Sam took a tentative sip, then must have liked what he tasted because he took another, and then nearly drained the glass. “That goes down too easy. And you know what they say—easy peasy makes you sleazy.”
“Is that right?” She refilled his glass and offered him first crack at the hors d’oeuvres spread out on the sideboard. “I recall you talking about the farm-to-table movement in New York, so I’ve asked Chef Bart to give you a sample of what we enjoy here in Minnesota. Nearly everything we’re eating tonight either comes from our garden or from local farmers.”
Sam filled a cocktail napkin with one of everything. “There’s a restaurant in the city that serves a three-hundred-dollar burger. S’posed to be this incredible beef that they, like, hand massage and then mix with truffles. Something like that. Anyhow, I know I’ll have made it when I can order that burger whenever I want.”
“Absolutely,” said Maggie. “I’m quite a believer in food, and if a delicacy burger is on your list, I say, cheers to that.” She lifted her glass and toasted him. Thomas and Savannah lifted their sodas in return.
“Hear, hear!” said Sam. “Here’s to big, beefy success.”
The room was quiet for a bit. Savannah stood and took a few crackers. Thomas wiped the condensation from his Pepsi can with a napkin. Sam crunched on his food.
Maggie presumed Thomas and Savannah expected her to keep the conversation on track, and she had a very specific timeline to her work. She was following the map they’d devised over iced tea with Nadine and Chef Bart. The goal was to get Sam Tamblin to admit what he’d done. Some variety of, “Yep. I drummed up publicity for your podcast by igniting fake controversies on social media.”
Maggie knew it wouldn’t be easy. But she’d get it done.
With Sam, the secret would be to unfold the subjects carefully. First, they had to make him feel welcome—that they couldn’t be more pleased to see him. Next, they were to praise his work and make him feel like the master of the podcasting kingdom. And when both of those goals had been accomplished, they needed to convince him they couldn’t possibly move forward without his skills and insights.
Therein would lie their trap.
“I notice you’ve taken a liking to the pan-fried butter beans, Mr. Tamblin. I’m so glad.” Maggie stood and moved the bowl to the side table next to his chair. “Help yourself. Dinner, as you saw on the itinerary, will be ready at seven.”
It was now five-thirty.
“Good. Great,” said Sam.
“There’s plenty of time to discuss the future of the podcast tonight,” Maggie went on. “We’ve kept our whole evening free. Just for you.”
Sam grabbed a handful of beans, ignoring the serving spoon. “Awesome. The sponsors are itching to get started again. The download numbers are incredible. You’d think they’d slow down, given your hiatus, but they haven’t. The show’s like a zombie. It—just—keeps—going.”
“Have we lost any sponsors?” Savannah asked. “Because of the break?”
Maggie quickly brought a hand up to her ear and pulled, a signal for Savannah, reminding her to maintain her enthusiasm. Follow the map.
“Um!” Savannah had seen it. “I mean, how exciting. Yay. People still love the show!” She pumped a meek fist into the air.
Sam chewed and pumped his fist in response. “For reals. We’ve got new sponsors lining up. That luggage company—Fleetway? They’re begging for spots. And I’m working on closing sponsorship from this startup that makes sustainable fiber pants. Right Leg, they’re called. Horrible product, super itchy. But an awesome millennial draw.”
“Even given the tenuous future of the show?” Maggie caught the question too late and mentally kicked herself.
“Tenuous?” said Sam. “Sure, we still need to find the biodad. Which, hey, I know all about Jack Thorson out in Georgia. I mean, I’m cool y’all didn’t tell me about him right away, but we have to make hay with all that sunshine. Go big on the reunion. Major splash. Then we’ve got a whole second season, if not a third and a fourth, on all of you getting to know each other. Do you know if he has other kids? That could be a totally untapped stream.”
“No,” Thomas answered. “He didn’t even know about us.”
“Cool,” Sam said.
“Oh—” Maggie forced a chuckle, trying her best to make it sound breezy “—you have such vision, Sam.”
