“Of course. Let me say hi first?”
“Morticia would eat Mrs. Frankenstein if she had the chance,” Esme explained to Jack, “so I have to lock her in a bedroom.” She let the gross little creature out and handed him to her mother.
“Is that a rat?”
“It’s a guinea pig!” both women said in unison and with identical degrees of affront.
It was a black guinea pig with a white streak. “Like the Bride from the Boris Karloff movie,” Jack said. He had to admit, that was clever.
“Oh my God, you’re referencing a movie,” Blair said.
He rolled his eyes as Esme ransacked the kitchen for supplies: a towel for Mrs. Frankenstein to rest on, some kale for her to eat, and a dish of water into which she squeezed a wedge of lime. Jack refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just.
“I’m going to get her settled,” Esme said. “I’ll be back.”
Jack got to work on the drinks and served them when Esme reappeared. He set a glass in front of Blair, who’d taken a stool at the island. “Sauvignon blanc.” He set another in front of Esme. “And a reunion refresher.”
Esme scrunched her nose. “What is that?”
“It’s this strong ginger-flavored sparkling water your mom has, the juice of half a lime, and some muddled cucumber.” He should have done a better job with the name.
“Oh, that actually sounds good.” Esme took a sip. “Yum!”
Blair grabbed the glass and did the same. “Yum.”
He cracked up, causing both women to look at him with identically shaped eyebrows raised. “You two are like twins.”
Esme rolled her eyes. “Bartenders are supposed to give good advice, right? Tell me what to be when I grow up.”
“Wow, you don’t do small talk, do you?” Jack said.
“Doyou?” Blair asked.
Fair point. He rested his elbows on the “bar” in front of Esme. “OK, what are you majoring in?”
“Undeclared.”
“Ah.”
“Which is actually extremely stressful.”
“There’s no hurry, honey,” Blair said.
“There kind of is, Mom. I have to declare by fall of my sophomore year, so next semester is my last one to fuck around.”
“Esme.”
The scandalous tone Blair deployed made Jack smile. In some ways, she was still the proper Southern belle.
“Also.” Esme turned ninety degrees and leveled a serious look at her mother. “I regret to inform you that I have to drop French. I’m pretty sure I’m going to fail it. I should have started in level two instead of three.” Before her mother could reply, she rotated back to face the island. “What did you major in, Jack?”
“English.”
“Of course.”
“But then I had no idea what to do, so I got an MFA. And then I still had no idea what to do, so I went to teachers college.”
“You were a teacher?”
