From the acclaimed author of The Banned Bookshop of Maggie Banks and Must Love Books comes a heartfelt bookclub read following one woman’s journey to reconnect with her Black family in the south, just as it’s on the brink of falling apart, perfect for fans of The Chicken Sisters and The Last Summer at the Golden Hotel.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Shauna Robinson’s The Townsend Family Recipe For Disaster, which is out July 2nd 2024.
One estranged family. One lost recipe. One last barbecue on the line. Mae is about to learn what happens when things go south…
Mae Townsend has always dreamed of connecting with her estranged Black family in the South. She grew up picturing relatives who looked like her, crowded dinner tables, bustling kitchens. And, of course, the Townsend family barbecue, the tradition that kept her late father flying to North Carolina year after year, despite the mysterious rift that always required her to stay behind.
But as Mae’s wedding draws closer, promising a future of always standing out among her white in-laws, suddenly not knowing the Townsends hits her like a blow. So when news arrives that her paternal grandmother has passed, she decides it’s time to head South.
What she finds is a family in turmoil, a long-standing grudge intact, a lost mac & cheese recipe causing grief, and a family barbecue on the brink of disaster. Not willing to let her dreams of family slip away, Mae steps up to throw a barbecue everyone will remember.
For better or for worse.
CHAPTER ONE
Mae didn’t realize she was drunk until she nuzzled the peony.
Her future mother-in-law, Susan, paused mid-sentence to watch Mae across the table. Tracing a petal down her cheek, luxuriating in how velvety it was, Mae wondered if Susan had lost her train of thought, and Mae was going to say You were talking about—except she couldn’t remember. It was something to do with the centerpieces, a debate about roses versus peonies, and then Mae had plucked a petal from the peony in front of her and wondered how that surprising softness might feel on her face. Were peonies good for the skin? If jade rollers were a thing, there had to be a market for face- flowers. What would she call it? Flower facial? Petal peel? Floratherapy? The name needed workshopping, but she was onto something.
But now, staring into Susan’s baffled blue eyes, it occurred to Mae that perhaps that look had nothing to do with center-pieces and everything to do with Mae. Mae glanced at Connor, her fiancé. He was watching her, too, except the corner of his lips twitched in the hint of a smile.
In an instant, Mae noticed the warmth in her face, the floating in her head, the flower on her cheek, and realized she might have hit the cabernets too hard. They’d all tasted about a dozen wines that afternoon and yet Mae was the only one fondling flowers. Then again, Connor’s parents owned a winery, and she guessed wine- tasting expertise ran in their blood. Even Connor had probably swirled and sniffed from a baby bottle before he’d taken his first steps. Mae, on the other hand, had made it to thirty-one without grasping the basics of wine appreciation. While they went on about hidden flavors and aromas she never picked up on—apricot, mushroom, tobacco, wet gravel, as if anyone in their right mind would want to drink something with notes of wet gravel—she’d guzzled every glass, just trying to get the acidic taste over with.
If only today had been a pizza tasting. She was great at appreciating pizza.
Mae lowered her hand to her lap and studied the petal, now patchy with grease. Susan resumed speaking, gushing about the timelessness of peonies, and Mae let the petal flutter to her feet. Her mind was still drifting past the cloud of conversation, but that was how all wedding planning discussions felt. For the last year, talk of table settings and color schemes had swirled around her in words she couldn’t quite grasp. Who cared about irrelevant details when her wedding might be the catalyst that finally brought her estranged family together?
“But you don’t need to worry about the cost,” Susan was saying, her voice faraway.
“I know,” Connor said. “But if Mae and I don’t care about the flowers, then what’s the point of splurging?”
John, Connor’s father, laughed like it was the silliest question he’d ever heard. “Because we can.”
“You prefer the peonies, don’t you, Mae?” Susan said.
Mae snapped to attention. Three expectant faces watched her, waiting for signs of life. Even the fountain behind them, which normally brought a soothing sound to John and Susan’s patio, seemed to silence its steady trickle. Mae should say something smart, something relevant at the very least, but her last competent brain cell was busy designing colorful T-shirts stamped with TOWNSEND FAMILY REUNION.
