“Yes, Mom, I’m sure I texted you about this?”
“No, you have not. If you had a chef, I would remember. Is she a professional chef? A home chef? A food blogger chef? Does she bake? Does she sauté? Does she cook in cast iron, or does she disrespect her pans like your Uncle Raymond did?”
“She… uses cast iron?”
“Oh, thank goodness, she’s civilized. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I literally answered seven questions.”
“No. The important one. Who is she to you?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Here we go.
“She’s… she works here.”
“Mm hmm. And?”
“And she’s… Delaney.”
“I am going to reach through this phone and shake you,” she says pleasantly. “Is she young? Old? Medium? Cute? Breathtaking? Emotionally expensive?Expensiveexpensive?Allergic to seafood? I need a profile, darling. I can’t help you without a file.”
“She’s not allergic to seafood,” I mutter, because that is apparently the detail my brain grabs.
“Oh, marvelous, she can come to oyster night. Continue.”
I rub my forehead. “She’s smart. Talented. Kind. She makes dinosaur pancakes for Boone’s kid. And she’s been through… something. A lot of somethings.”
“I see… so, what did you do?”
“Why do you assume I did something?”
“Because you’re my son,” she says dryly. “This sort of thing follows you around like a very loyal golden retriever.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“Anyway, apparently, when Delaney was in the city, there was a scandal?—”
“Scandal?” my mother interrupts sharply. “What scandal?”
I wince. “It’s not… well, it is, technically, but it’s not what they’re saying. The town dug up some old gossip about her time in New York.”
“New York?” she repeats, immediately more alert. “In the restaurant world?”
“Yeah.”
“What restaurant world?”
“The… Michelin one.”
There is a beat of utter silence so intense I pull the phone back from my ear to make sure she hasn’t died.
Then…
“Silas, are you telling me this woman worked in a Michelin-level kitchen, and you didn’t tell me?”
I blink. “That’s your takeaway?”
