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“I dare ya,” he grins, happy I’m more like my old self.
Pointing at my sandwich I list, “Broiled salmon heaped with hummus, green bell pepper, cucumber sliced thin, a mix of diced cabbage, kale and sprouts, heirloom tomatoes and topped with crumbled feta cheese? I need to step up my sandwich game.”
Just as I finish, she walks in — Charlotte, Owner and CEO of Wyntech. She exudes the grace of someone who went to boarding school, looking like she comes from money, which she does, unlike many of the Cocker Family. Most of us are a down-to-earth bunch. Congressmen don’t make much, save for the excellent benefits and smarts at saving, and Grandpa had six boys to raise with Grandma staying home. They have a nice home just up the street they bought right after getting married when money meant different things, but it’s only recently paid off. What our great-grandpa Jerald left was all for his grandsons, the six Cocker Brothers, two of which are mine and Ethan’s dads.
But this mansion was all Ethan’s doing; he had it before he met Charlie. It was a total surprise to her, because she thought he was just some guy doing freelance fixing computers at her company, dressed as usual — and how he is today — in his uniform of jeans and a graphic t-shirt, hair a shaggy mop. Patents from multiple software systems, mostly in the security and privacy sector of the government, made him a billionaire from discipline, hard work, and a brilliant mind. His sense of humor didn’t hurt. You need one when you’re playing with the big boys, he told me once.
They could hire a chef, but she made these herself. I watched. Still, teasing her is a must.
You sure you’re not hiding a chef in that house you call a kitchen?”
Her long red ponytail flips over as she whips her head to side-eyeball me. “You trying to piss me off?”
“Maybe.”
Ethan laughs one big “Ha!” then subdues the grin at her faux-reproachful glare.
Kaya runs in with her strawberry hair flying as she informs the large room, “Bathroom!” She tries to grab the cue ball and Ethan blocks her with his stick, making her laugh and continue on her way.
Charlotte hasn’t let me slide though, determined to defend herself, she locks eyes with me. “My dear cousin-in-law jerk, I could hire someone and I won’t lie, when things get very tough at work — fucking mutiny attempts, so hard being a woman still to this day, the bastards — and/or when Ethan is bogged down with some new software invention he’s obsessed over…”
Ethan’s voice overlaps with, “Inspired!”
“…and he won’t come out of his techno-cave of an office, I’ve leaned on help. Yes, I have.”
I point my half-eaten masterpiece at its maker. “So you admit it!”
Mrs. Charlotte Don’t-Fuck-With-Me Cocker stares at me and says, really low and dangerously, “I’m still talking.”
“My mistake,” I bow, chewing.
Ethan snorts. Charlie throws him a look, and he bows, too.
She stifles a grin, and continues, “However!” as if on a podium speaking not to just two insolent men but a crowd full of us, her feminine charm at high volume, hip jutted, “I have decided, on multiple occasions, that while I could pay for help, to make a meal for my family and see them enjoy it — indeed, to enjoy it with them — is one of the simplest yet greatest pleasures in life. And I’m hoping my children continue the tradition and make sure it never becomes a lost art.” She loses the bold announcer voice and softens to add, “There’s something beautiful about doing that. It connects our family. And normally I’d ask for us all to be eating together today but this is a special.” She walks over and touches my shoulder, “You’re here. You both need time alone since it’s been so long.”
She exits and Ethan’s brown eyes are cast to the forgotten pool game. “Hey Ben, I asked her not to bring that up.” He looks at me, his usual humor gone. “Sorry, man.”
“I don’t need to be coddled.”
“I know, it’s just…”
“No.” I take a bite of the sandwich, chewing for a few bites until I can talk through it. “Just let everyone say what they need to say. Including your Mrs.”
“What about yours?”
“I don’t have one anymore. And I don’t want one.”
“How’s the ex doing?”
“Mid-divorce and fighting me every step of the way, that’s how she’s doing.”
Jonny shouts from outside, his voice not yet dropped, “Dad, I’m all pruned up — can we bowl yet?”
“Yep!”
“Can we stay the night?”
Ethan locks eyes with me, asks, “You wanna have a sleep over?”
