“Here come my two beautiful eldest granddaughters!” announced Grandma G as Mackenzie and I entered the kitchen. She was sitting at the table with Professor Rusty and Aunt True, who was holding one of the twins while Aunt Angie nursed the other. At least I assumed that was what Aunt Angie was doing. There was a blanket draped over her shoulder, and I figured that the slightly squirmy lump she was cradling underneath it must be either Blair or Bella. I watched Professor Rusty making silly faces at whichever baby Aunt True was holding, startled by an unexpected thought: Do they want a baby of their own?
I figured the two of them would get married someday, but it had never occurred to me that they might want to start a family. Would Aunt True still want to work at the bookshop if she had a baby? My stomach lurched as I realized what a huge hole it would leave in my life if she didn’t.
My father poked his head in the back door. “Truly! Grab some newspapers from the recycling bin, would you? Brent could use a hand out here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll help too, Uncle Jericho,” said Mackenzie.
The two of us rummaged through the recycling bins in the mudroom and took a stack of old newspapers outside. Uncle Brent was the sole member of tonight’s setup squad, since Aunt Angie was busy with the twins. We helped him spread the newspapers on the picnic tables, then set out paper plates with a plastic bib on top of each one. Clambakes were notoriously messy.
“Where’s that hot sauce of your father’s at?” my uncle asked me.
I wrinkled my nose. “Hot sauce? On lobster?”
Uncle Brent grinned. “First rule of Texas cuisine, darlin’: Ain’t nothing on the menu that hot sauce don’t improve.”
I laughed and retrieved the box from the kitchen. After Mackenzie and I set the little Terminator bottles out on the tables, there wasn’t much else to do, since dinner was being catered. And from what I could tell, it was nearing completion. Over by the portable stoves that had been set up, Lobster Bob, a white-haired gentleman with big bushy white eyebrows and a mustache to match, was tending a pair of huge, steaming pots.
We Lovejoys were on cleanup duty tonight, which would be a snap. All we’d have to do was roll everything up in the newspapers, stuff it into garbage bags, and boom, we’d be done. Mackenzie and I would have plenty of time afterward to enjoy our last evening together.
A few moments later, Lobster Bob started banging a wooden spoon on a pot. “Who’s ready for a CLAMBAKE?”
In the stampede that followed, Giffords scrambled for seats as the caterers paraded over to the tables bearing platters of freshly-boiled lobsters and buckets of steamed clams, piles of corn on the cob and homemade rolls, and giant bowls of coleslaw. I’d been skeptical about the whole clambake idea, especially after so many years of great barbecue from the Salt Lick. But my mother’s instincts had been right. The clambake was a huge success, after a bit of a rocky start when some of the littlest cousins ran away screaming at their first sight of the fire-engine red lobsters. It didn’t help that my cousin Matt egged them on by chasing after them with one in each hand. Lobster Bob was clearly used to this reaction, though. He’d set up a lobster-free zone for the younger kids at the far end of the tables, complete with a hot dog station.
“I see you waited until now to reveal your true colors, J. T.!” teased Uncle Rooster, as my father took a seat across from him. He pointed to my father’s baseball cap. Unlike my Texas uncles, who were all sporting matching Longhorn caps—University of Texas is practically a religion in the Gifford family—my father had chosen to wear his favorite faded Red Sox cap.
“Hey! My team is playing the Yankees tonight, and it’s my lucky hat.” My father had been a Red Sox fan since he was a little kid. Most New Englanders are.
“No hats of any kind at mealtime, boys,” Grandma G decreed from the head of the table, and despite the fact that they were grown men, not little boys, my father and uncles obeyed her instantly, removing their caps and setting them down beside their plates. Grandma G’s word was law.
Since it was our farewell banquet, my grandmother made us all hold hands while she said grace. Then it was time to dig in.
“Messy little suckers, aren’t they?” said Uncle Rooster, showing Mackenzie how to extract a clam from its shell and remove the membrane from its tubelike neck. “Think of it as rolling down a turtleneck.”
She grimaced but did as he instructed, dubiously eyeing the unappealing lump that dangled from her fork.
“I know,” I told her. “They look kind of gross. But trust me—they’re delicious.”
“Dip it in hot water first to clean it and then in the melted butter,” said Hatcher, pointing to the paper cups lined up in front of her plate. “Your taste buds will thank you.”
Mackenzie hesitantly followed his directions. A big smile spread across her face as she ate her first steamer, as this style of cooked clam is called in New England.
“Told you so,” said my brother smugly.
“Even better with hot sauce,” said Uncle Brent, shaking a couple of drops of the Terminator into his butter.
Mackenzie shuddered. Like me, she’s not a fan of hot sauce.
Lobster Bob inspected one of the Terminator bottles curiously. “May I?” he asked, and Uncle Brent handed him a clam. Lobster Bob dipped it into the spiced butter and took a bite. His bushy eyebrows nearly disappeared under the brim of his chef’s hat. “Wow! That’ll make your eyes water—but in the best possible way.” He
