Chapter 15
“Ipicked up a growler of kombucha from one of Maggie’s farmers’ market friends. Want some?” Cal asked, peering around the corner from the kitchen to the living room.
“Sure,” Bash said, not looking up from his laptop. If he tore his eyes away from the financial report, he’d never go back to reading it and he promised himself he couldn’t read the launch schedule until he had. He mumbled, “Thanks,” when Cal set it next to him.
“Nanna wanted me to tell you that dinner’s at five on Tuesday and then the great re-creation is Thursday after practice.”
“The what?” Bash sipped his kombucha and grimaced. “How big is a growler?”
“The three of us will knock it back in no time.” Ha! Cal doesn’t know how big it is either.
“Lucas isn’t a fan, and this will turn him off kombucha for life,” Bash said.
“A spoonful of honey will take care of it.” Bash chuckled at Cal’s optimism. Thistlestone honey was the cure for whatever ailed a Buchanan. Cal put it in the herbal tea Elspeth made from the ranch’s flowers and on his cuts and scrapes.
“So, back to your earlier comment,” Bash said, hoping to limit Cal’s interruption. “I’m invited to the ranch for dinner?” He closed the laptop’s lid. He didn’t need Cal seeing the report, and he’d read enough to get the gist of it. They weren’t on the brink of disaster, but they weren’t safe either. Situation normal.
“Thanksgiving is on Tuesday and then the great re-creation is on Thursday.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s whatever Maggie and Nanna can make out of the leftovers. Sometimes it’s sandwiches or a casserole. One year it was quiche, because the turkey was small.”
“And it’s everyone on Tuesday and Thursday?” Bash asked, amazed again by how much time they spent together. It was as if they were each other’s favorite people. Which is kind of nice.
“Yep.”
“So why not just do it on Thursday like the rest of America?”
“This works better.”
“How?” Bash wanted to understand this newest slice of Buchanan craziness.
“We used to do it on Thursday, but then Penny joined Elspeth at the store and they needed prep time before Black Friday. Maggie needed to get up super early to open Brewster’s so they could caffeinate the shoppers in Old Town. So, Nanna moved the big meal to whatever day worked for everyone, and then Thursday is more casual, less of an event.”
“Oh.” Bash tried to wrap his head around celebrating Thanksgiving on Tuesday and not on the fourth Thursday of November. Like he had for his entire life. Watching the parade from the Smyth-Jones’s apartment on Central Park West, then going home to make mashed potatoes with his dad while his mom reheated the food in the pre-made dinner she’d ordered from the restaurant around the corner. He and Inga would make a pumpkin pie the day before, and after she’d left, he’d continued making one on his own.
“Is that a yes?”
“Sure. I’ll bring a pie.”
“There’ll be plenty of pies. Bring wine.” Bash made a note to call Cavistes, his preferred wine store in New York, to see if they could ship anything to him or if they had any recommendations. Penny would bristle and remind him Cascade City had bottle shops, too, but riling her up was becoming one of his favorite past-times.
Bash’s stomach finally rumbled as he left the Tetons’ training facility. He hadn’t been hungry since the traditional meal on Tuesday, two days ago. Four had deep fried a turkey and Elspeth had made a ham with a cola and brown sugar glaze. Alison brought her family-favorite pecan pie. Maggie had brought homemade rolls and pies—apple strudel and a pumpkin. Penny made a green salad and roasted vegetables. Three mashed the potatoes and got into Barbara’s way as she’d tried to keep everyone organized and get the food on the table at the same time. Cal had shared some of his latest whiskey batch. Bash and Lucas had brought several bottles of Pinot Noir—recommended by Cavistes—champagne, and hard cider from a local brewer. They’d almost had to roll him out the door. Practice the next morning had been brutal.
And today was round two, according to Cal. He’d warned Bash and Lucas to eat a light lunch because the leftovers were even better. Bash checked his watch, relieved he wouldn’t be too late. The acupuncturist had a last-minute opening, and Bash had taken it, hoping it would help ease the persistent ache in his hips. He hated being tardy almost as much as he hated waiting for other people. Luckily, the stoplights around the stadium were well timed, unlike the one by Get Lost he always got stuck at. Longest light on the planet, he thought, zipping his down jacket to the top.
