Elliot and Max look at each other and raise skeptical eyebrows.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you guys. One day you’ll feel like this about someone. And you’ll be panic-stricken that you can’t get to her and fix your fuck-up.”
Max walks over to his laptop that’s sitting on the dining table and opens it. “Never. Going. To. Happen.”
I find a pair of scissors in a drawer and snip some chives and parsley from Maggie’s countertop herb garden into the eggs. “Is there any bread?”
Elliot points across the kitchen at a wooden box with the word “bread” carved in the side. “Maybe there?”
“That, El, is why you’re the brains of youroperation,” Max says.
A lump of butter sizzles and spits when I drop it into the pan.
Elliot pulls a large, crusty loaf out of the wooden box and looks at it like it's a Rubik’s Cube.
“No chance you could slice it, I suppose?” I ask.
“Christ, Owen, I know you’re desperate to hit the road, but do you always have to be snippy when you’re frustrated?” He opens a drawer. “Yes, I’ll slice it. God knows what might happen ifyouget your hands on a sharp blade.”
He pulls out a carving knife.
“Serrated edge, Elliot.” I shake my head. “Bread knives have serrated edges. Seriously, do you two never cook for yourselves in New York?”
“Nope,” they say in unison, Max not looking up from his computer screen.
I tip my perfectly whisked egg mixture into the pan and try to push an image of Summer, curled up in front of the fire with Elsa and a morning cup of tea, out of my head.
“You can toast it when you’ve sliced it,” I tell Elliot.
“Isn’t this spectacular,” Uncle Jim declares with a big smile as he and Maggie wander in, in their bathrobes and slippers. “The boys pulling together to make breakfast.”
Maggie puts her fingers to her temples and closes her eyes. “Shh.”
Jim looks at the three of us, points at Maggie, and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Hangover.”
I should make an effort to tone down my anxiousness now they’re here. “Well, I have the perfect cure right in this pan, and Elliot can pour you coffee, so you’re all set. Take a seat.”
I fold the eggs back and forth on themselves into the perfect scramble.
I look at Elliot and nod toward the toaster that just popped. “You’ll find toast is generally more palatable buttered.”
Maggie sniffs her coffee, goes pale, and puts it back down.
Max strides over, stands between his parents, and puts an arm around each of them. “You two had a good night then, eh?”
“It was lovely, Max.” Maggie pats his hand. “Thank you for organizing it. Shame Connor and Walker couldn’t make it, though. But Tom enjoyed his video call. He was quite taken with the string quartet.”
Max draws himself up to his full, considerable, height.
“I can excuse Walker for being tied up with work—sounds like that brewery tank bursting was a complete disaster. But what the hell Connor was up to is anybody’s fucking guess.”
“Max. Language,” Maggie says, then closes her eyes again, like she hurt herself talking.
Walker was supposed to be here, but the opening night of the newest craft brew pub he owns with his business partner, Emily, turned into a nightmare. He ended up stuck in Portland because he didn’t want to leave her alone with beer flooding from a vat. Those two have been best friends since day one of college and created the business together right after. Toasted Tomato Brew Pubs started slow, but now they have a thriving empire.
As for Connor, he’s erratic at the best of times. His billions come from owning a kids’ educational toy company. Unlike the rest of us, his management style is a lot more, erm, shall we say, hands off. Well, how could he have his hands on the company when they’re usually wrapped around a bottle of vodka or the latest “it” model?
I scoop the perfect amount of eggs onto the raggedy toast Elliot’s made and slide the plates to Jim and Maggie. “This should blow away some cobwebs.”
