“I’m fine,” I said quickly.
Hartley was still on the phone with his mom. “That inflatable mattress has a hole in it,” he said. “But we’re good, because Bridger and Lucy can have the guest room, and Dana will take my old room. Callahan is going to bunk with me, because neither one of us is any good on the stairs.” He listened for a moment. “You need to relax, mom. Stop ironing napkins and have a glass of wine. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
When Bridger pulled into the driveway, Hartley’s mom was waiting for us on the porch swing of an old wooden house. When Hartley opened his door, she bounced down three steps and ran over to kiss him and ruffle his hair.
She was pretty, and younger than I expected her to be, with shiny black hair and rosy skin. Her eyes were just as beautiful as Hartley’s, only darker. “Welcome! Welcome,” she said as Dana hopped out of the car, her smile wide. “I’m Theresa.”
“Hi Aunt Theresa!” Lucy yelled, hugging her around the waist.
“Oh! You’ve gotten so tall,” Hartley’s mom said. “You big girl. The dog is upstairs, Lucy. She’ll be happy to see you.”
Without another word, the little girl ran up the steps and inside.
“Mom, this is Callahan and Dana.”
“I hope we’re not imposing,” I couldn’t help but say. “Hartley wouldn’t let us stay on campus for some reason.”
“You can’t stay there!” she laughed. “Not on Thanksgiving.”
Dana pressed a bottle of wine into her hands. “Thanks so much for having us.”
“You’re always welcome. But hang on, Adam. I didn’t realize Miss Callahan was a girl. She won’t want to bunk with you.”
“Mom, all the ladies want to share my bed.”
“Hartley!” I punched him in the arm, and his mother laughed.
He turned to me. “The bed is the size of Massachusetts. I’m not kidding.” To his mom he said, “You’re not talking me onto that evil couch.” Hartley kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”
“Good,” she said.
“Is there anything Bridger and I can help you with while we’re here?”
She cocked her head to the side. “The car could use an oil change,” she said. “You could do that this weekend. Save me the forty bucks.”
“Done,” he said.
Theresa had already done most of the work on the Thanksgiving meal. The turkey was almost done, and two pies cooled on the counter.
Even so, Hartley tied an apron around his waist and then poured a quart of heavy cream into a bowl. He took a whisk from a drawer and began whipping quick ovals through the bowl. “What’s the matter, Callahan? You’ve never seen a guy whip cream before?”
I shook off my surprise. “I just wouldn’t expect you to cook, Hartley.”
“I’m only the assistant.” He sped up the motion, the whisk a blur through the white surface. He picked up a cup of sugar and shook some of it into the mixture. Then he began whipping again.
I dragged my eyes away from the mouthwatering sight of Hartley’s upper body hard at work. “So what can I do to help?” I asked. “I’m not, um, a cook. But I take direction well enough.”
“We’ve got it covered,” Theresa said, although it seemed categorically impossible that at two p.m. on Thanksgiving there wasn’t something I could do.
“Mom,” Hartley said, “Callahan gets cranky if she thinks you’re babying her. If you want peace in the kingdom, give her a job.”
His mother laughed. “Sorry, Corey. It’s just that I’m not used to it. Not all of Hartley’s friends have such a positive attitude toward kitchen work.”
“Nice, mom,” Hartley said. “Take a couple of shots at her even though she’s on another continent.”
I pointed to a bag of potatoes on the counter. “Do these need peeling?”
“They sure do,” Theresa said, opening a drawer to produce a peeler.
I tucked the bag under my arm, and crutched over to the kitchen table. I heaved myself into a chair. Theresa watched as I unlocked my knees and swiveled to face the table. She brought me a newspaper for the peels, and a bowl for the finished spuds. The peeling was slow work, but I didn’t mind.
“Adam, how’s the therapy going?” Theresa asked.
“Tedious,” he said, still whisking. “Callahan and I have the same trainer. Pat the drill sergeant.”
“I think therapists are like dentists,” I said. “Nobody is ever excited to see them. Or maybe you and I are just jerks.”
“Or maybe it’s Pat,” Theresa suggested.
“Nope!” I argued cheerfully. “I’ve pretty much disliked every therapist I’ve met. And there have been many.” I tossed another potato into the bowl. “Although, I might be mellowing with age. I’m not as ornery with Pat as I was with the others.”
“Why?” Hartley asked.
“Well, the first therapists I saw were teaching me to do things like put on my own socks, and transfer from the wheelchair to a bed. And I was so pissed off that I needed someone to teach me that, I couldn’t see straight.”