“My whole life’s been a vision quest. From the day I was born.”
Aren’t donkeys born blind? Bess whispered.
Not now! Maggie scolded.
“Sam,” Savannah said. “It’s just so great to have you here in person. I mean, we haven’t left the house much lately. Not since New York, anyway. And we won’t be going back there anytime soon, am I right? Not after the interviews Saj lined up.”
Maggie began to pull desperately at her ear, though Savannah refused to look at her.
“Van?” Thomas said, voice dripping with caution.
“Okay. Okay.” Sam held up a hand, and Maggie saw bits of soggy bean crumbs fall to the floor. “Super not cool what happened. And, rest assured, we are probably going to let Saj go as a publicist.”
“Rest assured probably?” Savannah said.
“Oh yeah. Totally. Probably soon, even. Way unacceptable for her to put you in that position.”
Maggie’s ear was now ringing with pain. Even so, she saw Savannah shoot Thomas a look as if to say, are you hearing this?
Thankfully for the sake of Maggie’s ear, he was. “Geez. Forget it, Sam.” Thomas flushed crimson and waved a dismissive hand. “We can talk about fault some other time—”
“No way. Easy call,” said Sam. “Totally Saj’s fault. Ab-so-tute-ly. Serious ostrich move on her part.”
Maggie jumped from her chair and pointed to the clock on the mantel. “Look at the time! I’d hoped to take Sam on a tour of the neighborhood before dinner. Stretch the legs and get some fresh air. Savannah? Thomas?” She gave them exacting looks. “Chef Bart and Nadine could use some help in the kitchen.”
* * *
There was a reason Maggie had scheduled two full hours for cocktails, and the evening, though a bit rocky—Sam Tamblin had talked nonstop during their walk about nothing relatable or relevant—was unfolding more or less on schedule.
At seven, Chef Bart called, “Dinner’s ready!” and they all took their seats in the dining room.
“What is this?” Savannah had spotted the starter course, a highball glass filled with what appeared to be pink bile. From the look on her face, she planned to have no part in it. Not that Maggie could blame her.
“Chilled watermelon mint soup,” Maggie explained. “The watermelon is from the Melbys’ garden. Drink up!”
Sam shot his back in a single swallow. Thomas sipped. Savannah scowled.
“Is it good?” she whispered at Thomas.
“Actually, yeah. Try it.”
Maggie watched as Savannah stuck the tip of her tongue into the brain-like puree. She recoiled. “Pass.”
Maggie changed the subject. “Sam and I had an interesting discussion on our walk. In fact, I asked him how we ought to wrap up. Since you’ve likely met the original goals of the podcast.”
“Whoa there, Maggs.” Sam wiped away a watermelon soup mustache. “I didn’t hear you say the words wrap up. We’ve got momentum on our side. Mo-mentum, mo-money, after all.” He grinned, and Maggie saw a splotch of pink goo in his teeth.
“I marvel at your insight, Sam,” she said, pulling back. She needed to redirect. Stay effusive. “Certainly, that’s why we asked you here. To discuss the future. Given that the goal of finding Thomas and Savannah’s father is very close to having been accomplished.”
“Nowhere close until we get a DNA match,” said Sam. “You’re on the hook to use GenePuul for genetic testing, don’t forget.”
Maggie had forgotten. B
ut that was fine. She wanted the certainty of DNA.
Chef Bart arrived to sweep the soup course away and replaced it with falafel and hummus.
“I made a special, lactose-free tzatziki sauce for you, Savannah.” He leaned in as he spoke, not quite whispering, but presumably sensitive to the fact that she may not want Sam Tamblin to know about her propensity for indigestion. “And I’ll have aged cheeses for you on the next course, and a fresh raspberry sorbet for you for dessert.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He gave the table a friendly wink and disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Man, I may have to change what I said earlier,” said Sam. “Forget the truffle burger. This food is amazing. I’ll know I’ve made it when I can hire Bert as my personal chef.”
Maggie couldn’t bear to look up, lest she risk losing her cool.
