She put the phone down and stared at the sizzling onions, then the recipe. When the onions turned transparent, she dumped in the ground beef.
"So, finished lying to the folks?" Shane asked, and reached around Claire to snag a bite of grated cheese from the bowl on the counter. "Tacos. Brilliant. Damn, I'm glad I voted somebody in with skills."
"I heard that, Shane!" Eve yelled from the living room, just as the door slammed. Shane winced. "Do your own bathroom cleaning this weekend!"
Shane winced. "Truce!"
"Thought so."
Eve came in, still flushed from the heat outside. She'd sweated off most of her makeup, and underneath it, she looked surprisingly young and sweet. "Oh my God, that looks like real food!"
"Tacos," Shane said proudly, as if it were his idea. Claire elbowed him in the ribs, or tried to. His ribs were a lot more solid than her elbow. "Ow," he said. Not as if it hurt.
Claire glanced out the window. Night was falling fast, the way it did in Texas at the end of the day - furious burning sun all of a sudden giving way to a warm, sticky twilight. "Is Michael here?" she asked.
"Guess so." Shane shrugged. "He's always here for dinner."
The three of them got everything ready, and sometime midway through the assembly-line process they'd developed - Claire putting meat in taco shells, Eve adding toppings, Shane spooning beans onto the plates - a fourth pair of hands added itself to the line. Michael looked as if he'd just gotten up and showered - wet hair, sleepy eyes, beads of water still sliding down to soak the collar of his black knit shirt. Like Shane, he was wearing jeans, but he'd gone formal, with actual shoes.
"Hey," he greeted them. "This looks good."
"Claire did it," Eve jumped in as Shane opened his mouth. "Don't even let Shane take credit."
"Wasn't going to!" Shane looked offended.
"Riiiiiight."
"I chopped. What did you do?"
"Cleaned up after you, like always."
Michael looked over at Claire and made a face. She laughed and picked up her plate; Michael picked up his, and followed her out into the living room.
Someone - Michael, she guessed - had cleared the big wood table next to the bookcases, and set up four chairs around it. The stuff that had been piled there - video game cases, books, sheet music - had been dumped in other places, with a cheerful disregard for order. (Maybe, she amended, that had been Shane's idea.) She set her plate down, and Eve promptly slapped her own down next to Claire's and slid a cold Coke across to her, along with a fork and napkin. Michael and Shane strolled back in, took seats, and began shoveling in food like - well, like boys. Eve nibbled. Claire, who was surprisingly hungry, found herself on her second taco before Eve had gotten through her first one.
Shane was already headed back for more.
"Hey, dude," he said as he returned with a reloaded plate, "when are you going to get a gig again?"
Michael stopped chewing, flashed a look at Eve, then Claire, and then finished the bite before saying,
"When I'm ready."
"Pussy. You had a bad night, Mike. Get back on the horse, or whatever." Eve frowned at Shane, and shook her head. Shane ignored her. "Seriously, man. You can't let them get you down."
"I'm not," Michael said. "Not everything is about beating your head against the wall until it breaks."
"Just most things." Shane sighed. "Whatever. You let me know when you want to stop hermiting."
"I'm not hermiting. I'm practicing."
"Like you don't play good enough. Please."
"I get no respect," Michael said. Shane, busy taking another crunchy bite, rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Yeah, I know, world's smallest violin playing just for me. Change the subject. How was that hot date with Lisa, anyway? Rented shoes turn her on or what?"
"It's Laura," Shane said. "Yeah, she was hot, all right, but I think she had the hots for you - kept saying how she saw you over at the Waterhouse last year and you were all, like, wow, amazing. It was like a menage à trois, only you weren't there, thank God."
Michael looked smug. "Shut up and eat."