I let her take my hat, gloves, and scarf, but since the barn wasn’t actually heated, I hung onto my coat.
Across the room I could see a flock of students under Mother’s direction setting up several rows of folding chairs facing toward the far end, which I deduced was to be used as the stage for the dress rehearsal. In the stage area, other students were arranging stacks of zucchini and other articles that I recognized as props for Señor Mendoza’s play. The stagehands looked a little flustered, though—Señor Mendoza and Bronwyn were standing on opposite ends of the stage, shouting what I deduced were contradictory sets of instructions. In the time it took me to reach the buffet tables, one poor young man carried a potted lemon tree back and forth between stage left and stage right four times before giving up, dropping the pot center stage and running over to clutch a couple of Mother’s folding chairs as if his life depended on deploying them.
I was relieved to see that Mother hadn’t actually called in caterers. The buffet was spread out on the four old picnic tables we used for outdoor family events during the summer. A mixed assortment of tablecloths covered them. Stacks of pizza boxes filled one entire table and the others held bowls of chips, salads, and other side dishes in quite an assortment of serving pieces. Back in our hometown of Yorktown, this would have meant that Mother had called upon her large extended family to contribute to the potluck event. But we were in Caerphilly, an hour away from the heartland of the Hollingsworth family. Had she dragged them all up here?
Some of them. I recognized the odd, handmade pottery dish in which Cousin Lacey always brought her corn pudding. I made sure to snag a couple of Aunt Bella’s lighter-than-air crescent rolls from her familiar wicker breadbasket. I avoided the cut-glass dish in which Great-Aunt Louella brought her famous pickles. The dish was emptier than usual, probably because the students didn’t yet know that Louella’s pickle recipe contained enough jalapeno and habenero peppers to supply a Mexican restaurant for half a year. We’d be finding bitten-into pickles hidden in corners for weeks.
But some of the offerings looked more local. I spotted one of Mother’s friends from the historical society arranging gingerbread men on an antique plate. I was almost certain that the duck-shaped lemon congealed salad came from one of Dad’s bird-watching comrades. The tarts strewn with rose petals had to be from a garden-club member.
When I’d first moved to Caerphilly to be with Michael, I’d decided that one of its charms was that it was close enough to see my family whenever I wanted to, but far enough away that I didn’t have to see them all the time. Now, Rob and Rose Noire had moved to town, Mother and Dad had bought what they referred to as their vacation cottage nearby, and before long—
“What’s wrong?” Michael said, appearing at my other elbow.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I’m in awe. Look at all this food.”
“Lovely spread,” he said. “Here, let me carry your plate.”
I was about to protest that I could do it myself, but why should I? Having Michael hold my plate would be a lot easier, and after the kids were born, who knew how often he’d have the time or energy to be chivalrous?
“I’ll get you some hot chocolate,” Rose Noire said, and flitted off.
“I see Mother has won over Caerphilly, too,” I said as I speared a slice of Smithfield ham and deposited it on the plate.
“Won it over how?” Michael pointed to a platter. “Don’t you want some corn bread?”
“Yes,” I said. “I just don’t know if I have room for it. By won them over, I mean she’s got them all bringing her food.”
“Bringing us food,” Michael said. “I admit that your mother probably got the word out that with our kitchen off-limits we could use a potluck dinner. But most of this came from our friends, not your family. Minerva Burke brought the corn bread.”
“That settles it.” I added two chunks of corn bread to my platter. “If I don’t have room now, I’ll take it upstairs for later.”
“And Randall’s mother sent over the venison stew,” Michael said, pointing. “The samosas from Professor Kumar disappeared a long time ago, but I saved you a few. Professor Ortiz brought some early Christmas tamales, and Abe’s wife sent chicken soup and—”
“Meg, dear.” Mother appeared at my other side. “We could have brought you a plate.”
“I’ll be fine.” I was eyeing another table, set at a distance from the others. “What’s over there?”