“But seriously, Maggs. Let me tell you what I know about podcasting. It’s the future. And it’s already here. On-demand audio programming for everyone. I’ve been in this a long time—the first podcast I hit really big with was six years ago. That’s like, the Ice Age in podcasting years. I made eighteen thousand dollars on that one, which doesn’t seem like much, but back then it was phe-nom-i-nal. Every show since has at least tripled the subscriber numbers. And this podcast, The Kids Are Gonna Ask, it’s already done five times as well as any other show I’ve ever done. Five times. Fivefold. Five hundred percent. Five a-roony.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“So, you get it, then, that to stop now would be criminal. Heinous. Stick-a-knife-in-my-back, bad.”
Chef Bart appeared from the kitchen. “More falafel? More hummus?”
“Please. Thanks,” Sam said without looking at him.
“Simply enjoy your dinner, Sam,” said Maggie. “We’ll discuss the nitty-gritty over the cheese course.”
Thomas, she noticed then, had begun to push the falafel balls around his plate rather than into his mouth.
“Thomas?” Maggie pulled on her earlobe as soon as he looked up. She was careful to target the opposite ear this time. “Something on your mind?”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Sam, how can we be sure listeners don’t get tired of our story? You’re so savvy about the promotional stuff. Won’t the interview requests slow down eventually?”
Maggie noticed that Thomas slowed precipitously when saying “interview requests.” She needed them to be careful not to overplay.
“We keep the story fresh,” Sam answered. “Ain’t no better script magic than an unexpected surprise.”
“What sorts of surprises aren’t unexpected?” asked Savannah.
“Savannah,” Maggie scolded.
“You’re a smart one, Van-tangelo. Love that big brain of yours.” Sam lifted his plate and craned his neck, trying to see into the kitchen. “Is there any more of this cabbage? You should try it in the pita with the hummus. I’ll smell like garlic for days, but it’ll be worth it.”
Chef Bart reappeared with a full dish, and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. Sam was nonplussed. She shot a warning at Savannah, anyway. Settle down, she mouthed.
Savannah smirked. “But how do you keep it fresh, Sam? After we’ve met our father and everything. Is it like, more interviews or more social media...?”
“Man, I don’t know if I can do another course.” Sam leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly like a caveman. “I think I overdid it with the Mediterranean bonanza. How many pita-fuls of cabbage did I eat? Two? Three?”
By Maggie’s count, five. Plus falafel and hummus and the watermelon soup.
“Ha!” He laughed at his own joke. “Pita-ful. Pitiful. Get it? I’m a pitiful mess from all those pita-fuls of cabbage.”
“I’m pleased you enjoyed it.” Maggie felt her smile beginning to strain, but saw Savannah and Thomas silently connect, recommitting to pushing Sam where they needed him to go.
“I’m just curious,” Thomas said. “We never did much promotion for the McClair Dinner Salon, so this is new territory for us. What sort of big surprise are you planning for Kids?”
Sam Tamblin snorted. “Have you forgotten what you started this for? To meet your big-ee-o dad-ee-o!”
“Right, of course, but—”
Maggie saw Thomas shoot Savannah a lost look, two innocents unsure of where to go next. It gave her an idea.
“Sam,” Maggie said. “Here’s a crazy thought. Given how much Thomas and Savannah have been attacked on social media, what if we staged a counterassault? You know, delete all the show’s social media accounts. Make a very public stand of not promoting the show there. Like a reverse psychology move?”
Sam Tamblin shook his head and continued rubbing his belly. “Would never work. Have to be on social.”
“Yes,” Savannah jumped in. “But what if we didn’t? Wouldn’t our quitting social media get just as much attention?”
Maggie suspected they’d just turned a rhetorical corner. If Sam was forced to drop all social media promotion, he’d be left with a one-sided controversy. And trolls, as far as she could tell, were uninterested in singing for the same choir. Agreeing with each other was boring, and they’d move on to other controversies. But if Sam Tamblin insisted on sticking to his social media strategy, Nadine’s findings might hold more leverage—a man so clearly dependent on one outlet would never want to be outed there as a fraud.