Her gaze darted around the table for a distraction: empty wine glasses, assorted flowers, one of Susan’s three-ring binders. It was open to a glossy page showing leaves running down a white backdrop. “What’s that?” she asked.
Susan perked up. “It’s a vine wall, like the one we’re doing for the wedding. If we’re agreed on peonies for the centerpieces, I was thinking we could put some on the wall too. I have a picture of that somewhere.” She licked a finger and flipped through a never-ending funhouse of themed walls: sunflowers, balloons, glowing light bulbs.
Of course Susan had a wall binder. This wedding was serious business for John and Susan Rutherford. It was decreed long ago that their only child’s wedding would be held at their picturesque winery. With a coveted venue at their disposal, and their many contacts in the wedding industry, the Rutherfords were determined to make this wedding the event of the century. And Mae and Connor would be there, too.
“Wait,” Mae said when she caught a glimpse of food. “What was that one?”
“This?” Susan turned back to a page where colorful donuts hung on wooden pegs. “Oh. This is a donut wall we did for a wedding a few years back.”
“The Harrington-Chambers wedding,” John said. “May 2019.”
Mae always thought it was impressive that John could remember every wedding. Though he could just be spouting off random names and dates for all she knew. He could have said, The Crumpet-Trolleybottom wedding, January 1593, and they would have all nodded knowingly. The thought made her laugh, and John gave her a puzzled look, and she cleared her throat and went back to staring at the donut wall.
“I love donuts.” Mae rested her elbows on the table with a dreamy sigh. “I love when the glaze hardens and gets a little bit country.” She frowned. “Crunchy.” Yes, that was it. Her head swimming with glazes and sprinkles, she gasped and turned to Susan. “Hey, what if we did a donut wall? Instead of the vines?”
Susan did a double take, looking from Mae to the binder. “You…want to do a donut wall?”
Mae couldn’t tell what Susan found more surprising: that Mae was finally expressing a wedding-related opinion after a year of nods and shrugs, or that a wall— and not flowers, or music, or anything else Susan had a dedicated binder for— was the one detail Mae chose to speak on.
But donuts were delicious. Mae could go for a donut right now. And maybe her dad’s side of the family liked donuts too. In fact, maybe this whole, elaborate wedding wasn’t so absurd if the spectacle of it drew them in.
“Yeah,” Mae said. “Is that possible?”
“It is. It’s just…” Susan’s brow pinched. “This was for a morning wedding. Donuts went with the breakfast theme. But your wedding’s in the evening.” She spoke like there was something unspoken in her words.
“I’d eat donuts day or night,” Mae said. She glanced around the table. John was squinting thoughtfully into the distance, the temple tip of his glasses between his lips, like he was trying his hardest to imagine a world with night donuts.
But Connor, smirking at Mae, was already in that world with her. “Let’s do it,” he said. “Donut wall.”
“Donut wall!” Mae echoed, lifting her water glass. Connor clinked his glass against hers, his eyes dancing with mirth.
“Okay.” There was a touch of pain in Susan’s voice. She tucked a blond flyaway into place, surveying the two of them uncertainly. “Let’s have a donut wall…at night.”
“Night donuts!” Mae raised her hand for a high-five.
A range of emotions passed over Susan’s face: confusion, surprise, maybe joy? Susan gave a delighted laugh and slapped her hand neatly against Mae’s in the demurest high-five Mae had ever received.
“I didn’t know you liked donuts so much,” John said. “We could have picked some up for you today.”
Alarm bells sounded in the small part of Mae’s brain that hadn’t succumbed to the wine fog, flashing a bright-yellow caution sign, slow down, yield to oncoming intimacy.
For years, she’d curated the perfect balance of geniality and distance around Connor’s family. Semi-regular lunches and dinners with Connor and his parents? Sure. Pedicures with Susan? No, thank you—she was busy that day. Coming over to admire the Rutherfords’ kitchen remodel? Certainly, and she’d even gift them some fancy olive oil to mark the occasion. Being left alone with them when Connor had to step out to take a call? Oh, actually, she had to use the bathroom for the exact duration of Connor’s call, please excuse her a moment.
