“Sure thing,” he said. Mr. Accommodating. To me he said, “Want to ride along?”
“Not so fast,” Mrs. Templeton said, switching her grip to my arm. She was a grabber, always had been. “I think you two can stand to be apart for ten minutes. I need Emaline’s help in the kitchen if we ever want to serve this dinner. Some of these workers the caterers brought are worthless.”
Uh-oh, I thought. Luke gave me a look, which I ignored, focusing instead on his mom’s perfect updo, which was bouncing slightly in front of me as she led me up to the house. As we climbed the side steps to the kitchen, I saw it was crowded with people: Luke’s dad was arranging steak and salmon on a platter, his younger sister Stacey was taking pans from the oven, and a woman in black and white, clearly hired, was busy piling rolls in a big basket. Only one person was standing still, doing nothing, and of course it was Morris.
“We’ve got to get this food out,” Luke’s mom said to me over her shoulder. “Can you find the salads and bring them to the table? Oh, and there are a couple more bottles of wine in the pantry, I think the bartender might need them by now.”
“Right,” I said, negotiating around Luke’s dad, who gave me a wink, hoisting his tray of meat and fish. I spotted the salads on the counter by the fridge and made a beeline over to them, grabbing one before walking up to my best friend, who was busy holding up the fridge and examining his fingernails. “Morris,” I hissed. “What are you doing?”
He looked up at me. “What do you mean?”
I shoved the salad into his hands, hard, making him jump. “Do you realize you are the only one in this entire room not working right now?”
“I’m working,” he said. This I ignored, grabbing the other salad bowl and sticking it under my arm before ducking into the pantry to grab the wine.
“Come on,” I said. He just looked at me. “Now.”
We went out onto the deck and down the stairs, heading to the rows of tables that were set up in the backyard, tiki torches lined up between them. All the way, just behind me, I could hear Morris’s signature shuffle-lope. It was a sound I knew well, mostly because despite the fact that we’d known each other since grade school, he had not once ever been in front of me. He was that freaking slow.
“What’s your problem?” he asked as I plunked the salad bowl onto a table by a stack of plates. He was still holding his, would not put it down unless directly instructed to do so. “You and Luke in a fight or something?”
“Do you even know how much I had to stick my neck out for you to get this gig?” I demanded. “Robin did not want to hire you. I basically begged her.”
“Why’d you do that?”
I couldn’t take it anymore: I grabbed his salad, putting it on the table. “Because,” I said, “Daisy told me you were desperate for work.”
“I wouldn’t say desperate,” he replied.
“Clearly not. Because if you were, you’d actually be, you know, working.”
Most people, having been spoken to this way, would be chastened. Or at least react. But this was Morris, so he just looked at me. “She told me to bring in the salads and bread. I did. I was awaiting further instruction.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you really always have to be specifically told everything? You can’t see a need and jump in to meet it?”
“Do what?”
“Morris?” I turned. It was Robin, the owner of Roberts Family Catering, who had owed me a favor. Now I was pretty sure I was in her debt. “Did you unload those napkins and plates from the van?”
“Uh-huh,” he told her.
“Yes,” I corrected him, not that he heard me.
“Are they”—she glanced at the serving station, now lined with platters of food—“here?”
“You didn’t tell me where to put them.”
Dear God, I thought, as Robin—and I—looked over at the driveway where, sure enough, the plates and napkins were stacked on the pavement, right next to the van. “Go,” I said to him. “Go get them and bring them to her.”
“You are in a bad mood,” he observed, but now, finally, he was moving. Shuffle-lope, shuffle-lope. I shook my head, then headed over to Robin, who was busy pulling foil and cling wrap off her various dishes.
“Don’t say it,” she said, before I could even begin to apologize. “I’m too busy right now.”
“Let me help, at least,” I told her, coming around the table. I found some tongs, stuck them in the dishes, then lined up the dressing cruets someone else had just dropped off.
“You just did more than he has in two hours,” she said in a tired voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s worthless.”
“I know.”
Now she stopped, giving me an incredulous look. “Then why in the world did you ask me to hire him for a big job like this?”
“I was trying to help . . .” I trailed off as Morris approached, the napkins and plates in hand, “a friend.”
“Must be a good one,” she said.
I nodded as she gestured to Morris to put the stuff he was carrying at the end of the table. Then I went over to stand beside him and began opening up the plates. After a beat—or three—he joined me.
I wished this was the first time I’d taken heat for Morris, but our entire relationship—forged in third grade, when he and his mom briefly lived next door—had pretty much revolved around him screwing up and me making excuses for him. The best I could figure is that I never got to have a puppy, and being friends with Morris was kind of like the same thing. He could be cute, and fun, but also at any moment ruin your favorite shoes and pee all over your floor. So to speak.