“I’d really love for you to consider the idea,” she said.
Sam blew a long steady breath. “I’m pretty loathe to—” He stood suddenly. “May I use your bathroom?”
Surprised, and yet, not—this was Sam Tamblin, after all—Maggie pointed the way. “Just down the hall on the left.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, she leaned in, whispering. “We’re closing in, and I think he knows it. Just hang in there. Savannah, I think your trauma is our best argument. Use it.”
Savannah nodded.
“Have you noticed he never answers questions directly?” Thomas said. “It’s like, he talks around the edges. Just enough so you think he’s answering you, but you realize later he’s told you basically nothing.”
“The man is vacuous,” agreed Savannah.
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Thomas. “Talking to him is like trying to get ahold of Jell-O.”
Sam reappeared then, and the table went silent.
“Sorry ’bout that,” he said.
Maggie smiled and passed him the cheese platter. “May I recommend the Brie with apricot glaze. It’s not a French Brie. We buy it from a farm just across the border in Wisconsin.”
Sam took a slice, spinning the cheese on his fork to examine it.
“Sam—” Savannah started, then fell silent.
“Yeah?”
Maggie shot Savannah an eager look and touched her ear. Both sides were now too sore to pull.
“I’ve been trying to get my thoughts together about what I experienced, being attacked by so many people online,” Savannah said. “It really would mean a lot to me if we could boycott social media. At least for now. It would save me an awful lot of pain. Plus, Thomas and Maggie and I all think it’s an important statement.”
Every one of the McClairs turned their eyes on Sam. What he said next was crucial. Proof he was either their friend. Or, as Maggie increasingly suspected, their foe.
“Uh...” He dropped the piece of Brie to his plate. “Yeah—” Then he stood abruptly, knocking his chair over backward. “Be right back.” The McClairs exchanged looks, watching him flee back down the hall.
“What was that?” Savannah whispered. Then a horrified look came over her face. “You don’t think he’s in there live tweeting the dinner, do you?”
Thomas pulled out his phone and began to scroll.
“He wouldn’t dare.” Maggie leaned over to get a glimpse of the hallway
.
“Nothing on Twitter,” Thomas said. “At least not on Sam’s account. The hashtags look clear.”
They sat in silence for several more minutes. It’s awkward to carry on when one of your guests disappears for extended periods. Especially into the restroom.
“We need to find out what he’s doing.” Savannah looked at Maggie, pleading with her to understand that this was clearly not a teenager’s job.
“Just a minute more,” Maggie said.
They gave him several minutes more.
Finally, Maggie stood, walked down the hall and knocked gently on the bathroom door. “Sam? Is there anything I can do for you?”
Sam’s singular reply came as an agonized groan.
“Oh dear,” Maggie said through the door.
At that, Thomas and Savannah stood to clear the table. Chef Bart and Nadine joined them.
“Think he’s all right?” Thomas asked.
“He ate like a whole bowl of those beans,” Savannah said.
“Plus cabbage. And hummus is made of garbanzo beans,” added Nadine.
“And the Purple Dragon has a prune juice base,” Chef Bart said. “Sour plum equals prune.”
Maggie returned. “He’s going to be in there all night.”
* * *
A few hours later, Maggie and Chef Bart managed to convince Sam to at least transition from sitting on the toilet to lying on the cool tile of the bathroom floor. Maggie wet a washcloth and laid it across his forehead. “Eventually, we’ll need to get some liquids in you. To rehydrate.”
The remainder of the party migrated to the den, and Chef Bart turned on the Twins game just loud enough to mask the sounds coming from the other side of the wall.
They’d been watching for a few innings when Savannah said, “Well, this evening has already gone to shit, so—” She waited for the laugh, but the best she got was Thomas rolling his eyes and Nadine smirking. “All right. Too obvious. Anyway, I may as well tell you. I got a letter from Jack Thorson.”
Thomas smiled, finally giving Savannah his attention. “And?”
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