There was a logic behind her avoidance. Mae knew that if she let her guard down around his parents, they would do the same around her—and that was when the danger set in.
Yet, John’s donut offer and Susan’s high-five excitement had Mae’s resolve crumbling a little, as it always did when their kindnesses caught her off-guard. She studied John and Susan, searching for traces of Connor. With that gray hair lining the sides of John’s bald head, he didn’t much resemble him—but those warm brown eyes were the same. Susan’s hair was lighter and thinner than Connor’s honey blond, but her crooked smile mirrored his. Mae could choose to believe in them, accept that John and Susan might be every bit as good as their son.
“That would be great,” Mae said. “We’ll have to get donuts sometime.”
A strangely fuzzy feeling came over her as she took in John and Susan’s pleased expressions. Was this growth? Had she really overcome her fears about Connor’s parents and invented flora-therapy (patent pending) in a single afternoon? She should get drunk more often.
While John and Susan debated potential donut vendors for the wedding, the talk of flavors and toppings had Mae’s mouth watering—except someone must have taken the snack platter inside. The old Mae might have politely toughed it out around the Rutherfords, but she was evolved now. She was Cabernet Mae. CaberMae, if you will.
“I’m gonna grab a snack,” she announced, standing abruptly. “Can I get anyone anything?” A wave of dizziness washed over her. She gripped her chair to avoid swaying.
“You good?” Connor asked, watching her closely.
“I’m great,” Mae assured him. She even believed it.
One foot in front of the other, and she was walking fine. So, she wasn’t falling-down drunk, just does-weird-things-with-peonies and high-fives-with-abandon drunk. She crossed the patio and entered the Rutherfords’ house, where air-conditioning provided a welcome respite from the muggy, June heat. She ran her fingers along the living room wall, fantasizing about what she might find in the kitchen.
Kitchens had souls, personalities. The Rutherfords’ kitchen was like a pristine gourmet market, neat cupboards and marble countertops brimming with expensive snacks and drinks. Her parents’ kitchen had been more like a 7-Eleven, stocked with foods meant for microwaves, like Hot Pockets and canned soups. And she knew from her dad’s stories about his childhood that his family’s kitchen was equal parts playground and paradise, where his mom made tantalizing feasts while he and his three siblings hovered around her, asking when dinner was ready, sneaking tastes from bubbling pots of peppery gravy or creamy mashed potatoes, scampering off in a giggling panic if they got caught at the stove. Mae always loved that image, a kitchen swarming with curiosity, laughter, activity.
The Rutherfords’ kitchen had none of that, but it would have those seed crackers they’d served several wines ago, which were sure to quiet her growling stomach. They’d been crunchy and nutty, with sunflower seeds and flaxseeds and a hint of garlic. She’d meant to ask what brand they were, but then John busted out the malbec and Mae returned to knocking back wines she didn’t like.
Murmurs were coming from the kitchen. She started to make out the words as she drew closer.
“…uneven,” Connor’s aunt Laura was saying. “Most of the guests are from our side. I don’t think Mae’s invited more than sixty— oh, hi, Mae!” Laura’s eyes briefly widened before she broke into a grin. “We were just talking about the guest list.”
Connor’s uncle Rob flashed her a smile too wide for his face. “How’s it going out there?”
Something familiar and unpleasant pulled at her. “Great,” she said, throwing on a smile too, for this was clearly the thing to do. “I was just getting a snack.” She scanned the counter: green olives, mango compote, truffle almonds that tasted like salty dirt—the seed crackers! She lunged for them, grabbing a handful and holding them up like a trophy.
Laura and Rob chuckled awkwardly. Mae lingered in the uncomfortable quiet, racking her brain for something to say. “Found ’em.”
Laura’s eyes traveled to the crackers in Mae’s hand, and Mae felt an urge to set them down and back slowly out of the room. But that would be worse, wouldn’t it, now that she’d already touched them?
