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“Sure. I can’t remember the last time I had one.”
“They’re great. Uncle Reid finally figured it out. It’s called Rory’s Root Beer, named after Aunt Shiloh’s dog that went over the Rainbow Bridge.” Olive brings out two bottles, a new addition to our menu as of March. She hands the two bottles to Max, instead of Burke.
Burke hands Max the bottle opener, and he does the honors.
“Cheers,” Olive says, touching her bottle to Max’s.
My eyes catch with Max’s, and I look away, a tickle in my throat strong enough to clear. I may or may not have taught her to cheers with her sippy cup at fourteen months old.
Mother of the Year here.
“This is delicious,” Max says after a hearty sip.
“Can I have one?” Noelle asks, although I doubt she consumes sugar on a regular basis.
“No, they’re special,” Olive says.
I’m so horrified, it takes a second for my brain to communicate with my mouth. “Olive, that was rude. Get one for Noelle as well, please.”
Her shoulders drop, and she audibly sighs as she opens the fridge again, handing the bottle to Burke to open now that it’s for Noelle. She treats Burke like the help.
We all watch Noelle take a sip, her face scrunching with the sugar hitting her teeth.
“It’s so…sweet,” she says.
“That’s what makes it good. Duh,” Olive says, with an eye roll.
“Olive, one more rude word…” I warn. Olive looks at me with a challenge, and I need another huge gulp of wine.
“Can’t wait for the teenage years!” Noelle says. She holds the root beer close to her chest but looks longingly at the red wine.
“Do you want some?” I point to the bottle.
“Please.” Her body relaxes as she sets the root beer down. I take it and put in the fridge. We try not to waste in this house, and I’m not concerned about germs. If Olive wants a second one, she can have Noelle’s. She seems like a clean person.
I pour Noelle a nice glass and hand it to her. She takes a sip, and the reaction is a complete opposite. She needed the glass as much as I did.
“Well, dinner’s ready if you all are ready to sit,” I say.
“Mom made spaghetti,” Olive says.
“Oh,” Noelle says and then smiles. Maybe she’s scared of carbs as well. I try not to look at Max. I swear I didn’t make spaghetti to bring back memories.
Although our last night at La Scarola never really left me.
“Mom’s spaghetti is the best, even better than Burke’s, and he cooks for a living.”
Burke gives me a look, and I laugh. I use jar sauce, and it almost sent Burke into cardiac arrest the first time he saw it.
“I can’t compete,” Burke says with a laugh. He is a very good-looking man, with his caramel-colored hair, slightly tanned skin, and blinding white smile. Still, my eyes drift to Max, who I catch staring at me. I’m not sure if you would call it a longing gaze, but it sure feels like it.
We walk to my dining room table and I direct everyone to where they should sit.
“I want to sit across from Max. Please,” Olive says.
Max smirks. “Sure.”
It’s like she knows.
