—LISA
..
Rosé and my publicist, Timothy, keep texting to see when I'll be "back to normal." I am not ready to go back to my normal schedule. I won't admit it to anyone, but the idea of being formally "out there" with the eyes of the world watching my every move has me breaking out in a cold sweat. Given my profession, this is a problem.
I didn't lie to Jennie; talking to the mango seller about Arasmus and Dark Castle was enjoyable. It was gratifying to know my work gives others pleasure. But it wasn't my work that caused those two women to stalk me. I was a thing to them. Sometimes, in the still of the night, when I'm not guarding my thoughts, they'll creep up on me, those grasping fingers, the flashing light of their cameras. I might have bled out and died before they finally called 911. And I can't help but think that going out in the public eye will draw more of their kind.
It pisses me off that I care.
A little more time, I tell myself. That's all I need. A little more time to regroup, heal. And then I'll be good. Just like new.
Until then, I'm sticking to the house. And there's one place I find myself gravitating toward.
The kitchen.
It has become a living, thriving beast in the center of my once quiet and orderly house. There's no ignoring the new heart of my home. It won't let me. I constantly hear the sounds coming out of it: clanks, sizzles, muted thumps and bangs. A cacophony of sounds. It should annoy me, but it intrigues me instead. What tasty delights will come from those sounds? What new dish will bring me to my knees and make me beg for more?
Scents waft from the kitchen, dancing around the halls to find me and tickle my nose. Warm and comforting and mouthwatering. "Come closer," those scents seem to say. "Come see what we have for you."
Come.
How can I ignore that?
So I don't. I follow the siren's call and find the siren herself at the very center of activity.
Jennie moves with utter confidence in her kitchen—because it is unequivocally hers now. This is a prima ballerina performing a solo. Not a fast-paced, frantic dance, but slow and easy, controlled power in motion.
Knowing that she hasn't yet noticed me, I simply watch her work, admiring the curves of her body as she reaches for a spoon to taste a sauce. The pink tip of her tongue flashes as she licks her lush top lip. Something hot and tight clenches low in my gut at the sight. Then she's moving again, adding a spice to her sauce; a flick of her wrist controls the temperature on the stove.
My body remembers the feel of hers, the way she cuddled up in my lap for those few mindless minutes. I was surprised enough that she did it. I simply held her, afraid to make any move that might startle her away. She was warm and soft, her skin smelling of butter and cinnamon sugar. I wanted to sit there all night and breathe her in.
I wanted to let my hands roam over those plump curves and learn each one. It was an act of careful coordination to keep her from noticing just how much she affected me. It was worth the painful dick and the aching gut of lust because in that moment, she felt perfect.
She turns back to the center island and the cutting board there and sees me. The loose-limbed ease of her body dies. She's all twitchy now, eyeing me like a feral barn cat as if I might try to lash out and catch her.
Tempting.
As though she suspects the direction of my thoughts, she straightens and adopts a casual pose like she never sat on my lap, never let me pet her as the sun set. "Don't tell me you're hungry again."
No mention of the cuddle or the uncomfortable conversation about Jisoo. For that, I'm grateful. Maybe it's for the best that we don't talk about Jisoo. Ever.
I move farther into the warmth of the kitchen. "Since you got here, I'm always hungry."
She can make of that what she wants.
She's been bent over a stove, so the flush on her cheeks might be from the heat. Or maybe not. She nods toward a pressed tin container on the counter. "I made some oat bars. Nothing exciting, but they're on your approved list."
"I think we both know how I feel about that damn list."
The corners of her lips curl in amusement. "Yes, we do."
I stand at the end of the counter, close enough to be within touching distance but not crowd her. "What are you making now?"
She's got two pots going, one of them covered.
"A bordelaise sauce." At my interested look, she grabs a spoon out of the canister filled with clean ones that she keeps near the stove and dips it in the pot before handing it to me.
The sauce is a glossy mahogany, and when I slip it into my mouth, I close my eyes and groan. Rich, deep, dense—I don't have the words to do it justice.
I open my eyes to find her staring with an unreadable expression on her face.
"God damn, Tot." I lick the spoon, desperate to get another taste. I whimper this time.
Jennie watches me, and her nostrils flare like she's sucking in a quick breath, but her voice remains smooth as old silk. "Don't worry; I won't be using much of it. Just a spoonful on top of a flat iron steak. Shouldn't be too many calories."
I cut her a reproachful glare. "Don't you dare skimp. I'd bathe in this if I could."
With a husky laugh, she takes my spoon and puts it in the sink. "As delightful as that image sounds, let's keep the sauce on our plates."
