Chapter 20 MJ
MJ
“Oh my,” Ron says, taking his seat at the table. I’m standing at the head, in the spot Henry used to sit, and he’s to my left. “This looks wonderful.”
June Bug barks from her crate in the corner of the room.
Oliver chuckles. “I think June Bug agrees.”
Ron gives me a subtle wink. “That’s because she has great taste.”
“Thank you.” I adjust the platter of homemade rolls, making sure everything looks perfect. The pot roast is placed center stage with roasted potatoes, carrots, and a tossed salad. I also made some macaroni and cheese from scratch for the grandkids.
“Looks great, sister.” Rose plops in the chair at my other side, immediately reaching for the bread. “You know these are my favorite.”
The sound of chairs scooting against the wood floor fills the room as everyone takes their seats. Oliver pulls Lindsey’s chair out for her, and it makes my heart sing. It’s a simple gesture, but he does it with such ease that it seems almost second nature—like he’s done it every day for years.
I clasp my hands together. “Dig in, everybody.”
The chatter is lively as everyone serves up their plates. My worries about the kids being upset that I invited Ron were unfounded. From the second they walked in, they were nothing but welcoming.
“I’m glad you could come today, Ron,” Ben says, passing the mac ‘n’ cheese down the table.
“Yes,” Ellie agrees, scooping a spoonful of beans onto Noah’s plate.“How long have you lived in Loving?”
“I grew up just south of here,” Ron answers. “In Columbia.”
“And what are your intentions with my sister?” Rose ask, and I nearly choke on a carrot. Lindsey exchanges a wide-eyed glance with Oliver, while Ben hides his face behind his water glass.
“Oh no,” Lucy says.
Ron raises his brows. “Come again?”
“Your intentions.” Rose nods in my direction. “With her.”
“Rose,” I hiss.
“What?” Rose asks. “You’re my only sister, and I don’t want you to end up on one of those Netflix documentaries.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you, you’ve got to lay off the true crime, Aunt Rose,” Lucy teases. “It’ll make you crazy.”
I snort. “Too late.”
“There are all kinds of horror stories about women our age being taken advantage of.” Rose lifts her glass of wine. “I just want to know what his intentions are and what type of person he is. You like her, don’t you?”
“Do we really have to do this?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“It’s okay,” Ron assures me. “It’s a fair question, and it’s simple to answer.
I enjoy Myra Jean’s company, and I want to get to know her better.
” He holds up his fork with a cubed potato speared on the end of it.
“The delicious food is just a bonus. I’m a semiretired music teacher.
I teach piano lessons part time now. I have a son, and I don’t own any weapons or windowless white vans.
However, I do enjoy cooking and watching reruns of Friends. ”
“I see.” Rose nods, narrowing her eyes. “And which friend would you say you’re most like?”
He takes a bite of his potato and chews, a contemplative expression on his face.
“I’d have to say Chandler,” Ron says finally. “I can be a little dry at times, but I like to think I have a good sense of humor. And I’m a bit of a romantic.”
Rose taps a red nail against her wine glass, glancing from Ron to me, then back to Ron again.
Finally, she points at me with her fork.
“Well you, Myra Jean, are as Monica as they come,” Rose says.
“You’re an amazing chef, and you love playing hostess.
You’re everyone’s caretaker, but you’re also a little uptight. So, I approve.”
“Well, I appreciate that, but there’s nothing to approve of.” I squirm in my seat, the implication of us being compared to two characters that make up one of the show’s most iconic couples not lost on me.
Rose opens her mouth, likely to protest, but Ron cuts her off.
“And who would you be, Rose?” he asks.
“Rachel, obviously,” she answers, and Ben, who’s sitting next to her, nearly chokes on his water.
I chuckle. “Has anyone ever told you self-awareness isn’t exactly your strong suit?”
Lindsey, Ben, and Lucy snicker.
“What?” she asks, chomping into her roll. “Who do you all think I am?”
“Phoebe,” we say together, bursting into laughter.
She gasps. “I am not.”
I stifle a giggle. “Have you met you?”
“I have to agree,” Ron adds. “She’s one of those characters that grows on you more with every rewatch. She’s free-spirited, blunt, but she’s also kindhearted and unapologetically herself. Now, I haven’t known you long, but I think that sums you up pretty well.”
