Page 63 of Jonesing for a Spy

Take some Advil. It’ll help with the pain, and arnica will help with the bruising. And happy Thanksgiving, Honey.

Mirren

Maybe the honey in there is too much, but it feels right. And it’s exactly what I need prior to today’s festivities.

I check my email—a force of habit at this point—even if it’s a holiday. There’s nothing there except admin crap that can wait.

I grab a shower, do my morning routine including make-up, and put on actual real clothes. There will be pictures today. Not only the traditional Rockwellian family in front of the fireplace shot, but the Davie accidentally spills the gravy shot or the Zipper loses it when Johnny wins at Monopoly again shot.

There’s something iconic each year and it doesn’t do to be looking rough in the background. It’s not like they’re not all candids anyway, but it’s easy enough to have your eyes closed or to be mid-bite or whatever. Might as well look as cute as I can.

Grabbing all my fixings and contributions, plus a huge bag of every supply I could need, I head to my SUV and on to Mom and Dad’s, grabbing donuts on the way.

It takes me two trips to unload everything and, to my surprise, I’m not the first one there. Charlie’s in the sitting room that has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Mobile Bay, drinking a cup of coffee, sandwiched between Rufus and his black counterpart, Millie. Millie is Charlie’s lab, a year younger than Rufus, and brilliant.

Rufus ambles over, ears flopping as he does, and waits for scratches. “Morning, Doof. Have you been a good boy?” He tilts his head like it’s a stupid question. Of course he’s the bestest boy.

“Mills?”

The dog’s ears go up, but she doesn’t leave her position. I lift my eyes to my brother and squint them.

“Okay.” It’s a command, and she’s released, charging my way, skidding to a stop under my hand.

“Hello, gorgeous. You’re taking care of Skipper for me?”

He scoffs and returns his gaze to the bay.

Reflective much?

I can’t worry about that and grab another load from my car before pouring myself a mug of coffee and finding a chair near my brother.

“What’s up your ass?”

Skipper chokes on his coffee. “Always so ladylike.”

“I was raised by you fools. You can’t expect a princess when you’re trained by the Knights of the Jones Table.”

“That’s not exactly true. We did what we knew. Not our fault you caught on and outdid us.”

“Knights of the Jones Table? That has a nice ring to it. I’m stealing it.” Dad walks in, dressed as he would be on one of his book jackets, and opens the fridge.

“I’d expect no less,” I say to no one in particular. Rufus is at my dad’s side like they’re partners in a three-legged race and proximity is tantamount to winning.

Millie is back at Charlie’s side, curled up without a worry in the world.

“Oh, and I didn’t tell you this…” Dad starts on a whisper. “But your mother’s on a tear. You’ve been warned.”

“Hide the donuts.” I stand to do just that when she enters from the back hall to their room.

“Morning, Scooter. Morning, Skip. Who’s ready for breakfast?”

Well, shit.

“I am.” Charlie stands and flashes me the look. “How can I help?”

“Why don’t you start the biscuits?”

His body deflates, and the petulant child who wants to stamp and whine is concealed in a moment. “I’d love to, Mom. We might need background noise, though.”