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Mama enters the kitchen from the game room, where she’s been working on her latest jigsaw puzzle. “What’s going on?”
“Company’s coming,” Hailey says urgently as she dumps stock into the huge Dutch oven on the stove.
“Well, Hailey,” Mama says, “folks have been dropping off casseroles and lasagnas all week. Just heat up some of those.”
“Mama,” Hailey says, looking horrified. “I can’t serve reheated food to monarchs!”
Mama bites her lip, and I know she wants to say something about putting on airs.
Still, I can’t help teasing.
“It might not be them,” I say, pushing back the hope that it might be Sigurd, Etienne, Flora, or any royal entourage.
“Listen, we don’t know what sort of companions your mother keeps these days,” I say.
Mama scoffs and begins helping us in the kitchen.
Hailey clucks her tongue. “Well, that’s true. You know, I saw someone leaving the mother-in-law suite this morning,” she says, firing up the burners.
“Hailey Marie!” Mama gasps, but her cheeks turn pink, busying herself with chopping onions.
It still feels strange to prepare our food and tidy our house. Hell, it’s very bizarre to have company announced by a pair of nosy but well-meaning lesbian gardeners who now live at the mouth of the holler, instead of butlers and house staff. Yet, strange and bizarre in a good way.
“You’ve been spying on your mother at 5 a.m.?” I say with a wink, grabbing the cups from the cabinet.
“Torben, you know I was awake to feed Tilly,” Hailey replies. “Besides, I saw the headlights. I had to peek outside and make sure there was no mayhem happening.”
Mama clucks but says nothing more, which is everything I need to know.
At the stove, I rest my hand on the small of Hailey’s back and kiss her cheek.
“Sit down. I’ll cook.”
“You don’t know what we’re making.”
I look around at the counter and the stove. “I got this.”
She blinks up at me. “But you should be the one to greet your family.”
I kiss her on the tip of her nose. “It’s most likely not family. Probably some gifts and flowers. But if it is them, you’re the superstar whenever they visit.”
“Even with bloodshot eyes and a red nose?” she asks.
“Even so. You’re still better looking than I am.”
Just then, the three black SUVs roll up, and I watch through the patio doors as the gate closes behind them.
Instead of sitting down, my wife flies outside barefoot to greet everyone while the state department escorts clear the area.
The security sweep ends up waking the one-year-old Tilly from her nap, but by now, our house is full of helping hands.
All my siblings are here. Every last one of them and their significant others.
Sigurd slaps me on the back in his usual forceful way.
“Good to see you, brother,” I say.
He nods. “Condolences,” he says, clutching two fistfuls of wildflowers that I presume are for Hailey and her mother.