I give him a small smile. Not only has he described my sister to a T, but he’s just highlighted the many reasons I love her so beautifully. Rose is my best friend as much as she’s my sister, and she’s one of the biggest parts of my life. And Ron understands her.
More and more, I think Ron understands me too.
Rose considers his explanation for a moment, mulling it over as she picks up her glass, swirling the liquid inside.
“I see your point.” Rose nods once and sighs. “I mean, I am pretty great.”
“We couldn’t agree more,” I say.
Rose spears a carrot with her fork. “Have any of you heard anything about that Eddie O’Donnell fellow? He sure is a cutie. Do you think he’s single?”
I shake my head, stifling a laugh, and Ron catches my eye. There’s something comforting about his gaze. It’s steady but exciting—familiar, yet completely new.
And somehow, that makes me feel new too.
“Those two seem to be getting close,” Ron whispers in the kitchen after dinner, gesturing toward the back door where we can see Lindsey and Oliver huddled together on the deck with steaming mugs of coffee in their hands.
“They do,” I agree, snapping the dishwasher shut. “Are you sure you don’t want some coffee?”
“I’ll be up till next Sunday if I have caffeine this late,” he says with a laugh.
“You can head into the living room if you want. I’ll be in there as soon as I finish washing up these pots and pans.
” Lindsey and Oliver tried to do them for me, but I insisted they get some coffee and enjoy themselves.
The rest of the kids and the grandkids are in the living room playing with June Bug, their laughter carrying through the house.
“I have a better idea,” Ron says, grabbing the towel off the hook by the sink. “You wash, I’ll dry.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he beats me to the punch.
“I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“Okay, then.” I dunk my hands into the sink and set to work.
“Thank you again for inviting me and June Bug tonight. I’ve had a great time.”
“I’m glad you came,” I say, handing him a freshly-washed saucepan.
“So, I still owe you dinner this week.”
The citrus scent of his aftershave and the warmth of his presence make me jittery, like I’ve had one too many toasted praline lattes.
“You know, you really don’t have to,” I insist, scrubbing the roasting pan with more vigor than I need to, just to have something to do with my hands.
“You’re not trying to get out of our date, are you? What is it the kids call it these days? Ghosting?”
I chuckle. “Of course not.”
“Good,” he says. “When are you available?”
“This may come as a surprise to you, but my calendar isn’t exactly packed with social engagements.”
He grins, glancing over at me as he rubs the towel in every crevice of the skillet I just handed him.
“That does surprise me, actually. But hey, maybe that means I won’t have to wait long to see you again,” he says. “How about tomorrow night?”
The back of my neck prickles. “Tomorrow?”
“Sure. If you’re not busy, of course.”
“Tomorrow it is, then.”
“I know I said I was going to take you out, but I was wondering how you’d feel about letting me cook for you.”
I must have looked like he’d suggested we book a table to dine on the moon, because he starts to laugh.
“I take it you’re used to being the one who does all the cooking.”
“I am,” I admit. “It’s not that other people don’t offer. The kids offer all the time, but it’s just kind of my thing. What if I cook something and bring it ov—”
“I’m sorry, but this is a full surrender of kitchen responsibility.”
“Oh…I, uh…” My words get lodged in my throat as I hand him the last dish.
“Myra Jean, it would be my honor to prepare a meal for you,” he says. “Will you let me do that?”
With no more cookware left to scrape clean, I suddenly feel exposed, so I busy myself by ripping some paper towels off the dispenser by the sink to dry my hands.
“Sure,” I answer. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He places the last pot on the rack. “I’ll pick you up at five tomorrow.”
“I thought you were cooking at your place? I can just drive myself.”
“I’d like to pick you up and bring you some flowers,” he says, keeping his tone casual. “If that’s okay with you, of course.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks, and I nod. “That sounds…lovely.”
“Perfect.” His eyes linger on mine. “You ready to get back in there with the kids? Sounds like June Bug is giving them hell.”
“Yes, I’m just going to pour myself a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll see you in there, then,” he says, heading for the door.
I open the cabinet to pull down a mug, but Ron’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“Oh, and Myra Jean?”
“Yes?” I say, turning toward him.
“Monica was always my favorite.”