"That's not half as fun." I pull out a stool and sit to alleviate the ache in my leg.
Jennie eyes me. "You hurting a lot today?"
Since she's already taken me to task for denying my pain, I answer her truthfully. "Yes."
With a hum, she starts on a turmeric latte. I don't know how much they actually reduce pain, but it's soothing and something made just for me. I accept her gift and curl my fingers around the cup, stealing its warmth.
Jennie has opened up a journal and is reading heavily marked pages. The leather-bound journal looks much like the ones I use, though hers is battered and splattered with various food and oil stains. She jots down a note in the margin of what looks to be a recipe, then catches me watching her.
"My recipe journal." She closes it. "Early on, we're taught to write things down. Memories can fade. But I also use it to develop recipes or make note of an idea."
Her slim hand, as battered as her book, rests protectively over the cover. She eyes me warily as though I might poke fun at her. It touches a nerve deep within that her trust in me is so thin, that my past actions caused this lack of trust. So I give her the only thing I can: my own vulnerability.
"I journal too." I take a sip of latte. "Not recipes, of course. But notes about my role. Or what happened on set that day, so I'll remember it when I'm old."
Her butterscotch eyes grow wide. "Truly?"
"It is so surprising?"
She blinks and gives a little shake of her head. "Yes. No. I don't know. I guess I can't picture you taking the time to write things down."
"Everything important to me, I write down." Shrugging, I palm the cup again. "Or I do now. Back when I lived at home, I wouldn't dare. Nothing in my room was safe from being confiscated."
Her lips part in surprise. Yeah, I don't suspect she had any idea how truly confined I was as a kid. An old discomfort rolls through me, as ugly and itchy as a hair shirt. I shed that past long ago, but some things never truly go away; we just try to forget them as best as we can.
"I got into writing after high school." After the letter. Another twang of regret plucks me. I don't mention that damn letter. I have some pride. "Helps me gather my thoughts."
Jennie nods slowly, her eyes still wide and on me. "It does," she says after an awkward second. I get the feeling she's more surprised we have something in common. I'm not. Even when being around Jennie made me want to tear out of my skin just to get away from her judging eyes, I knew we were forged from the same metal.
"Why did you become a chef?"
She visibly jolts at the question, clearly not expecting it. Her palm, still on the journal, makes a slow, smooth circuit of the leather. "Aside from loving to cook?"
She's evading, and we both know it. I hold her gaze, letting her see that I won't hurt her here. "Aside from that, yes. You could have cooked for yourself and done something else."
Jennie licks her upper lip. It's a quick nervous gesture I saw her do dozens of times when we were kids. But she never was one to shirk from answering—at least not with me—and she doesn't disappoint this time either. "I went to college because it was what I was supposed to do, you know?"
I nod. Because I did the same. Follow the track society set for me.
"Don't get me wrong; I enjoyed it. But the closer I got to graduation, the more scared and less satisfied I became. What the hell was I going to do when I got out? I felt . . . stifled. I had this urge to create . . . something."
"Like something's pushing against your insides, wanting to get out."
"Yes, exactly!" Jennie's words flow with more ease. "I asked myself, what was it that I most enjoyed? And I realized it was cooking. Food was my joy."
"So you followed your joy."
Her slim finger traces the edge of the journal, the one that looks almost exactly like mine. "A mentor of mine once told me that food is a commonality that binds us all. We all need to eat to survive. But in eating, creating dishes that gave us pleasure, we developed a story of our humanity as well as the story of who we are as individuals. Food is tied to so many of our memories."
"I once read a quote that good food heals our soul."
"The right dish certainly can." She leans toward me, her gaze intent and bright. "Give me a memory of food that makes you happy."
She wants to heal me with food? Strange thing is, I'm fairly certain she's already doing that.
I answer without thought. "Grilled cheese sandwiches your mom used to make us after school."
She blinks, pink lips parting, but recovers quickly with a warm smile. "Yes." In a flash, she moves to the fridge and pulls out a few packs of cheese.
"You've been hiding cheese in there?" I say with mock outrage.
She smirks. "I'm not going to forgo cheese. You never look in this thing, do you?"
"It makes it worse if I do."
Jennie puts the cheese on the counter, then goes about gathering bread and butter. She has a thick loaf of farm bread that she cuts in slices.
"You're going to make me a grilled cheese? Actually cheat?"
From under the fan of her lashes, her eyes gleam. "I won't tell if you don't."
I fall just a little further under her spell, my walls crumbling in places I never thought they'd weaken.
"And I'm not making it," she adds, taking out a frying pan and turning on the stove. "We are."
