The dogs decided to help me with Willow, crowding into the bathroom with us while she brushed her teeth. I tucked her into bed afterward, and Sam, tired from running after her all day, cuddled in close to her on top of the covers, like he was trying to pin her there so he didn’t have to chase her anymore. She threw a little arm around his neck and asked me to read her a bedtime story.
“Something di-a-bo-li-cal,” she said.
I muffled my laughter and instead chose the most sugar-sweet book I could find.
“Ugh, boring,” she told me when I was halfway through it.
I ignored her and kept reading. Eventually, it did the trick. Her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing deepened. I read until I was sure she was fast asleep, then turned off the light and told Sam to keep watch, leaving the door cracked behind me.
Fred followed me out into the kitchen, where Jane and Ben were still deep in conversation. He padded over to Ben’s side and plopped down next to him, head on Ben’s thigh. Ben immediately reached down to pet him.
“Are you guys hungry?” I asked. “It’s nearly seven-thirty.”
Jane looked up from her notes. “Dave will be home soon. You might want to duck out now, Ben.”
“I don’t mind staying to finish,” he said.
Jane nodded. “Then don’t worry. He’ll keep his mouth shut about you too.”
“I’m going to make Mom’s End of the Week Pasta,” I told my sister.
She glanced over at me. “Sounds good. There’s a loaf of sourdough somewhere over there if you want to make garlic bread too.” She turned back to Ben. “Tell me more about that first hearing.”
I worked on dinner while they talked. Mom’s favorite dish didn’t have a set ingredient list, which made it adaptable. It was called End of the Week Pasta because Mom always went grocery shopping on Saturdays. Friday night, whatever was left over in the fridge from the week before went into the sauce she made.
I found half an onion, a green pepper, some kalamata olives, kielbasa, garlic, and zucchini in the fridge. I dumped them on the counter and went in search of diced tomatoes. A can of red kidney beans sat next to them in a cupboard, and I grabbed them both.
I spent the next twenty minutes dicing, chopping, and straining while water boiled in a pot on the stove. Headlights flashed over the windows as the clock crept closer to eight. I shushed Fred before he started barking, worried that he’d wake Willow.
Dave walked in not long after, looking exhausted from his twelve hours of travel to and from Portland. He dropped his messenger bag inside the door, started to tug his coat off, and then turned to see Benjamin Kakoa sitting at the dining room table with his wife.
His eyes nearly fell out of his head. “Am I being punked?” He looked around. “Is there a camera crew here?”
“Dave, meet Ben,” I said. Oh, this was too good.
Ben unfurled from his chair to tower over my brother-in-law. “Nice to meet you, Dave.”
“What is happening right now?” Dave asked, wrenching his arm from his coat sleeve to shake Ben’s hand.
“Ella’s been secretly dating a superstar,” Jane said, shooting me a grin.
I pointed the knife I held at her. “Stoppit.”
“I’m up here taking a bit of a break from the spotlight,” Ben said as he and Dave released each other.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, man,” Dave told him. “I’m a huge fan. The work you’ve done the past few years is amazing.”
Ben grinned. “Thank you.”
“He offered to be an inside source for the NYT article,” Jane told her husband.
“What a fucking scoop,” he said. He turned to hang up his coat and kick his leather shoes off. “Anonymous, I’m guessing?”
“Yes,” Jane answered. “And if you tell anyone who my source is or that Ben is hiding up here, I will divorce you.”
“Okay then,” Dave said. “Love you too, babe.” He leaned down, planted a kiss on her cheek, and then went to change out of the business formal clothing he’d been trapped in all day.
Jane and Ben finished up while he was gone, with Jane asking for Ben’s number in case she had any more questions or needed something clarified when she re-wrote the article. He gave it to her and then rose from the table to join me by the stove.