Fleeing was the only option. Mae stammered something about the bathroom and got the hell out of there.
In the safety of the bathroom, she turned the lock and leaned against the door. She ignored the floral potpourri smell and stuffed a cracker in her mouth while her mind spun with regret.
This was why. This was why she’d worked so hard to keep Connor’s family at a distance. Why she couldn’t let herself get swayed by donuts and innocent smiles.
Laura and Rob hadn’t done anything wrong. Her guest list was paltry compared to the Rutherfords’. But walking in on them talking about her unlocked a feeling she’d spent her adulthood trying to forget. A squirmy instinct that she didn’t belong.
Mae knew that feeling well. At every family function she’d attended with her white mother’s extended family, Mae and her dad had grown accustomed to being the only Black people in the room. They exchanged knowing looks when Mae’s aunt felt the need to specify the race of the waitress who got her order wrong. They tiptoed through conversations about politics and pop culture. When they walked in on her uncle speculating that half the Black population of east Bakersfield was part of a gang, they’d shared a glance over the way he startled when they entered the room.
Mae’s mother was quick to challenge any noticeably ignorant remarks, but she didn’t catch them all, and Mae and her dad had a more detached approach, anyway. It was easier to treat these occurrences like private, fleeting club meetings: a shared look or a stifled laugh, and then the minutes were taken and they adjourned until next time.
Mae had always longed to expand their club. Her dad’s stories about his childhood, growing up in North Carolina with his siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors, painted a picture of an extended family with a boisterous closeness that made her ache with curiosity. Instead of uncomfortable moments at perfunctory holiday meals, his family had Sunday dinners packed around the dining table, passing plates while five conversations went on at once. She used to pepper her dad with questions, usually when holidays rolled around and her desire for belonging intensified. What did you eat for Thanksgiving? Did you bake cookies for Santa on Christmas Eve? Tell me again about the time your neighbor’s dog ruined the Easter egg hunt.
Mae, feeling so far away in California, had hoped that one day something would bring them all together. No matter that her dad’s parents hadn’t approved of him marrying Mae’s mom. Naturally, they weren’t thrilled about their son becoming a father at twenty-one and running off to California with the white woman he’d gotten pregnant. But so much time had passed since then. They had to move past it sometime.
As a kid, Mae had dreamed her wedding would reunite her family. Her dad would walk her down the aisle, she’d exchange vows with— well, back then it was Eric from Zoom; his smile made those science segments worth watching— and at the reception, her dad would introduce her to all their North Carolina relatives, and she would finally feel like she belonged.
She hadn’t expected that the occasion to finally get them all in the same room would be her dad’s funeral.
It wasn’t the heartwarming reunion Mae had anticipated. Their two-day visit was brief, they stayed in a hotel, and Mae, then fifteen, had been too busy fighting back tears to make a meaningful connection with them beyond dim smiles and answering their questions about what grade she was in and how she liked school. And then the visit was over, they went back to North Carolina, and Mae never saw them again.
So she’d swallowed her grief and accepted the reality that her club’s membership had shrunk to one. When she headed off to college at Howard a few years later, she thought she’d never have to experience that odd-one-out feeling ever again.
And then she went and fell in love with a man as white as mayonnaise.
She couldn’t help falling for the cute white guy who made her laugh at her friend’s birthday party nearly five years ago. That stupid pun he’d made about his Midori sour (it’s one in a melon), the endearing way his eyes crinkled when her laugh rang out amid a sea of groans, how he’d raised his glass at her like they were the only people with taste, and she was a goner.
But she could control her relationship with his family. She refused to let the Rutherfords get close to her and start feeling comfortable enough to say ignorant things around her the way her mom’s relatives always had. She’d thought she could manage it, but their impending wedding intensified her creeping fears tenfold. Spending the rest of her life behind a wall of polite formality, attending those club meetings all by herself, was too achingly lonely a prospect to bear. Something had to change.
