced cucumbers and chives on top; a platter of caprese salad made with juicy, colorful heirloom tomatoes and plump, hand-pulled shreds of mozzarella cheese. And that’s only one half of the table.
“Wow. Your family likes food,” I say.
Daniel spoons some caprese salad onto his plate. “Doesn’t yours?”
“Eh,” I shrug, “my mom likes lentils, beans, any and all pulses really, plus mushrooms and kale, whatever vegetable has the most prebiotics in it. Anything with the wordflax, she loves. She usesagave instead of sugar, no matter the recipe. Adds chia seeds and walnuts to everything.”
“For the omega-threes?” Daniel ventures, now selecting an ear of corn.
“Exactly.”
“May she outlive us all,” he says.
“She will.”
“And your dad?” Wordlessly, Daniel offers me a scoop of pineapple and melon fruit salad. I nod, and he adds it to my plate.
“My dad would be content to eat scrambled eggs and toast for every meal for the rest of his life.”
