The next day, Dorian called first thing to tell Vance that the electrical problems would be fixed in a few days. He’d offered his house again, but Vance declined, saying he and Margot were just fine staying with us. Secretly, I hoped the repairs would take a little longer. Mia and I were both having so much fun with our guests—playing family.
Irene was coming for dinner, which made me a little nervous. I worried she’d think Vance and Margot living with us was strange. Moving much too fast. But maybe if she saw us all together, she’d understand better.
Around four, I asked the girls—who were on the patio drawing a vase of flowers—if they wanted to help Vance and me make dinner.
“Me.” Mia raised her hand like she was in school.
Margot looked uncertain. “I don’t really know how to cook. Mom doesn’t like me getting in her way.”
“Perfect time to learn,” Vance said, pulling an apron over his head. “We’re making coq au vin. It’s French.”
“What’s that?” Margot asked.
“Chicken braised in red wine with mushrooms, bacon, and pearl onions,” I said. “Sounds fancy, but it’s actually comfort food.”
“Please tell me we get mashed potatoes too,” Mia said.
“How could we not?” Vance grinned.
Mia grabbed an apron from the hook. “What can I do?”
“You and I are on mushroom duty,” I said to my daughter. “We need to clean them and slice them. Margot, you want to help your dad with the chicken?”
She nodded shyly.
“Come here, mon cœur,” Vance said, patting the counter beside him. “I’ll show you how to season it properly.”
The kitchen quickly filled with the sounds of cooking—knives on cutting boards, the sizzle of bacon in the pan, Vance’s patient voice explaining to Margot the importance of getting a good sear on the chicken.
“You want to hear it sing when it hits the pan,” he told her. “That sizzle means you’re doing it right.”
“Like this?” She watched as he placed a piece of chicken in the hot oil.
“Exactly like that. Perfect.”
Mia and I worked side by side at the counter, wiping mushrooms clean with a damp cloth.
“This is nice,” Mia said quietly. “All of us cooking together.”
“It is nice,” I agreed.
Mia leaned closer, whispering, “I hope we do it all the time.”
I glanced over at Vance, who was patiently showing Margot how to flip the chicken without splashing oil. “I hope so too.”
By then, the mushrooms were ready. Mia brought them over to Vance. “Where do these go?”
“Perfect timing.” He moved the chicken to a plate and gestured to the pan. “We’re going to sauté these in all that good bacon fat and chicken drippings. That’s where the flavor is.”
Mia watched as he added the mushrooms to the hot pan. “How did you learn to make this? Did your mom teach you?”
Vance laughed. “No, my mom’s idea of fancy cooking was adding cream of mushroom soup to a casserole. I learned this from a chef in Paris—a guy named Antoine. He worked at a little bistro near my apartment, and we became friends. He’d stay after service and teach me things—proper knife skills, how to build flavor, why French cooking isn’t actually complicated; it’s just about technique and patience.”
“That’s cool,” Mia said. “So he just taught you for free?”
“Well, I paid him in wine. I’d bring him bottles from my collection—things he couldn’t normally afford—and he’d teach me his grandmother’s recipes.” Vance stirred the mushrooms gently. “He said cooking was about more than feeding people. It was about creating memories. About showing love through food.”
“I like that,” Mia said softly.
