“What’s the solution?” Natalie asks warily.
“Breakfast!” cries Jordan. “Let’s take the kids to The Friendly Toast!” The Friendly Toast is the all-day brunch place in Portsmouth where chicken waffles mingle with avocado toast and steak-and-cheese sandwiches and forms of eggs Benedict you didn’t even know existed.
“That’s not a terrible idea,” Natalie acknowledges. “Except that everyone in the Seacoast area will have had the same one.”
“Then let’s go now. Maybe everyone else on the Seacoast is sleeping in. Scarlett, Evangeline, get dressed as fast as you can. We’re going to breakfast paradise!”
“What does that mean?” inquires Scarlett.
“Trust me,” says Jordan, beaming. She’s so chipper! What, wonders Natalie, the heck is going on?
“What about Dad and Kara?”
“You snooze, you lose,” says Jordan, shrugging, and Natalie says, “Fair.”
A big party has just left, and they are seated with menus within ten minutes of arriving: this must be some sort of record.
“Should we get cocktails?” asks Jordan. The bar menu is killer: Mimosa Flights, spicy Bloody Marys, an espresso martini that reads like a dream. It would be sort of a shame not to take advantage of it.
“Oh my god,” says Mae. “When did you become an alcoholic, Jordan?”
Jordan shrugs. Yes, she has been drinking more than usual this week. And she hasn’t seen a Pilates reformer for days. “It’s temporary,”she says. “We’re on vacation. Come on, Mae. Drink with me! What else is there to do on a rainy beach day?”
Mae thinks about it, then says piously, “I don’t think so. I can’t afford it.” She waits to see how this news will go down now that she’s told her sisters her situation. Caspian drops a fork on the floor, and Evangeline retrieves it. Then, yes, here it comes: Natalie and Jordan fall all over themselves saying they’ll pay for the whole breakfast, drinks included.
“Fine,” says Mae, as though she’s doing them both a favor. “I guess one Blood Orange Aperol Mimosa won’t kill me.” Natalie declines because she’s driving; they had to come in her car because of the car seats.
It’s time to choose the food! Jordan, to balance out her alcohol intake, wants a garden omelet; Natalie, a breakfast burrito, plus pancakes and scrambled eggs that she will split among her kids. When it’s Mae’s turn she chews her lip, furrows her brow, and says, “What happened to the Guy Scramble? It’s not on the menu.” The server doesn’t know about the Guy Scramble, or what happened to it. Mae settles on the Berries and Cream Waffle, which is topped with cheesecake buttercream and powdered sugar.
“Isn’t that a toddler meal?” asks Jordan.
Mae shrugs. “I’m reverting.”
Carefully, like the question is made of glass, Natalie says, “Have you thought any more about what you plan to do, Mae? Sunday is two days away.”
Mae shakes her head so rapidly she does in fact look a little bit like a toddler, one who’s refusing naptime.
“We’d both be happy to have you come live with us.”
“But Leo,” says Mae.
“And Dad and Kara would have you too, you know that.”
“But Leo,” says Mae again. “Kara is allergic.”
Natalie and Jordan pass a sisterly look between them, and Jordan says, “We can table that for now.” But not for long, she thinks. For, like, hours, not days.
When the food comes Natalie busies herself cutting and divvying the kids’ food, moving cups of milk out of the way of errant elbows, positioning Evangeline next to Caspian, where she can put single, innocuous bites of pancake onto his tray one at a time. She puts Scarlett on the other side with a pile of napkins. For a few moments, the children are completely occupied, making a game out of feeding Caspian. The world is at peace. Around them is the hustle and bustle of the restaurant, and outside on Congress Street it’s raining sideways, which makes them feel even cozier, especially with the bright green of the walls and the warmth of the hanging lights.
Jordan clears her throat and says, “Today is the deadline. This is the day I’m supposed to call the reporter.”
“Oh geez!” says Natalie. “Today. What are you going to do?”
Mae says, “What reporter?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Jordan could have sworn she’d told Mae. Didn’t she tell her the day after she told Natalie? No, wait, that was Simone.
“Nobody ever tells me anything,” says Mae.
