"Mum never lets anyone go away hungry," Prudence assured him. She turned to Max. "You remember how to get to our house?"
"I think so."
"Just follow me. And if we get separated in traffic, it's 10327 Oak Street." She hugged Max again, pulled on her helmet, and climbed on her bike.
"Quite a young lady, your cousin," McAllister observed as he and Max got back in the van. "Is she a close relative?" Max didn't talk about his family much. McAllister only knew that he was estranged from his father, and his mother and brother were dead.
Max nodded. "We're first cousins. Aunt Mary was Mom's older sister."
"Aunt Mary? I thought you said Aunt Phoebe."
"Aunt Phoebe's actually Pru's stepmother. Aunt Mary died when Prudence was three or four, and," Max did some mental arithmetic, "and she's eighteen, no, nineteen now. I don't think she really remembers her much anymore. Aunt Phoebe's been the only mother she's really known since she was five or six."
"Given the 'Mum', I assume she's English?" Ahead of them, Prudence turned. McAllister gestured to the right. "Right turn here."
"Yeah, but her accent has mostly faded after so long in the States. She was nanny to Prudence and her brothers for a few years, and then she and Uncle Harold got married." Max flipped on the turn signal and turned the wheel. "I s'pose technically the two youngest cousins aren't actually my cousins, but we've always thought of all five of them as family."
"Five?"
"Uh-huh. Pru has two older brothers. Hal is a year older than I am, and Butch is two or three years younger. It's really Bentley, but he hates it when you call him that," Max confided. "Then after Uncle Harold married Aunt Phoebe, they had two more kids, a girl and a boy."
McAllister nodded as he absorbed the information. "Max?"
"Yes?"
"It might be best if we didn't mention to your relatives that I'm a ninja."
"Yeah. Good point." Max didn't think Uncle Harold and Aunt Phoebe would react well to learning that he was now an apprentice ninja.
Professor Harold Everett stepped into his kitchen. He sniffed appreciatively. "Smells delicious," he told his wife. The professor was a tall, muscular man, dark-haired except for the bit of white at the temples. Although there was no disguising the fact he was past fifty, he looked good for his age.
Phoebe Figalilly Everett turned and kissed him. She was a honey blonde, several inches shorter than her husband. "Hello, darling. How did the faculty meeting go?"
"A complete and total waste of time – a great deal of talking, but very little said. I don't know how they ever talked me into being department chair." The professor raised an eyebrow at the size of the pot on the rangetop. It was the big one, the one normally reserved for transforming the turkey carcass into soup the day after Thanksgiving. Taking a floral pot holder, he carefully lifted the lid and peeked inside.
A truly humungous pot roast simmered in the pot. The huge chunk of beef was surrounded by carrots, potatoes, and turnips.
Professor Everett glanced from the gigantic piece of meat to his wife. "Were you planning tacos for tomorrow?"
When Phoebe had first come to California as his children's nanny, the Englishwoman had experimented with Mexican cooking, giving it a uniquely British twist. She'd discovered that leftover pot roast, when shredded and simmered in Mexican spices, made a better taco filling than ground beef or refried beans. Perhaps, the professor mused, she was simply cooking two days' worth of food at one time.
"No, I thought fish and chips for tomorrow. The grocery store had cod at a very nice price," she explained.
Professor Everett glanced again at the pot roast. "Then why – "
"Amaryllis! Would you set the table, please?" Phoebe called.
"Yes, Mum," Amaryllis called back. A minute later an eight-year-old blonde trotted into the kitchen. She dismounted from her stick horse and carefully set the battered toy (inherited from her older brothers and sister, and somewhat the worse for years of hard but loving wear) aside.
As her daughter opened the silverware drawer and began gathering knives and forks, Phoebe instructed, "Set two extra places, darling. We're having company for dinner."
"We are?" the professor asked. He shook his head. He suppressed a sigh. After nine years of marriage and five years as her employer, nothing Phoebe Figalilly Everett said or did should surprise him anymore. He ought to be used to her uncanny ways by now. He wondered who, but didn't bother asking. With Phoebe, it could be anyone. Young Charlie Eppes and his mother … although he didn't remember having a tutoring session scheduled for the child prodigy. Two homeless men she'd seen in the park and felt sorry for. Prince Charles and Princess Di. Aunt Justine and Aunt Agatha, coming down in the backyard by balloon again. He peeked through the window to see if there was a hot air balloon descending.
"Pru back," a small voice announced.
"Prudence is back," Phoebe corrected her son automatically.
"Pru back," Charles Figalilly Everett repeated.
A moment later, the professor heard his daughter's motorcycle pull up in the driveway. He reached down and scooped up the three-year-old into his arms. "Yes, Charlie, Prudence is back."
Charlie was the only one of the professor's five children to inherit his dark hair. He had also inherited his mother's gifts.
