It was Thursday and it was a Thursday after Brock called his sisters to get them to put him and me on the Cob rotation. It was also a Thursday after Brock found out that Cob had only one TV and it was in his living room. So, lastly, it was a Thursday after Brock swung by Best Buy to get his dad a TV for his bedroom so he had something to do when he was feeling double extra shit and didn’t want to leave his bed. Brock had even called the cable company to add an additional set and he’d laid it on thick about his father’s illness, which meant the wait was not seventy-two hours but twenty-four. They were showing tomorrow and they’d thrown in a couple of months of free premium channels just because.

Brock did not mess around when it came to TVs or cable. He pulled out all the stops and got results.

So, nothing new.

“All right, honey,” I answered. “Dinner’ll be done in an hour and a half but it’ll keep warm if you aren’t home.”

“I’ll aim for that,” Brock told me, then, “Later, babe.”

“Later.”

Then he was gone.

I hit end call then sent a text to Martha in return to hers. She was planning a girls’ night in at her place for the weekend after this one, being cool about planning it when Brock had his boys so I could finagle some time for the boys alone with their dad without Brock (hopefully) cottoning on.

And I was at odds, as I usually was, with how I felt about Martha’s girls’ night in. This was not a new concept for Martha but it was a crapshoot what you’d encounter when you arrived. She would either be in the mood to experiment with a variety of recipes she’d totally made up, none of them successful, all of them you at least had to try. Or she’d fill her house with junk food and unearth all her vast collection of romantic comedies.

I was hoping for the latter.

My text to Martha started a flurry of texts that included Elvira, Gwen, Camille, Tracy, and even Shirleen getting in on the act. I fielded them all while dealing with the rest of dinner and felt great relief when Elvira firmly took charge of food preparation and stated in a way even Martha couldn’t protest she was making her “boards.”

I didn’t know what Elvira’s boards were but whatever they were they had to be better than fried celery.

Celery as celery was bad. Celery fried was the work of Satan.

The texting frenzy died down and I was basting the chicken for the last time when another text came through right when my landline rang.