And so, late last year, Mae had tapped right back into that childhood fantasy and invited every single one of her North Carolina relatives to her wedding. She’d pressed her mom for the Townsends’ addresses until she relented and emailed her the few she had, warning that they might not be up to date. From there, Mae cross-checked them against Zillow to see who might have moved. When in doubt, she defaulted to her grandmother’s address. Zillow showed that her grandmother’s split-level home hadn’t been sold in decades. It felt like the surest bet. She just needed her grandmother to put aside her disapproval and get the invitations into the right hands.
Mae had sent the save-the-dates in December, then the invitations in May. Surely now the Townsends would remember Mae existed, feel terrible about their three decades of ignoring her, and show up with hugs and apologies at the ready. Mae would take them in with open arms and donuts aplenty, and all would be forgiven.
She hadn’t gotten a single RSVP from them.
But they still had a week. Maybe CP time applied to RSVPs. Mae pulled out her phone and checked the app for the wedding website Connor’s parents made them use. No new RSVPs. She sighed through her nose and swiped to Instagram instead. All she had to do was type S in the search bar and Instagram did the rest, knowingly suggesting Sierra Townsend.
Her cousin Sierra mostly posted pictures of her baked goods, from unassuming cranberry oat muffins to cakes swathed in shiny ganache and immaculate frosting dollops. But sometimes, she shared pictures of friends and relatives, too. Mae liked to scan their faces for familiarity, read captions for references to their family. And, lately: search for clues that Sierra might be planning a trip to DC for a wedding next month.
Mae checked the latest post—nothing since the lemon bars last week—then scrolled to find the old picture of Sierra with Mae’s father. Sierra had posted it last month with the hashtag throwback. She could tell from the wooden backyard fence, the red checkered tablecloth behind them, and the red paper plate he held, that it was from the Townsends’ big Fourth of July barbecue—the one holiday her dad flew back to North Carolina for every year. Mae used to hover around him while he packed his suitcase, asking what he was most excited about doing and eating when he got to Hobson. And when he came home blissfully jet-lagged a week later, he’d patiently answer Mae’s questions about what he ate, who he saw, and what their relatives were up to.
Sierra probably didn’t even know what a privilege it was to attend that legendary barbecue. In the picture, Mae’s dad had one arm around Sierra while the other held a plate piled with ribs, corn on the cob, potato salad, mac and cheese, and baked beans. Sierra, who must have been about twelve at the time, grinned patiently at the camera, as if this were the third or fourth time someone had tried snapping the shot.
Sierra’s eyes were rounder than Mae’s, her skin darker and cheekbones higher, but Mae’s gaze always gravitated to Sierra’s nose. It was the same as Mae’s: wide and flat, tapering up to a narrow bridge. It grounded her, this knowledge that she had a whole other family, and some of them had her nose. It felt absurdly unfair that Mae had grown up with just her relatives in Bakersfield when, many miles away, were the Townsends, who Mae knew would never make her feel out of place. You didn’t alienate someone who had the same nose as you. It just wasn’t done.
And, okay, there were some hurdles to work past. Her dad’s parents disapproving of his marriage to Mae’s mom. The way her dad had gone to those Fourth of July barbecues alone, even though she begged to go with him. How the Townsends’ one and only trip to Bakersfield was riddled with tension. Mae remembered exchanging a puzzled look with Sierra, then nineteen to Mae’s fifteen, as their mothers got into a heated whisper-fight half an hour before the funeral.
Mae never found out what that fight was about, but she always came back to that look she and Sierra shared, a reminder that she wasn’t alone in wondering why the hell their family was so fragmented. It made her certain, even all these years later, that she could at least count on Sierra to come to her wedding.
Mae washed down the crackers with a mouthful of water from the sink, then wiped crumbs from the corners of her mouth. CaberMae might have worn these crumbs blithely, but it would be all the invitation Susan needed to brush them away, hypnotize Mae with maternal affection, and then gleefully grab a fistful of Mae’s 3c hair to see what it felt like, or whatever weird thing Susan was secretly dying to do.
Mae checked her teeth in the mirror, swished water around her mouth to rinse away the purplish wine stains, fluffed her curls, straightened her posture, and eyed her reflection with resolve. May CaberMae rest in peace.
