I apologized one more time, we made mutual it’s-been-nice-to-meet-you’s, and I headed back to the living room in time to hear the end of the sandwich story.
* * *
A few hours later, the dinner dishes—I’d made tacos, and the grocery store spice pack instead of a homemade blend wasn’t nearly as horrible as Aunt Frances claimed—were done, Eddie was contentedly sleeping on the houseboat’s dashboard, and my niece was staring at me with a blank expression on her face. “You want to do what?” she asked.
“Walk up to Three Seasons for dessert.”
“And I’d want to do that why?”
I looked at the ceiling. Give me strength, I asked anyone who might be listening. I’m trying, I truly am trying. I put the last spoon in the drawer, assembled a smile, and turned to face Kate. She was sitting on her sleeping bag, legs sprawled out long, and poking at her tablet, playing a brightly colored video game that seemed to involve a significant amount of muttering punctuated by mild invectives. When I’d once asked what game she was playing, she’d shaken her head and said I wouldn’t know it. Which was undoubtedly true, but still.
“Because,” I said as patiently as I could, “Kristen is making crème brûlée. With strawberries.”
In past summers, Sundays had been dessert night. On Sunday evening, Kristen’s busy restaurant weekend was at an end, and the two of us, and occasionally our mutual friend Leese Lacombe, spent the evening talking and laughing and, every so often, crying. But things were different now. Kate was staying with me, there was Rafe, and Kristen was married.
Kristen and the Scruff were staying at her father-in-law’s summer place for the season and I’d stopped asking about their long-term plans, because they didn’t seem to have any other than the certainty that someday the two of them would create a new cooking show unlike anything the world had ever seen.
I absolutely believed this would happen, but that didn’t change the fact that I still wanted crème brûlée every Sunday, all summer long. Or in this case, Monday, because flexibility was good.
“Don’t you want to see the inside of Kristen’s restaurant?” I asked my niece.
She shrugged and kept tapping her small screen. “Not really.”
“But the crème brûlée . . .”
“I get headaches, remember?” she snapped. “From the smell of cooking food?”
Ah, yes. The famed headaches, the reason Kate couldn’t work any of the lucrative restaurant jobs. I’d called my sister-in-law about the mysterious malady, and she’d said it was news to her.
“Of course I remember,” I said soothingly. Didn’t really believe her, but I remembered. “The kitchen closes at eight, and it’s five past. By the time we walk down there, there won’t be a single scent of cooking in the place.”
Kate heaved a huge sigh. “I don’t suppose you’ll go without me.”
“Nope,” I said cheerfully. “And you’ve met Kristen. It’ll be fun.”
My niece sighed again, stabbed at her tablet a few more times, then swung her feet to the floor. “Then let’s get this over with.”
Her upbeat attitude continued as we walked the wide waterfront sidewalk. She kept her head down the entire way, paying no attention to the bevy of boats on the water, to the eclectic mix of people playing in the adjacent park, or to the gorgeousness of the sun sliding down the edge of the sky, about to dip behind the long line of hills that separated Janay Lake from Lake Michigan.
With me in the lead, mainly because Kate continued to lag behind, we barged in the back door of Three Seasons. Once upon a time, the building had been a Chicago family’s summer cottage, but they’d long ago abandoned it in favor of a larger place on the secluded and exclusive point. When Kristen renovated it to restaurant use, she’d magically kept the charm of the original structure, but the kitchen itself she’d gutted from top to bottom, enlarged, and made into a gleaming space of white and stainless steel.
Harvey, Kristen’s devoted sous-chef, smiled without looking up from what he was doing. This was a good thing because he had a long, undoubtedly sharp knife in his hand and was slicing strawberries. “She’s in her office,” he said. “I’m almost done with the dessert.”
After Kristen’s engagement, I’d been a bit worried about Harvey’s reaction, since for years I’d been convinced he was deeply in love with Kristen and would fall into the depths of despair when he realized there was never any chance of romance between the two of them. She’d always waved off that opinion, and she was right, because Harvey was still happy as sous-chef and was now dating one of Kristen’s cousins, who’d been a bridesmaid.
“Come on,” I told Kate, who was still lagging.
“She doesn’t like me,” Kate whispered.
“What?” I stopped in the narrow hallway and turned. “What are you talking about?”
“Your friend. Kristen. She doesn’t like me.”
I stared. What on earth could have given the child that idea? “Of course she does.”
“She’s always yelling at me,” Kate said.
“Always” was a stretch, since the two had met only a handful of times. “That’s Kristen’s default.” I smiled and patted my niece on the shoulder. “It’s not personal. She yells at everyone. You should hear her with Harvey.”
Kate crossed her arms over her chest. “She doesn’t like me,” she repeated.
It would have been better if she’d mentioned this earlier, when I would have had time to straighten everything out. But we were now walking into Kristen’s office and it was too late to do anything about Kate’s misconception.
“About time you two got here.” Kristen tossed a three-ring binder to the floor and picked up her desk phone’s receiver. “Harvey, are they done or not done? Not done, and you’re fired.” She slammed the receiver down. “Hard to get good help these days.”
I grinned. If Kristen didn’t fire Harvey at least three times a week, there was something wrong with the world. But his job was safe for the day, because almost before Kate and I sat, he was walking in the door with a folding stand and a tray of delectable dessert.
Harvey set up the stand and laid the tray atop.Kristen rolled her chair around, squinted at the ramekins of yumminess, and pronounced him hired until next time.
“Yes, your worship,” Harvey said, backing out with a bow.
Kristen snorted and distributed spoons and linen napkins. “That boy is a trial, I tell you.”
Kate looked at me, wide-eyed, and I sent her a reassuring smile. “How was your weekend?” I asked Kristen. “Good, I assume, with the Fourth just last week.”
She tossed her long blond ponytail off her shoulder. “If by ‘good,’ you mean busy, then yeah, it was good. But have I mentioned how hard it is to find supplemental staff? My people are working themselves into the ground and there’s no end in sight.
“And you,” Kristen said, banging her spoon on her desk and glaring at Kate. “I hear you get headaches from the smell of cooking food. You must be the first in the history of the world. What’s up with that?”
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” Kate leapt to her feet and ran out of the room. A few seconds later, the kitchen door slammed.
Kristen half stood, then sat back down. “I’m such an idiot. Sorry, Minnie. I’m used to being able to say whatever I want around you. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I gave my crème brûlée a longing glance, picked the strawberry off the top, popped it in my mouth, and went after my niece.
* * *
The next morning I wasn’t scheduled to work until noon, so I made a Real Breakfast for Kate and me. Omelets—egg and cheese only because that’s all there was—and fried potatoes. I didn’t burn a thing, and Kate ate hers without a single complaint.