I stand and stop by her side. "I can make a grilled cheese, but not like your mama's. They always come out too dark on the bread and too cold in the center."
"That's because you haven't learned the proper way."
Together, we construct the sandwiches, using a blend of muenster, because it was what her mother favored, and provolone, because Jennie thinks it adds a deeper flavor—and liberally buttering the bread because, Jennie informs me, it's all about the butter.
"Now," she says, laying two sandwiches on the hot pan. "Here is where you learn that cooking involves all the senses. Taste, yes. But also sound. Listen. The butter is sizzling. No sound means it's not cooking the right way. The pan is either too low or too hot."
We listen to the sizzle.
"Sight," she says. "We need to see that beautiful butter hopping and bubbling around the edges of the pan."
Dutifully, I watch. How can I not? She is in total command.
"Smell." She wafts her hand over the pan, letting the warm scent of browning butter and bread wash over us. "This is more important when you're adding herbs and spices. Does the dish smell as it should? It's something you learn on the way. Flip the sandwiches."
I take the spatula from her and do as asked. The bread is perfectly browned.
"Feeling. You have to feel how the food is behaving. The texture of it. Now, with grilled cheese, you don't want to cook it too fast, or the cheese won't melt. Hear how the sound has dimmed?"
I nod.
"We need to add more butter; turn the heat down just a bit."
She walks me through the entire process, teaching me to control the heat, baby the sandwiches to get them how I want. All the time our shoulders are brushing, our moves in coordination for a common goal. A sense of calm spreads over me. I'm not thinking about work or the outside world. I'm not angry or empty. I'm filled up. I'm here, with her.
We get the sandwiches on plates, and she hands me a knife.
"The best part. Cutting it open." Her brow wings up in warning. "Only cut on the diagonal. Down the middle is a sin against grilled cheese."
"Please," I say, with feeling. "As if I'd sink so low." I make the first cut and am rewarded with a fine crunch of sound, followed by the ooze of gooey cheese. Perfection.
"Taste. Take a bite," Jennie urges with childlike excitement.
It's just a sandwich. A kid's treat. It feels like more.
I take a bite.
"Close your eyes," she says. "Tell me what you think when you taste it."
You.
Me.
Jennie wearing braces, her thick hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that highlights the roundness of her face. Her catlike eyes glaring at me from opposite her mother's kitchen table.
Home.
Safety.
A tremor goes through my gut. I open my eyes, wanting to step away from the counter. From her. But she's watching me with rapt eyes. Waiting for an answer.
"I remember those days," I say thickly. "Your mama yelling at us to wash our hands or we wouldn't get a snack. I remember how we all ate those grilled cheese sandwiches quickly so each bite would be just as crisp and oozing, and she'd warn us that we'd burn our mouths with our gluttonous eating habits."
Her gaze holds mine, her voice soft now. "And we didn't care because it was too good to eat slowly."
"Yeah." The air is thick with memories—and us. I have the insane urge to step into her space, touch her cheek. Just touch her.
Jennie blinks, and the spell is broken.
"This is almost exactly like your mama's," I say to fill the silence. "But better."
She makes a dubious face. "No one makes them better than Mama."
"You do."
Flushing again, Jennie pours us iced tea, and we eat in relative silence.
"So you're a chef because you want to evoke memories?" I ask after a time.
"Not exactly." She wipes her hands with a napkin. "So we agree that food evokes memories, but a chef is doing something a little different. She's telling you a story through food. If she does her job correctly, she's taking you on a journey, making you taste things in a new way, making you stop, think, and appreciate the food. A chef not only feeds you; she gives you pleasure. She illuminates."
Heat sweeps under my collar, and I struggle to get it under control, but damn she makes it sound almost illicit.
Unaware of my struggle, Jennie continues, "Good food is theater in a way, but the audience participates."
"We're both entertainers," I say with a start of surprise.
"I guess we are," she agrees after a second.
"So why catering? Why close it down?" I can't help myself. I want to know her as she is today, not as she was before.
Her words come out with measured slowness. "When I was in New York, working the line, all those monstrous hours, I used to dream of catering, where I could slow things down, have a bit of a life outside of cooking."
Her smile is wry. "But then I got to LA and started up the business. I became stuck with the strange whims of my clientele, worrying about parties and how they would go. My creativity faltered." Shaking her head, she shrugs. "I found I didn't want that, either, which makes me wonder. Do I have what it takes? How can I if the thought of constantly working turns me off?"
A frown works across her face, and she ducks her head as though she doesn't want to meet my gaze. She probably thinks she's said too much.
