"Yeah. The data's solid. You made it clear without dumbing it down." I handed it back to her. "This is really good, Evie. You should be proud of this."
She pulled the poster back against her chest, and a smile broke across her face.
I looked at Aria. She was leaning against the table now, arms still crossed, watching us. Her expression was softer than before. Not quite a smile, but close.
"So. Monday, same time?" she said.
"Yeah. Monday."
I put my hand on Evie's shoulder and she leaned into me, just a little.
"Can we get ice cream on the way home?"
"It's almost dinnertime."
"I know, but like, ice cream can be dinner. Right? Aria says sometimes ice cream can totally be dinner if you want it to be." She stopped, looked between us, and bit her lip. "She said that once. When I was complaining about lunch."
I glanced at Aria.
"Did you say that?"
Aria's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "I may have said something along those lines. In a specific context."
"What context?"
"The context of it being her choice what she eats," Aria said. She lifted her chin as if she were daring me to argue. I didn’t see why I would when I agreed that it was Evie’s choice. But it was still my job to supervise.
We stood there for a second. Evie's poster board was crinkling slightly where she gripped it. A marker had rolled off the table onto the floor. I could still hear that phone ringing in another room.
I should probably say something. ‘Thank you,’ maybe. Or ‘I'm sorry for coming in here like that.’ Something that would acknowledge that I'd overreacted, that she'd handled it, that my daughter was standing here smiling for the first time in days.
I didn't say any of it. It was Aria Kealoha for goodness sake. I would sooner eat my own flesh then apologize to her.
"Come on," I said to Evie. "Let's go get ice cream."
At the door, I looked back. Aria was still there, still watching. She didn't look away when I met her eyes.
I held her gaze for a second longer than I needed to, then turned and walked out with my daughter.
7ARIA
The orchids had arrivedat 2 p.m., packed in refrigerated crates from Maui.
I stood in the middle of the transformed warehouse, watching the florists arrange them on every table. White dendrobiums, purple vandas, the deep pink of wild orchids my grandmother used to grow in her backyard. Plumeria blossoms floated in shallow bowls of water, their fragrance mixing with the smell of fresh linen and the faint smokiness of the koa wood candles we'd had shipped in.
"The caterers are asking about thepupustation placement." Priya appeared at my elbow, tablet in hand, headset looped around her neck. "Also, the string quartet wants to know if they can set up near the bar or if that's too close to the silent auction."
"Pupustation goes near the entrance. I want people eating the moment they walk in, it loosens wallets. The quartet goes in the far corner, opposite the auction. Background music, not competition."
Priya tapped notes into her tablet. "Got it. Oh, and Nalani said to tell you the gift bags are ready, but we're short three because someone…" she glanced at me meaningfully "...decided to add last-minute items."
"The kukui nut oil is important. It's from a women's cooperative on the Big Island. Every person who takes one home has a chance to learn about the program."
"I'm not arguing. I'm just saying we're short three bags."
"Then three people will have to share."
I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The converted warehouse in Tribeca had been gutted and rebuilt into something that straddled the line between industrial and elegant—exposed brick walls, steel beams overhead, massive windows that would catch the sunset in another hour. We'd softened it with the string lights, the flowers, the warm glow of the candles.
