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“Can you believe this?” Mom asked Dad. “We hardly see our grandchildren all these years and now he won’t even let them stay in our home?”
Dad looked back and forth between me and Mom, trying to decide who to piss off. I jumped in to save him from choosing.
“The kids can spend the night here anytime,” I said.
“I want to spend the night!” Marley said.
Mom beamed at her. “Grandma will make you pancakes and sausage in the morning, honey. I have games for us to play and I bought some DVDs for movie nights.”
“DVDs?” I cringed. “Ma, the nineties called and they want their entertainment back.”
“I like DVDs because then we can watch movies as many times as we want.”
I furrowed my brow and looked at my dad. “You know you can do that with streaming services too, right?”
Mom responded before he could. “No more lip from you, mister. I made biscuits and gravy. Come sit down at eat.”
I sighed heavily. We’d eaten lunch at The Corner Café, but there was no use arguing with my mom. Now that I’d moved home, she’d make it her mission to put a couple of inches on my waist with her home cooking.
I wasn’t planning to let myself go, but I also couldn’t say no to Mom’s homemade biscuits and gravy.
As I pulled a chair up to the round oak table I’d eaten meals at with my family as a kid, I knew I’d made the right decision coming back. Mom fussed over the kids washing their hands, which I never remembered to do.
Andrea had always taken care of the kids. I focused on hockey. But now that it was just me, Spencer, and Marley, we were finding our own way. It wasn’t easy, but it was always worth it.
CHAPTER TWO
Shea
“Right behind you with...ow, ow, ow....hot!” Nina yelled.
“Where are my eggs?” I asked as I whisked a fresh batch of hollandaise sauce. “Please tell me these aren’t my eggs.”
Someone had plated eggs benedict with poached eggs that looked like they’d been through a war zone. The whites were an uneven mess. I glared at Darren, the newest cook at The Sleepy Moose.
“You didn’t turn the water down, did you?”
“You can’t cook eggs unless the water is hot,” he countered.
“Right, but like I told you, you have to bring it to a rolling boil but turn it down right before you add the eggs to avoid turbulence. We can’t use any of these.”
He scoffed. “They taste the same, and you’re covering them in sauce anyway.”
I’d have to deal with him later. We had thirteen guests waiting on eggs benedict, and my sauce wouldn’t last much longer.
“Nina, make me thirteen poached eggs,” I said. “Darren, get rid of these.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” he muttered.
He was so fired. Not only had I told him how to make poached eggs many times, I’d even written it down, and he still refused to follow my directions.
We were at the beginning of our busiest season, summer, and there was a reason The Sleepy Moose was filled to capacity. We never compromised on quality and service, no matter how busy we were. I’d been the head chef here for four years, and I had no tolerance for second-rate cooks.
As I whisked, I watched Priscilla, another one of our cooks, carefully arrange fresh berries on top of mascarpone toast. It was a trademark breakfast dish here at The Moose, one I was particularly proud of.
“Good,” I said. “Did you try any of the berries we got in yesterday?”
“I did. The raspberries and blueberries are good, but the blackberries are a little bitter, so I had to add some sugar.”
