Built to Last by Erin Hahn

Author:Erin Hahn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

* * *

“You could’ve brought Jazz,” I say, passing my dad a salad bowl to place on the table. I rushed home from the Caroline Street house early and called up Maren to help me brainstorm keto recipes. We came up with a butternut squash spaghetti with prosciutto and brown butter and a garden salad. I honestly can’t tell if the droopy, orange-squash noodles look good or not, but if it’s got butter, it can’t be that bad.

He shakes his head. “She sends her love and promised to drop by later with some pie. But this is a family dinner.”

I nudge his elbow. “You’re my family, Dad, you and Jazz, even. Ada Mae’s…”

“Your mom, for better or worse.”

The doorbell rings and I smooth my hands down my long peasant dress. It’s pretty and floral with cap sleeves. It’s everything Ada Mae hates and I love. I make my way to the door, passing the camera crew.

“Just a few minutes,” Steve had said. I can manage to be the old me for a few minutes. I take a deep breath and catch my dad’s reassuring wink before pulling open the front door.

Ada Mae is a whirlwind from the second she crosses the threshold. She shoves a bag of takeout into my arms.

“I cooked for us,” I remind her.

She titters. “I don’t think so. I also brought a bottle of rosé. I know it’s not tequila, but I’m sure a little class never hurt anyone. You’re nearly thirty, you know.”

“I don’t drink anymore, Mom.”

She sniffs at my sharp tone. “Don’t be ridiculous, what are you, Quaker? It’s the Midwest, Shelby, not the Vatican.”

I sigh and carry the bag of takeout and wine and whatever else and pass it to my dad’s waiting arms. “Why don’t you show her around, kid? I’ll just put this away for now.”

My mom is standing in the center of my living room, looking at my furniture the way one might look at art in a museum: objective, cold, bored. I pretend not to notice. “Can I show you around? I mean. This is mostly it, besides the kitchen and the upstairs, but that’s not really…”

“I have the gist. You made these?”

“Well, I didn’t make them. I refurbished them. They were made a hundred years ago, and I made them new again.”

“And people buy these refurbished things?”

“Um. Yeah. Quite a few people, actually.”

“It’s quaint. A sweet hobby.”

I work at unclenching my jaw. “More than a hobby, Mom. It’s how I make my living.”

“Danny, be useful and crack open that rosé for us, please.”

“Dad, don’t—”

“Ada Mae, why don’t you come and sit down. Our daughter spent the last two hours making a nice dinner to celebrate your being here.”

I swallow a smile. My dad has never acted so hard in his life. I didn’t know he had it in him.

“Kitchen’s this way, Mom.”

A minute later, the camera crew follows as we sit around my small dining room table.

“Should I say grace?” my dad asks, an ironic twinkle in eye.

“Jesus Christ,” Ada Mae mutters.

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