“Do you think maybe we should check now?”
“No.”
“Patrick,” Clara scolded.
“I think we should eat our food while it’s hot.” He took a bite of his cauliflower.
Clara cleared her throat to get her brother’s attention.
Patrick looked at her, annoyed. “Are you choking on a turkey bone?”
“Maisie is asking you if you’re sure because she’s concerned about potential harm to someone she’s become attached to.” Clara gestured toward the dog by nodding her head several times to the left.
Patrick’s face grew hot, embarrassed that it was Clara who clocked this after the outburst he’d just had. They were actually not a bad team; it was clear why parenting was often done in pairs. “Turkey is definitely fine. Let me tell you a story. When I first moved to Los Angeles I was working as an assistant to this producer guy. Real asshole.”
“PATRICK.”
“It’s fine,” Maisie said, twirling her fork in her stuffing. “We’re used to it.”
“I wanted to quit every day, but, I don’t know—I guess I thought he could help me get auditions or something. Anyhow. He used to send me to pick up food for his dog at this gourmet dog food place. All the meals were made with people food but, you know, it was packaged especially for dogs. Low sodium, real ingredients. All that nonsense. But they had turkey. Turkey with whole wheat macaroni. Lima beans. Brussels sprouts. Something like that.”
“Gross!” Grant interjected.
“Not for the dogs! Compared to what they’re used to eating? This was not for the hoi polloi.” Patrick glanced down at Maisie. “Regular people. Anyhow, his dog loved it! A few weeks later, this guy’s wife gives birth to their first child and before you know it he’s asking me to find him a private chef to make gourmet food for the baby. At this point he’s on my sh—naughty list because he hasn’t helped me get one audition. So I’m picking up the dog food one afternoon, thinking, ‘Where on earth am I going to find a private baby food chef?’ This was, I don’t know—before smartphones. Then it dawns on me. Why not just blend up the dog food? Put it in little jars. It’s really people food anyway, and without any preservatives or sodium. So, I do it.”
“You did not.” Clara’s jaw was practically on her plate.
“I most certainly did! I drove to the Container Store, which I was already familiar with because a month prior he told me to replace every plastic container in his house with glass because of the PVCs, or the CFCs, or the CDCs, or MTVs, or whatever. So I got these little glass jars, blended up the dog food and, voilà! Instant baby food.”
“The baby ate dog food?” Maisie’s eyes were so wide, they might as well have been propped open with toothpicks and Grant spit out some of his food.
“Dog food, baby food. The kid loved it! So much so, this guy, my boss, he started bragging to all his celebrity friends about this great new baby food chef that I found him. And how they had to hire him, having no idea the whole time it was me! So I bought a couple of those, I forget what they’re called—NutriBullets, Vitamixes, whatever they had at the time—and picked up a trunkload of supplies from the pet store, several cases of glass jars, and fired up my blenders. I jacked the price, my profit margin was insane! I swear, for like six months I had every famous baby eating dog food.”
Clara had had enough, and leaned over to cut the meat on Grant’s plate.
“Did anyone ever find out?” Maisie asked.
“What? No. I started getting auditions on my own and quit that stupid job. Soon after that I booked my show. Guncle Rule number ten: Don’t trust any label you don’t know. Labels should have a good, recognizable name, like Tom Ford, whether it be his own label or his work for Gucci or Yves Saint Laurent.”
Clara added some cranberry to another bite of turkey. “You’re filling these kids’ heads with nonsense. Don’t listen to your uncle.”
“Oh, it’s not nonsense. It’s practical life advice.”
“And how many of these . . . Guncle Rules . . . have there been? Ten?” Clara looked around the table for confirmation.
“I think so. Maisie could tell you. She has them written down.”
“Well, how about Auntie Rule number one: Labels don’t mean anything.”
“For people, yes. For consumer goods, god no.” Patrick chuckled. “Unless you want to eat dog food or buy everything off the rack.”
Grant threw his fork down on his plate with a clang. “No!”
“No, what?”
“I don’t want to eat dog food.”
“Okay, well, finish your people food, then. I tipped the Postmates guy extra because it was Christmas.” Patrick winked at Clara because he knew she was dying to scream that it wasn’t. She set her silverware down and took a deep breath. “Besides. ‘After a good dinner, one can forgive anybody.’” He kicked Clara under the table. “‘Even one’s own relations.’ Oscar Wilde.”
Clara was amused in spite of herself and worked hard to stifle a smile.
“Oh, look, here comes Marlene for seconds.” The dog circled to Patrick’s side of the table and sat wagging her tail. He leaned down to scratch her between the ears. “We should take her for a walk afterward. I think the pavement will finally be cool.”
“PRETHENTS!” Grant screamed.
“A walk, then presents.”
Grant slouched, defeated, but pleasant conversation resumed and everyone cleaned their plate.
Patrick let Marlene choose the route as they weaved their way through his Movie Colony neighborhood; she led them dutifully around the cul-de-sac with the old Tony Curtis estate. There were other Hollywood-star homes in a several block radius—Cary Grant, Gloria Swanson, even Frank Sinatra camped out in the