“’Sup, Tin Man,” a player called. Cal had used the nickname in the locker room shortly after Bash had shared it with them. He’d apologized later, explaining he was trying to fit in. Bash couldn’t blame him for that. He’d done the same thing with his movie’s-better-than-the-book comment, and that slip still haunted him. At some point, he’d have to confess to Penny that he could read and was a book lover. Thankfully, Cal was a quick thinker and had said Bash was the Tin Man because he had a steel arm. No mention of his missing heart.
Bash tossed his bag in the back of his SUV and glanced at the pumpkin pies he’d left on the backseat. He’d made them last night, much to Cal’s bewilderment and teasing. Bash frowned at the group of men surrounding the open hood of the car parked next to him. He didn’t have time for this, but the wind bit, they were losing sun, and he doubted if any of them knew what a dipstick was.
He pushed his way to the front of the car, yanking off his gloves. “Shine a light here,” he said, and a few phone flashlights turned on. He moved some wires. Tugged on a few others. Nothing was obviously wrong in the five-year-old Mustang convertible with its flashy trim and custom rims. “Try starting it.” Jarvis, an outside defensive linebacker, slid behind the wheel shaking his head, but he didn’t argue.
“Stop!” Bash yelled when he heard the telltale clicking. “How long have you had her?”
“Bought her new, why?” Jarvis asked, getting out of the car.
“When’s the last time you bought a battery?” Bash tugged his gloves on. Jarvis scrunched up his face, thinking. Bash hoped he didn’t hurt himself.
“Never?”
“Your battery’s dead and you need a new one. I’ve got cables in my car, so I’ll give you a jump. It’s not a long-term solution, so you need to take care of it. Call a shop or check with Kevin at the front desk. I bet he can get a new one installed while we’re gone.” Bash said while grabbing his jumper cables and opening Rover’s hood. “Pay attention. I’m only doing this once.” Bash showed them how to hook the cables up on the cars’ batteries. “Remember red, then black, and don’t forget to ground it properly. Otherwise, you’ll have bigger problems.”
“Like what?” Jarvis asked.
“Like sparks and an explosion.”
“Cool. Cool. I hear ya’. Can I start mine?” Jarvis asked, sounding nervous.
“No.” Bash dug out his keys and handed them to the player next to him. “Start my car. Leave it in park and let it idle.”
“Jarvis, in about a minute, you can start yours. Once your engine turns over, I’ll disconnect the cables in the reverse order. You need to keep yours running for at least half an hour to recharge the battery. Drive around town, do whatever you need to, but don’t turn it off until then. Got it?” Jarvis nodded. “When the cables are off, pop your trunk and I’ll stick them in there, but I want them back after you get your new battery.”
Jarvis slid back into his car, and the other players took a healthy step back from the Mustang while Bash stood over the engine. He’d hooked everything up, so he wasn’t worried. If one of these yahoos had done the hook-up, he’d be on the other side of the parking lot by now. Bash heard his motor slow as the Mustang’s engine turned over. The players moved back into position, staring at the engine. Bash yelled to the guy behind Rover’s wheel to kill it. “Do any of you have any idea what you’re looking at?”
“I’m looking at a miracle, Tin Man. You got a card in case I get a flat or run out of gas?” Farrell, the safety joked.
“I’m not AAA,” Bash growled as he unhooked the cables and tossed them in the Mustang’s cluttered trunk, kissing them goodbye. A miracle would be getting them back. Bash motioned for Jarvis to roll down his window. “At least thirty minutes. Got it?”
“Got it. I know about tires, but I thought batteries lasted longer.”
“They do where it’s warmer.” Bash wanted to say more, but his phone’s insistent vibration against his chest was a constant reminder he was late.
“Thanks, Bash. ’Preciate it. Have a good Thanksgiving.” Jarvis rolled up his window, and the Mustang crawled away, as if he didn’t trust it to keep running. The other players called goodnight to him, and a few slapped him on the back as they passed. Bash slid into Rover and cranked up the heat, waiting as everyone’s cars finally left the parking lot. He was already late and didn’t see the harm in being later, not if it meant he wouldn’t have to worry about some other idiot being left in the cold with car trouble.