“Of course. Italian porcelain is the best,” I say, like I know what I’m talking about. I don’t even have a favorite part of my foyer. Actually, I don’t even have a foyer.
Ophelia leads us into a room that’s probably called a parlor, with chintzy couches and low wooden tables. “Have a seat, darlings. Reecie and I will be back with some hors d'oeuvres.”
“Sorry,” Phoenix whispers as soon as they’re gone, presumably to the kitchen. “My mother loves having company.”
“It’s okay,” I reply. “She seems really nice.”
“She’s the best,” he says with warmth infused in his tone.
Reece and Ophelia return more quickly than I would have predicted, the little one carrying small saucers with a look of pride onher face. Ophelia is bearing a large tray with food, a pitcher, and glasses, like she’s a seasoned waitress.
“Here we go. Just a little breakfast to start your day off right. Jordie, I hope you like the juice. It’s a blend of fruit juices I like to whip up,” Ophelia says before gently prodding her granddaughter. “Honey, can you set the saucers down?”
The sweet girl sets a small exquisite floral plate in front of each of us, and I give her a thumbs up. “Good job, Reecie.”
Her face beams. “Thank you. I didn’t even drop any of them.”
Ophelia laughs and unloads the tray, setting down stemmed glasses in a soft transparent pink before placing the pitcher of dark red juice and two platters on the table in front of us. Then, to my surprise, she lowers herself lithely to the ground across from us. Phoenix instantly stands.
“Mom, you take the couch.”
She waves him off. “No need. I’m already down here. Sit, sit.”
He reluctantly follows her direction, and Reece plops down beside her grandmother. “This looks beautiful, Mom, but you really didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”
Once again, she flaps her hand at him. “No trouble.” Turning to me, she says, “I checked with Phoenix, and he assured me you don’t have a nut allergy, so I made one of my favorites. Waffle pops with Nutella drizzle and crushed macadamia nuts.”
My eyes shift questioningly to the man beside me, and he reminds me, “There was a part on the intake form you filled out regarding allergies. The company lawyers insist we have it on there so we don’t inadvertently serve one of our endorsement partners something that will kill them.”
“Wise move,” I say with a laugh before pointing at the other platter. “And what’s that one, Ophelia? They both look delicious.”
“Poached eggs in candied bacon cups. With a little sprinkle of sea salt on top,” Ophelia promptly informs me. “Beware because they’re addictive.”
She is not wrong. I inhale two of them and one of the mini waffles on a stick as Ophelia chats with me about football. She’s surprisingly knowledgeable about the subject.
“You know a lot about football,” I tell her, eyeing the bacon-and-egg cups. Would it be rude to have one more?
Phoenix apparently notices because he places another on my plate, whispering, “It would hurt her feelings if you didn’t eat at least three.”
Far be it from me to hurt my hostess’s feelings, so I pick it up and take a delicate bite as Ophelia smiles on. “Well,” she says, “I know a lot about football because my son played.” She nods at Phoenix, and I shoot my eyes at him.
“Really?” I lift my glass and take a sip of the juice. It’s the perfect blend of tart and sweet.
He looks embarrassed. “Just in high school.”
His mother flashes him a scolding look before returning her attention to me. “Two-time high school All-American,” she recites proudly. “And he got offers from seven D-1 schools. Unfortunately, he tore his ACL in the last game of his high school career.” Her mouth turns down sadly at the corners.
I glance down and see a scar on Phoenix’s knee that I hadn’t noticed before. “I’m sorry that happened. What position did you play?”
“Quarterback,” he mumbles, his cheeks flushing. “Really, it was no big deal.”
His mother shoots him a dubious look, but sensing his discomfort, she shifts the subject. “My other sons are wonderful athletes too. Helix was a nationally ranked swimmer before his… accident.” She seems to stumble over the last word. “And Remington is a scratch golfer.”
“Uncle Helix taught me to swim when I was just one year old,” Reece pipes up, holding up a single finger.
Ophelia strokes the little girl’s dark curls. “Our Reecie is quite the little fish.”
“I’m a mermaid,” she corrects, nibbling on another waffle pop.