When Mae returned to the patio, she was the picture of poise. She listened and nodded at appropriate intervals, answered questions with precisely calculated amounts of warmth and charm, doled out one-point-five-second hugs as she and Connor took their leave. The minute she slid into the passenger seat of Connor’s Prius, she let her head loll back, her spine curve, her legs stretch. Every undignified mannerism she’d suppressed all afternoon was hers to embrace again.
“You seemed to enjoy the wine,” Connor teased when he got in the car.
Mae laughed. It wasn’t the dignified chuckle she contrived for his parents but the shameless kind that made the muscles in her stomach contract. “Maybe I’m too polite to spit in front of people.”
“You are a very polite drunk,” he conceded, lightly kissing her nose as he dropped something in her lap.
She looked down to find a large Ziploc bag of seed crackers. “Where’d these come from?”
“Aunt Laura said you liked them.”
“Oh.” She chewed the inside of her lip and stared at the bag. Was it an innocent suggestion, an I packed these for Mae, Aunt Laura just doing aunt things? Or was it steeped in mockery, a Mae sure demolished those crackers, that greedy drunk, and they were gossiping about her in the kitchen right now, staring through the window?
Instinctively, she sat up straighter. Mae rubbed her eyes, ate a cracker despite herself. Dissecting every little thing the Rutherfords did was exhausting. But she didn’t know how to stop.
“You want to go anywhere?” Connor asked as he started the car. “We could drive around and look for For Rent signs. Adams Morgan. Lanier Heights.” He was practically singing the neighborhoods, like he was suggesting a tropical vacation and not an apartment-hunting chore.
Mae held his gaze, met the hopeful spark in his eye, and shook her head. “I’ll pass.”
“Fine.” He pretended to grumble, but that spark never left him. “But our lease is gonna be up soon.” He eased the car down the Rutherfords’ driveway, stopping when they reached the road. The coast was clear, but he didn’t move. He glanced at Mae. “You love DC.”
“I love Baltimore too,” she said with a shrug. Admittedly, DC’s free museums, blooming cherry blossom trees, and eclectic variety of cuisines within walking distance had mesmerized her since college. But it would be hard to keep his parents at bay if she lived two miles from them. Baltimore put an hour between them, offering so many more excuses for avoidance.
Connor studied her a moment longer, searching her face for truth, but Mae held firm. She couldn’t unload her spiraling fears on him and explain how her line of thought could possibly travel from I do love DC to I’m worried your family is secretly racist.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “We still have some time.”
He slipped his hand into hers and squeezed, sending a ripple of love through her. The gesture was enough for Mae to push her lurking thoughts aside and relax the rest of the way home.
Mae felt lighter as Connor parked in their usual spot, down the street from their row house. The sun was golden, they’d narrowed down wine pairings and invented night donuts, and her Rutherford obligations were over with. Now she could change into sweatpants, collapse onto the couch with Connor, maybe order a fennel and onion pizza from their favorite pizzeria. Her mouth was dry and sour-tasting from too much wine, but a tangerine La Croix from the fridge would take care of that.
And when Mae stopped to check the mail and found a gold-colored envelope with Sierra Townsend in the return address, her hopes skyrocketed.
She flipped it over and slowly peeled open the envelope, heart pounding. Suppose Sierra wrote a note on the RSVP card? Something like Can’t wait to see you, cuz! Mae’s best friend Jayla called her cousins cuz, and Mae had been struck by that, how cool it sounded. But a note wasn’t necessary. They could catch up all they wanted at the wedding.
Mae saw the check mark first. Sierra had selected the box for Declines with regret.
She willed herself not to feel the plummeting disappointment, reminded herself that asking a near-stranger to travel three hundred miles for your wedding was a tall order, cousins or not. At least Sierra took the time to fill out the RSVP and send it back. That was kind of her.
Except…
Mae peered closer. She’d thought there was a stray mark on the card, or maybe a hair, but no. In a straight, decisive line of ink, Sierra had firmly crossed out the with regret.
This wasn’t a kindness. It was a calculated attack.
