“You make really good sandwiches too,” he says so low it’s hard to hear him. But we do hear him, and the twins seem to ripple with unspent laughter. I gust a sigh.
Pancakes and sandwiches.
“So I’m a lousy cook,” I say, aiming this at the fourteen-year-olds. “Thanks for telling me.”
Mattie’s jaw drops and Harry puts up his hands in defense. They speak at once.
“You’re not a lousy cook—”
“We didn’t say—”
But it’s Emmett who steps up and hugs me around the middle. “You’re doing your best, Millie,” he says. “We know.”
I hug him back and try not to feel like a total loser. Ihavebeen doing my best. Trying to make the dishes Mom used to make. Her roast, rice, and gravy. Her lemon chicken. Her shepherd’s pie.
Except I don’t have any of her recipes. She never wrote any of them down, and, dammit to hell, I never asked her to. I didn’t even bother to try to make a home-cooked meal when I lived in my apartment during vet school. Between classes, cases, and studying, there wasn’t time, and if I really had a craving for something of hers, I just asked Mom to make it and came home for the weekend.
Most nights, if I didn’t get something at the caf, I made a salad, or a grilled cheese sandwich, or an omelet. Or I got takeout. Not exactly the stuff of culinary school.
So I’ve been trying to recreate her recipes. I’ll look them up online and pick ones I think have her same general ingredients, and then I just tweak as I go, trying to steer the flavor toward what I remember of hers.
But I guess I’ve been steering us off a cliff.
“Maybe if we redo the kitchen, I could use that time to take a cooking class,” I muse aloud. Harry and Mattie’s expressions freeze, but Emmett, still hugging me, has his back to them, and he nods so hard, I think he’ll give himself whiplash.
Harry rubs his chin with the pad of his thumb where he thinks he’s starting to grow a beard. “It’s not a bad idea,” he says with a noncommittal shrug.
I look at Mattie. Her lips are pressed together to hide her smile, but I can tell she likes the idea. “Sis, what do you think?”
She gives a little head tilt. “If that’s something you want to do, go for it.”
I’d love them even if they were total turds. But I adore them for not wanting to hurt my feelings. I wish I could hug all three of them, but Mattie and Harry just stiffen when I try. I get it. It’s not me. It’s the age. And maybe it’s because that was Mom’s job, too.
To hug us every day.
But Emmett still needs hugs. He craves them. So I squeeze him tight enough to be squeezing all three.
And then it hits me. The kitchen. They’re all on board. At least I think they are.
“So you… So we’re going to do this? Remodel the kitchen?” I ask, checking each of the faces I love above all others.
“Yes,” Mattie says.
“Yep,” Harry adds.
Emmett smiles up at me. “It’ll be fun.”
I snort. “It’ll be fun for about five minutes, and then it’ll be a pain in the butt,” I say. They’re all smiling now, so I smile back. “But I think we’ll be happy with it once it’s done.”
None of them looks the least bit hesitant. That’s probably because they don’t really get what we’re signing up for, but then again, do I even know? Yet, for reasons I don’t really understand, I want this too. This project. This chance to make something new.
“Okay. I’ll call the contractor tomorrow.”
Chapter Seven
LUC
I pullup to the Lambert’s house. It’s Thursday, five minutes before noon, and not one member of my crew is here. No cars. No trucks. No Hector.
