On account of all the meat that needed to thaw, the kitchen at the pub had to close. They were working against the clock and short of fridge space.
“Who’s cooking all of this?” Pat asked as the volume of the unpacked order overwhelmed the counterspace.
In their family it was tradition for the aunts to pull together and cook for family events, but meat took a lot more work than fish. Someone would be standing over a hot oven all day.
“Italian Mary’s making trays of ziti and Aunt Col is doing the green beans. Aunt Maureen’s doing the potatoes, and Anthony’s sisters are doing the dessert trays. Uncle Paulie was supposed to do the main dishes.”
It wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t have a family the size of an army. “We really need a chef for things like this.”
“Can you call Reggie?”
Ryan slammed another slab of beef onto the counter and pans rattled below. “No, an old loyalist like Reg can’t overlook the O’Malley brawl from the seventies. He lost hearing in his left ear on that fateful day and he never got over it.”
Pat rolled his eyes. “Those old farts really need to let that rivalry go. And Maggie is only an O’Malley by marriage. Plus, she won’t be one for long.”
Ryan grinned. “I can’t wait to call her Mrs. Clooney.” He unpacked another slab of frozen meat from the box. “But regardless, Reggie’s pretty settled into retirement now.”
“What about Sue?” Sue, the steady bartender, knew how to do just about anything where O’Malley’s was concerned since she’d worked there for years.
“She’s been handling most of the cooking and complaining about it regularly. Every day she reminds Maggie she’s not a cook, so there’s no way she’d help with the wedding food. Plus, she’s a guest.”
“So is Uncle Paulie.” It would inevitably be the Uncles grilling.
“That’s better than a female guest. Girls get their hair done and wear nice dresses. It’s one thing having the aunts toss fish in the oven, but we need someone to babysit the grill to make sure it’s not overdone.”
It looked like this one would fall on the men. Ryan called Uncle Frank, begging for some culinary aide, and the cavalry assembled, ready to assist Paulie with all the meat. The uncles and cousins broke the prep time into shifts and had it all figured out by two in the afternoon. In the end, they were only an hour late for their appointment with the tailor.
Once they had their final fittings and tux jackets in hand, they had to swing over to Aunt Colleen’s to get their kilts.
“Don’t touch anything, boys. I have a system.” The entire living room was filled with Irish tartan, each kilt freshly pressed and marked with a strip of masking tape, labeling who it belonged to. “Ryan, I pressed your socks too.”
The whole house smelled delicious. Pat took a detour into the kitchen, where he found Italian Mary hunched over a vat of meat sauce as she ladled it into mason jars.
He kissed her cheek and she smiled up at him. “Smells incredible.”
She put down the ladle and waved a knotty finger at him. “Here. You try.” She took a slice of bread from a nearby bag, slathered soft butter on top and dipped it into the sauce.
His eyes rolled back in his head as the flavor melted in his mouth. “Delicious.”
“I make a jar of gravy special for you.”
He gratefully accepted the gift.
When they had their kilts and were on their way, Ryan glared at the souvenir of gravy. “How come you get sauce?”
“She likes me better, I guess.”
“Italian Mary doesn’t like anyone. And I’m the groom. If anyone should be getting special sauce, it should be me.”
Pat snickered at his brother’s jealousy. He didn’t see the need to tell him the sauce was likely repayment for the CBD cream he’d sent Italian Mary to help with her arthritic hands. “Not everyone likes you best, Ry.”
“Shut up.”
It was after seven when they finally had most of the preparations made and the cars loaded for tomorrow. Ryan wanted to see Maggie one last time, since they wouldn’t be spending the night before the wedding together, so he met her in town for a quiet dinner. This gave Pat the perfect opportunity to sneak away and see Julie.
“I’ll be back, Mum.” He grabbed his keys and opened the door, only to come up short when he found Jo about to knock on the other side. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I was just running out.”
“No, you weren’t.” She grabbed his sleeve, dragging him back into the house and into his childhood bedroom, not stopping until she shut the door. She scowled at him and hissed, “You slept with my sister?”
He missed the part where this might be a problem—or her business. “Jo…”