Her mouth twitches—almost a smile. Progress. Then she extends her hand to his parents, and her voice warms by half a degree. “Mr. and Mrs. Kane. Welcome. I’m Serena Preston.”
Wesley’s mom takes her hand. “Thank you so much for having us. Your home is absolutely beautiful.”
“You’re very kind.” Mother’s smile is genuine, or as genuine as she gets before noon. “It’s far too big, honestly. My grandmother refused to downsize. Please, sit. I hope you’re hungry.”
We settle around the table. My father appears from the study, phone buzzing in his pocket but bravely ignored for the moment. “Welcome, welcome!” He shakes hands with Wesley’s parents, warm and genuine. “Robert Preston. It’s wonderful to finally meet you both.”
“Likewise,” Tom says, relaxing a fraction.
Uncle Julian glides in next—trim as a fencer, cashmere sweater, tie slightly loosened in that expensive I-didn’t-tryway. “Ah, the Kanes.” He shakes hands, his grip firm. “Julian Rothschild. I believe you’ve raised quite the defenseman.”
“He’s all right,” Tom says, deadpan.
Wesley grins.
“More than all right,” Julian says. “He’s the reason we’ve made the playoffs.”
“He does his job,” Tom allows, and I catch the pride buried under the gruffness.
Lila arrives last, ballerina bun and soft wrap sweater, grace layered over exhaustion. She kisses my cheek, nods at Wesley, then smiles at his parents. “I’m Lila. The sister who doesn’t cause as much trouble.”
“Lies,” I mutter. “She causes all the trouble.”
“Only the fun kind,” Lila says, settling into her seat.
Staff pour coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and that ominous green liquid.
“What is that?” Tom whispers to Wesley.
“Kale. Spirulina. Chlorophyll. Regret.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m not drinking it either.”
“Smart man.”
Lids lift with coordinated precision: quiche Lorraine, delicate and perfect; smoked trout with crème fraîche and capers; greens so tender they probably had a therapist; pastries that look hand-painted by someone with a degree.
Wesley’s mom studies her plate—artfully arranged, portions that suggest food is more concept than sustenance. “This is…beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Mother says. “Our chef is from Lyon.”
“Of course he is,” Tom mutters into his coffee.
His wife kicks him under the table.
Conversation starts cautiously—weather, travel, how the flight was. Mother asks polite questions. Wesley’s mom answers,nervous but warm. Tom remains quiet, sipping coffee, assessing the room.
Then my father, bless his oblivious heart, tries to bridge the gap. “So, Tom, Wesley mentioned you’re in commercial fishing?”
“Started that way,” Tom says. “We’ve expanded since. Processing, distribution, direct sales. Run a small operation, Bristol Bay Provisions.”
Robert’s eyes light up with genuine interest. “You’re cutting out the middleman. Smart.”
“Has to be,” Tom says, relaxing slightly. “You sell to the canneries, you’re giving away half your margin. We freeze on-site, package, ship direct. Subscription model for consumers, supply contracts with restaurants.”
“Direct-to-consumer,” Robert says, nodding. “That’s the future. What kind of volume are you doing?”
