Winston pouted in thought. “I play basketball,” he said.
Emily nodded to show her interest. “You do?”
“Yeah. And since the tables aren’t up in the restaurant yet, Uncle Patrick lets me shoot hoops in the main dining room.”
“What restaurant?” she asked.
“What’s it gonna be called again, Uncle Patrick?”
He took the last dish out of his bag. “It’s called The Low Tide Supper Club.”
Sienna perked up from the living room. “Isn’t that the one we passed earlier?” she called over.
“I think so,” Emily said. She turned back to Patrick. “We actually drove past it. The building is beautiful.”
He continued to prepare dinner, but a softness shone around his eyes. It was clear he was proud of it.
Sienna and Blair clicked on the TV in the living room and began talking quietly, the moment gone. Neither were super impressed with Patrick’s cordiality so Emily could see why they didn’t feel inclined to get up and make conversation.
“So you’re a personal chefandyou own an up-and-coming restaurant?” Emily pressed.
“Mm hm.” But Patrick didn’t add anything. Instead, he pushed the covered dishes toward her. “I cooked earlier so I could heat dinner up quickly, given the weather,” he said with an inconspicuous nod toward Winston. “I’ve got steak and shrimp tonight.”
“Mom’s only got a few more classes, and then she’ll be done,” Winston said, continuing with their previous conversation. His little chest puffed out with a breath. “Then I won’t have to cook with Uncle Patrick as much.”
“Hey, I thought you liked cooking with me.” Patrick wrinkled his nose playfully.
“Yeah, but you do it alot.” Winston nodded, his little eyebrows raised.
Emily laughed. His candor warmed her.
Patrick glanced over at them as he took the lids off the food—baked potatoes, steak, salad, and shrimp in some sort of delicious-looking creamy sauce with parsley and herbs.
“How long has your mom been taking classes, Winston?” Emily asked, going to the cabinet to get a glass so she could offer him some lemonade.
“Since before my dad died.”
Her breath caught.
“She stopped for a while after that. But now she’s taking some again.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Hey, bud,” Patrick cut in, “why don’t you help me tear this lettuce. Come over here and wash your hands.”
Winston clambered down and ran around to the other side of the island. Patrick turned on the water and lifted him up. The boy pumped the soap into his hands and lathered, his feet dangling above the floor as he hung from Patrick’s strong arms. With a rinse and a dry on the towel, he went back to the barstool. Patrick set a bowl of lettuce in front of him.
“Half the size of my hand, right?” Winston asked, pulling out a large lettuce leaf.
“Yep.”
Emily poured a glass half-full with lemonade and set it beside the boy. “You’ve done this before,” she said.
“Yeah, I help Uncle Patrick cook when he makes dinner for me and Mom.”
“That’s very helpful,” she said, her heart squeezing. She’d love nothing more than to hear the little feet of children as she cooked dinner—something that had been in her near future and now seemed impossible.
“It’s so fun.” Winston’s eyebrows bobbed. “Just not all day.”
