Page 42 of Stepbrothers

“Don’t be long,” Jenny said, “the roast will be done in…oh no…oh no…oh, damn and blast.”

“Whatever is the matter?” Benjamin set down the bowl and whisk. He appeared quite alarmed.

“The oven. I thought it was on two hundred and it’s been on eighty, the keep-warm setting. No wonder the meat has barely browned and the potatoes are still soggy.”

Benjamin came to her side and fiddled with the dial. “Not to worry, it’s on the right temperature now.”

“Oh, but…” Jenny sighed. “I had it all planned, the timings. I’ll have to turn the carrots off and take the stuffing out.”

“It’s okay, you’re just getting used to a new kitchen, that’s all.” Benjamin kissed the side of her head.

“I’m so disappointed, and now…” She sighed again. “Dinner will be late, another hour at least.”

“That’s not a problem, is it, kids?” Benjamin turned to Parker, Hugh, and Clarice.

“Er, no,” Parker said. “Not for us.”

“You see, Jenny. No one is worried. It’s a lovely day, we’ll eat when it’s ready. No rush.”

This seemed to appease Jenny slightly, and she leaned against him and closed her eyes.

“Let’s get you another glass of champers,” Benjamin said. “And we’ll put some Michael Bublé on the Sonos.”

“Bublé,” Hugh muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”

Clarice giggled. She’d expected nothing less from her mother except complete disaster.

“What’s so funny?” Hugh asked when they stepped outside and she was still chuckling.

“Not only have I never known my mother cook a roast dinner, it’s hardly appropriate for this weather. A barbeque perhaps, or salads and cold meat. Honestly, it’s a wonder I turned out so normal.”

They glanced at each other.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re anything but normal to us,” Hugh said. “Far from average.”

“In fact, you’re quite special,” Parker added.

A pleasant warmth filled Clarice. For the first time in a long time she felt like she had a little place in the world to stand. It might not be for many moons. Her mother’s most long-lived marriage only topped six years, but maybe that would be enough for Clarice to be happy for a while at least.

Michael Bublé’s deep voice rumbled from the speaker along with the pop of a cork.

“Come on,” Parker said, heading down the steps from the decking. “We’ll show you the garden.”

“And the tree house,” Hugh added.

“Tree house?”

“Yeah, it’s where we used to hide out when we were kids. I think you’ll be impressed.”

“If it’s anything like the house, yes, I’m sure I will be.”

They set off across the lawn, which didn’t have a weed or patch of moss in its entire expanse.

“So are they your fancy cars out the front?” she asked.

“Why do you ask?” Parker glanced at her.

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