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“No complaints.”

He looked as delicious as the cookies we’d made with Stella. Loose jeans. A Tennessee Titans sweatshirt over his muscular torso. Hair slightly disheveled.

“Where’s everyone else?” I asked.

“We’re the only ones who showed up,” Holly said.

“June and Carol are coming too,” Elliot said.

“The rest were too chicken to show,” Rhett said, gesturing toward the real chickens. “Get it?”

Holly rolled her eyes but laughed. Just like when we were kids, she loved Rhett’s corny jokes.

Today, Rhett looked more like the boy I remembered in a T-shirt and jeans, his demeanor relaxed and casual. Holly stood beside him, her pretty hair pulled into a ponytail and a flush to her cheeks. She’d always been pretty, but the years had made her even more so. Her face had thinned to show off those cheekbones of hers and she moved with more self-confidence than she had when we were kids.

My mother and June James arrived then, apologizing for being late.

“We got to chatting and lost track of time,” June said.

“Okay, everyone,” Elliot said passing around aprons. “You ready to get your chef on?”

We all chimed in that yes we were as we tied our aprons.

Caspian stepped up next to his wife. “Today we’re making supper for the entire ranch party. My mama’s roast chicken recipe, plus a potato gratin and our Blue Fern salad. Everyone wash up first. And then put on a pair of the plastic gloves.”

Like dutiful kids, we did as he asked, then returned to our stations.

“We’ll work in pairs,” Caspian said. “Luci and Grant. Rhett and Holly. And the two mamas who probably don’t need any cooking lessons together.”

“Wait? We’re actually cooking it ourselves?” Rhett asked. “I thought we were just watching and then eating.”

“No, this is a participation type of class,” Elliot said.

“But you will get to eat the food,” Caspian said. “When we serve it tonight.”

“See, I told you this would be fun,” Holly said, nudging Rhett with her elbow.

“All right now, first we’re conquering the bird. Don’t be intimidated. This is actually an easy recipe.” Caspian lifted the chicken at his station and removed a small package from the cavity. “These are the giblets. Make sure you take them out before the bird goes into the oven. Ask me how I know.”

“In his defense, he was only nine,” Elliot said.

“I know, weird kid—cooking at nine,” Caspian said. “And here I am, still doing it.” He set the giblets aside before patting the chicken with paper towels. “Mama has three rules for roast chicken. Dry it thoroughly, do not be stingy with the butter and don’t overcook it. That’s the biggest mistake beginners make.”

“One of the reasons people think they don’t like chicken is because so often it’s overcooked and dry,” Elliot said. “Which is why we use the tools given to us.” She held up a meat thermometer. “This will keep us on track.”

“Moisture is the enemy of crisp skin,” Caspian said. “Get the bird as dry as you can, inside and out.”

Grant took a handful of paper towels as he looked my way. “Do you want to hold her while I pat her down?”

“Yes, I guess so. I feel kind of bad, seeing it like this without its head or feathers,” I said.

“Thank you for your service,” Grant whispered to our chicken, making me laugh.

“I’m glad for the gloves,” I said to Grant. “This kind of grosses me out.”

“My grandmother used to kill one and pluck it herself,” Grant said. “Every Sunday.”

“I’m glad I went to medical school.”