Grinning, I glance up from the tray I’m plating to see Clara and her friend Becky going to town on my mini quiches.
“So much better than the ones you buy from the grocery store and heat up.”
I giggle.
Clara winks at me.
I slide the tray of bacon-wrapped figs onto the buffet and go to work on the final of the hors d’oeuvres—crostini with herby ricotta cheese, chopped mushrooms, all topped with chives and crispy strings of onions.
The only type of onion I can stomach to date—fried to a delicious golden brown.
And did I consume approximately a metric ton of the salty, crispy fried strips back in my kitchen?
Maaaybe.
The baby needed them.
Did the baby also need the banana and chocolate chips I chased them with?
Yup. She sure did.
My lips curve as Clara is drawn back into conversation and I finish up with the crostini.
There are no mains with this event, just a couple of desserts—parfaits that are already assembled and just need to be topped with freshly whipped cream, a platter of cookies of various varieties (including my least favorite, oatmeal raisin), and chocolate dipped strawberries.
All perfect choices for the Girls’ Night get together.
The women are all in pajamas and robes, slippers on their feet. A stack of face masks and other skin products sit on the table in the family room. There are blankets and pillows, candles, and a romcom playing in the background.
I love this idea.
And I’m totally stealing it to do with the girls.
Hell, I could totally see Smitty rocking a face mask.
I snag the canister of my freshly whipped cream, double check the top is screwed on tight, and start squirting delicate swirls onto the parfaits. I sourced adorable little spoons to go with the containers and I place one jauntily in each of the containers.
Then I’m on to the strawberries and the cookies.
“These look delicious,” Clara says, slipping into the kitchen, her hair pulled up into a messy bun and green stuff smeared all over her face.
“I’m not impartial,” I tease. “But they are.”
She grins then pats my shoulder. “Thanks for doing what you do. I haven’t seen Becky this happy since her husband died.”
My gaze follows hers and I watch her friend smile and laugh, my heart full and my pregnancy hormones out of control as I blink back tears. “I’m glad I could help, at least a little bit.”
“You helped a lot.” She tosses me another wink, and as though sensing I’m hanging on by the ends of my emotional fingertips, adds, “And also fed all of our sweet tooths.”
I chuckle.
She leans closer, her voice dropping. “I know you gave her a discount on the food because she’s on a fixed income. Do you need me to…”
“Oh, no,” I say quickly. “I’m fine.”
I think of the bills on my counter, the way I spent years robbing Peter to pay Paul, always derailed by an unexpected expense—a flat tire, an appliance that went out, a job falling through. I think of bills from culinary school and funeral costs and medical debt that made it nearly impossible to breathe.
And I think about how I’m almost caught up.
