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Lunch is a tomato-lemon tart with puff pastry I prepared this morning, a cobb salad with a fresh mango and lime vinaigrette, and baked white fish.
I call out to let them know to come eat. When Harper walks in with Luke, she’s in a rush.
“I want to take my plate back outside. I can have a picnic underneath the shady tree by the lemonade stand. I’d hate to miss a customer on my lunch break. We’ve already sold four cups of lemonade today!”
Luke shakes his head. “You’ll have to take a break for a bit, Harper. I need to get some work done in my office.”
“I could go out with her,” I suggest. After all, I did it yesterday.
Luke looks over at me, and if I was expecting him to be relieved, I’m wrong. In fact, he seems almost exasperated with me for stepping in.
“You don’t need to do that. You’ve spent the whole morning working. You deserve a lunch break. Also, I don’t expect you to act as Harper’s nanny any time I need it.”
“She’s not my nanny, she’s my friend,” Harper declares with a big smile. “Last night she even made me a grilled cheese when I couldn’t sleep.”
Luke shakes his head, confused. “She what?”
“She made me a grilled cheese. I was hungry at bedtime. My tummy was grumbling and grumbling nonstop!”
Luke’s eyebrows furrow in a clear sign of annoyance.
“It was really quick. I had her back in bed in no time,” I say, hoping to assuage some of his worry. I don’t want him thinking I kept her up really late partying or anything. It was a grilled cheese, a small glass of milk, and then right back to sleep. Well, after I read her a quick bedtime story.
“Next time, come get me, Harper.”
“But Chloe is better at cooking.”
Luke closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point. Chloe is an employee here, Harper. She doesn’t work for us around the clock.”
Harper’s bottom lip quivers as he reprimands her with a hard tone.
I jump forward, holding out my hands between them like I’m trying to keep the peace. “No! It’s totally okay. Harper can come wake me up at 3:00 AM for all I care,” I say with a little laugh.
But I’m not helping, which I realize too late. Luke is trying to get a point across to his daughter, and I’m undermining his authority by butting in with my two cents.
“Harper,” Luke says, more sternly, completely ignoring me. “Do not pester Chloe. She’s the chef here, that’s all. Do you understand?”
We both understand, loud and clear. That speech was as much for me as it was for her, and my cheeks heat with the knowledge that I’ve messed up.
“Now, I’m going to go work for a little while. The lemonade stand will have to wait. I have a phone call at 1:00 that I can’t be late for. After I’m done, we’ll head into town to that playground you like, and then we can go to The Pizza Palace for dinner.” He turns, barely looking in my direction. “Chloe, there’s no need to cook.”
Roger that.
The house is deadly quiet later that afternoon and early evening. I’m about ready to invite Ned in for some company.
Fortunately, I have Sunday dinner to look forward to. Per my promise to my parents, I make myself a simple bowl of spaghetti and sit down to eat it with my phone propped up in front of me so I can be on FaceTime with my family.
“Can you see us?” my mom asks once the call connects. “Gio’s trying to set it up so we can see you on the big TV this time.”
“Nothing yet.”
The screen’s black as they all chatter in the background, chiming in with advice for Gio. Maybe you don’t have the right cable? Maybe the TV needs to be on a different channel? Maybe you’re supposed to press that button there, Gio?
“Would you all freaking shut it? I got it here.”
Sure enough, a second later, my entire family pops up on the screen: Mom, Dad, Gio, Nonna, aunts, uncles, and cousins.
“Hey!” they erupt. “There she is!”
I wave excitedly and hold up my bowl of spaghetti.
“Looks good, kiddo,” my dad says. “Have you made that for your fancy clients yet?”
I smile and shake my head. “Not yet. I would have made it for them tonight, but they went into town for dinner.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” nosy Aunt Amara asks, turning to the group. “Why can’t we know who she’s working for?”
“It’s part of the business,” Uncle Antonio says in my defense. “Lay off her. She’s not allowed to spill the beans or she’ll be sacked.”
“It’s true. I signed an NDA.”
“An indie-what?” my dad asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gio cuts in. “I can tell from the background that the house you’re living in is sick. Bet the family drives a Bentley or some shit. Is the mom hot?”
