the long wooden table beneath the pecan tree.
That was when Aaron’s car pulled into the driveway.
Bianca emerged first, carrying a large canvas tote.
Colleen followed with another bag.
Neither woman carried food.
The bags rattled when they were placed on the patio chairs.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“Containers,” Bianca answered cheerfully.
“You always cook too much.
We thought we’d save you the trouble of storing everything.”
Colleen glanced toward the smoker.
“Thirty-three pounds, Aaron said? That’s an enormous amount for so few guests.”
I shrugged.
“We enjoy sharing.”
“Exactly,” she replied.
There was something odd about the speed of her answer.
But Frank had just lifted the brisket from the smoker, and I had a dozen hungry people waiting, so I gave the bags no further thought.
Lunch began pleasantly.
Frank carved the brisket with his usual concentration.
Mina passed the potatoes.
Joel poured drinks, and everyone exchanged stories about work, children, and a thunderstorm that had damaged several fences the previous week.
Bianca spent much of the meal taking photographs.
First the smoker.
Then the trays of meat.
Then the table itself.
At one point, she asked me to stand beside the smoker holding the carving knife.
“Smile, Ellen.
The lighting is perfect.”
I laughed and posed.
“Are you making a family scrapbook?”
“Something like that,” she answered.
I didn’t know that another photograph from a previous barbecue was already being used online to advertise a catering service supposedly operated by me.
Colleen was less interested in photographs than in offering opinions.
The ribs had too much smoke.
The potatoes needed more seasoning.
My serving platters were too heavy.
The patio umbrella looked outdated.
I listened politely while she ate three generous helpings.
Across the table, Aaron barely spoke.
Whenever I tried to catch his eye, he looked away.
That should have warned me.
At approximately three-thirty, our guests began clearing plates.
Mina carried dishes into the kitchen.
Frank went to refill the tea pitcher.
I started gathering the serving spoons.
Then Bianca clapped her hands.
“Aaron, let’s get everything packed.”
He rose immediately.
Without asking me, he brought both canvas bags to the table.
Seventeen containers came out.
I counted them because the number seemed absurd.
Some were large rectangular tubs.
Others were deep round containers with tightly fitting lids.
Each lid carried a neat printed label.
Bianca arranged the labels facing away from me.
Then Aaron began filling the containers with brisket.
“Put more of the dark-crusted pieces in that one,” Bianca instructed.
“And save the ribs for the larger orders.”
I stopped moving.
Larger orders?
Colleen leaned forward.
“Don’t forget those wrapped trays, Aaron.
We can use them exactly as they are.”
My son reached toward the two foil trays marked with blue tape.
Those belonged to Ruth and Mr.
Ortiz.
Before I could speak, he lifted one.
I walked to the table.
“Set those down.”
My voice wasn’t loud, but it carried across the patio.
Aaron froze.
Bianca stared at me as though I had interrupted an important meeting.
“Ellen, please don’t create a scene.”
“Then explain what you’re doing.”
“Packing the extra food.”
“Who gave you permission to take it?”
Colleen made an impatient sound.
“For goodness’ sake, you’re his mother.”
“Which is why I’m asking him.”
Aaron placed the blue-marked
