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Bill frowns. “Are cocktails prudent Rosemary? You know what the doctors said --”
“Screw the doctors,” she says as I follow behind her. “I’m having fun before the cancer games start up again.”
“It’s gorgeous here,” I say. “Is this where Dylan grew up?”
Rosemary and I are sitting next to each other at an intricately carved Spanish dining room table in the kitchen. The French doors are open onto a terracotta tiled back veranda. Flowered vines twirl around columns bolstering the portico. Potted herbs: basil, sage, oregano smell delicious.
Rosemary snaps open an old-fashioned silk fan and waves it in front of her face. “This house? Oh, no, honey. This is the house that God’s money bought.”
A Latina maid dressed in jeans and a T-shirt sets stainless steel bowls on the patio. Three dogs abandon the guys lounging around the swimming pool and race toward the food, gobbling it down like they haven’t eaten in days. The green lawn is deep and ends abruptly where it drops off into Lake Grapevine. A boathouse is tucked in a far corner of the property. Crickets croak as the sun sets in a hallelujah chorus of reds, oranges, yellows, and purples.
“We lived in an 1100 square-foot yellow wood-framed home in a poor part of Dallas for the first seven years of Dylan’s life,” she says. “Life wasn’t always green lawns, margaritas, and French manicures.”
She’s so down to earth it’s impossible not to like her. “What was that like?” I ask.
“Long hours for Bill in seminary. Even longer hours ministering at our first church. There was nothing fancy about that parish, the parishioners, or us for that matter. I cut coupons and we ate chicken casseroles. I have recipes for twenty different kinds stuffed in a box somewhere.”
“I loved the one with the taco chips on top.” Dylan peers in at us from the portico, and tips back a beer. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, Dylan. No need to hover. I’ll keep Evie safe.”
“I’m not hovering.” He makes his way to the fridge. “Did Maria make her famous guac?”
“Is it Friday?” his mom asks. “Third rack down. Bring us some and the home made chips while you’re at it.”
Dylan sets a tray of food on our table. “Holler if you need anything,” he says and heads back out to the pool carrying his own stash.
“You like him, don’t you?” Rosemary asks.
“Guilty.”
“What do you like about him?”
“His honesty. The fact that he works so hard at everything he does. His sense of humor. His kindness. He’s so real, so down to earth.”
“Hallelujah.” She lifts her glass in the air and I take that as a prompt to lift mine. “A toast.”
“A toast?”
“Here’s to someone finally liking Dylan for who he really is.”
We toast and toss back our drinks.
“Dylan needs someone to like him just for him.” Rosemary sighs and pushes herself up from the table. It’s then I see the tiredness wearing on her. She takes a bit longer to walk to the oven and open it, the smell of comfort food wafting through the kitchen.
“Can I help?”
“Casseroles are almost done, honey. I’m making one for tonight and three for the potluck tomorrow. I’m not going to do the vegetables until tomorrow ’cause they’ll just get soggy if I make them too early.”
Amelia’s words echo in my brain, ‘Tell his mother you love anything she cooks.’
“I bet your cooking is great,” I say.
“My cooking sucks. Tell me about your upbringing. Where’d you grow up?”
“Wisconsin. Illinois. Iowa for a short stint. We moved a lot.”
“Military brat?”
