Homecoming by Elizabeth Jennings

Lilly sounded annoyed. “And a lazy, shiftless, voracious one at that. Which is why the menfolk love him so much. They identify with him. Norman, why is Cavendish out of his cage?”
    “Come on, Lil. Have a heart. Cavendish looked so lonely in there. Even mongooses have a right to company.” Norman held out his hand and Cavendish flowed smoothly from Jack’s neck to Norman’s shoulder. Three men and a mongoose looked at Lilly and Federica with three innocent expressions and a crafty one.
    “Men.” Lilly turned in disgust and took Federica by the arm. “Come on, Federica, Newton. Anyone for another beer?”
    They trooped back through the kitchen and out into the garden. On his way out, Jack bent to peer with interest into the oven door.
    “Hey Lil,” he called out casually. “Are the potatoes supposed to be black?”
    With a cry, Lilly rushed back into the kitchen, grabbed the oven mitts and pulled out a smoking pan. “My casserole,” she moaned.
    “That’s okay, Lil. I brought along an extra case of Pigswill and these.” Wyatt pulled out one of two bottles nestled in a plastic bucket of ice resting against one of the table legs. “This will wash out even the taste of your cooking. Dad’s best vintage.”
    Curious, Federica checked the handmade label and laughed. The label showed the stylized profile of a man with a stem glass held to his lips. Above, in impressive Gothic script— Plonk du Patron. Grand Cru 2004.
    Lilly was fussing with the table settings. “Norman, you sit here, Newton here. Wyatt, you’ll be pouring, so you sit here. Jack,” she said, her voice casual, “you sit next to Federica. And as for you —” she plucked Cavendish off Norman’s shoulders, and carried him to a cage set against the pink-washed stucco wall. “You eat in the guest room.”
    “Aw, Lil.” Three male voices rose in protest.
    Lilly latched the cage and walked over to the barbecue. “Not another word out of you three or you’ll be eating in the guest room, too.” She forked the steaks onto a massive marbleized platter. Norman jumped up and took the platter out of his wife’s hands.
    The food was indifferent. The steaks were tough and overcooked, the potato casserole over-salted and burnt, and the salad was watery. Federica didn’t care. It was so pleasant out in the garden, with the smell of charcoal and jasmine floating on the gentle summer breeze, and the glistening river just visible through the willows providing a soft background murmur.
    “Sorry about the food. Particularly since you’ve been eating Stella’s fare.” Lilly smiled at Federica and Newton. “Norman’s the real cook around here, but he’s in the middle of a job and as you saw, he’s out of it when he’s working. It’s a good thing I ration him to one account a month, otherwise we’d starve to death.”
    “What do you do, Norman?” Federica asked.
    Norman winced when he put a bite of steak in his mouth. He hesitated a moment, then chewed, swallowed and gratefully put down his fork. “Well, now I keep the books of a few local businesses. I draw up the odd business plan or two, as well. That’s what I’m doing now. A local software company has asked me for advice. Three very smart kids. Silicon Valley refugees after the dot-com crash. We get a lot of those around here.”
    “Are they planning on expanding?” Federica was having trouble keeping her mind on the conversation. The bench was small, and Jack was so close she could feel his body heat. He had on a short-sleeved polo shirt and Federica tried to keep her eyes off the fascinating play of muscles in his forearm, but it was hard. Jack’s hands were large and strong and Federica gave herself a shake when she found herself following his hands as he heaped his plate and hers.
    Stop that right now , she told herself sternly. Was this part of a nervous breakdown? It must be, because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been mesmerized by a man’s hands. Large,