"When we're filming," I say. "We have such long hours I lose track of days. Hell, sometimes I'm so tired I don't even know who I am anymore. It's exhausting. Sometimes, I want to say, 'Fuck it, I'm done.' But then I think of not working anymore and feel empty. I never expected acting to fill a void in me, but it does. So I keep going."
The moment the words are out, I feel the truth of them. I love what I do. And I'll be damned if I hide away because of one bad incident. No more hiding out. No more fear.
My breath comes easier than it has in weeks. "That you want more out of life than constant work doesn't mean you aren't a chef. It means you are human."
The expression on Jennie's face is one I haven't seen before. It almost looks like gratitude. I don't know what to do with that. She shouldn't feel grateful. I'm the one holding her back. The knowledge wraps itself around my throat and squeezes. She shouldn't be here in Jisoo's place. I should let her go. I should say it. But I can't seem to make my mouth form the words.
Jennie takes a long breath and lets it out slowly. "In a weird way, being here has helped put things into perspective."
"What do you mean?" I ask through stiff lips.
She tilts her head back and sighs. "A chef has to discover who she is and how she wants to express that to the world. What is the story she wants to tell?" Her soft eyes meet mine. "I closed the shop because I realized I didn't exactly know the answers to all that."
"And being here helps?" I want it to be true, but I can't believe it. I'm a hindrance, not an asset.
"I don't know if help is the right word," she drawls with slight humor. "More like I'm learning about myself through adversity."
I wince. "Ouch."
Her laugh is light and oddly carefree. "Don't look so pained. It was my choice."
Sadly, that doesn't help a bit.
"And when this is done?" The thickness in my throat swells, making my words rough. "Will you still go on that tour?"
She worries her bottom lip with the edge of her teeth. "You know, for the first time in years, I'm not looking forward. I'm just concentrating on right now." She appears to find this surprising, almost funny, if her huff of laughter means anything. "I don't want to think about the future."
In that we differ. For the first time in years, all I see is the future. It's dark and empty, and what scares the ever-loving hell out of me, what makes me get up and leave the kitchen a short while later, is that it will be because she's gone.
—JENNIE
..
Lisa and I do not mention that evening on the porch. Whether this is by silent, tacit agreement or it simply doesn't register as any big deal to Lisa, I don't know. I can't ask because, as stated, I refuse to speak of the incident. It's a struggle not to think about it, either, but I manage. Mostly. There are occasional flashes of memory—how very good it felt to rest on her, how very delicious she smelled, or the heady feeling I got just hearing the deep rumble in her chest when she laughed. Those unfortunate snips of memory I push away as quickly as I can. But they disturb me. Mostly I'm disturbed by how easy it was to cuddle up to her.
But in the dark of night, when I'm huddled under my covers alone and too sleepy to fight it, a trickle of regret will steal over me. It was more than comfortable there with Lisa. For the first time in my life, I felt seen. And for an all-too-brief moment, it was perfect.
And then there's Jisoo. I know without a doubt I won't see her until she's good and ready to be found, that guilt and shame have pushed her into hiding. This is far worse than the time she disappeared for a month after blowing a semester's worth of tuition on a weekend in Vegas with her girlfriends. Daddy was alive then and mad as hell. She only came slinking back when she ran out of money, and only then—I'm convinced—because she knew Daddy wouldn't actually kill her.
She's got no such assurances when it comes to Lisa.
Good God, she sold Lisa's trust and her literal safety. I know that's why she left. The watch was probably an impulse theft, a quick way to get cash. Ugh. Everything feels turned on its head. I want to protect my mother's tender heart as much as ever. But I also want vengeance for Lisa. I don't want to leave her alone in this. If, at age seventeen, someone had told me that I'd feel protective of Lisa Manoban, I'd have laughed my ass off and called them a liar. Now? Damn it, I don't know. The hurt and still very vocal girl in me says get the hell out of here and protect yourself. The adult in me says that maybe Lisa isn't so bad. Maybe she could be . . . what? A friend.
I shake my head at that, scared and freaking confused. And I work. Work always helps.
We settle into a routine of sorts. Lisa goes about her business—whatever that may be—and I plan my menus and, after getting Lisa's okay, set about planting a vegetable garden along the side of the property. The place already has a good amount of lemon, avocado, and olive trees dotted around. Something I take advantage of as much as I can.
The assistant aspect of my job isn't the greatest; I'm either shopping, picking up Lisa's meds and whatever else catches her fancy, or bringing meals. But mostly I field her calls. So many calls. And Lisa doesn't really want to accept any of them. I've become the queen of giving lame excuses.
Her issues aside, there is one personal issue I have to manage, and fairly quickly. I hunt Lisa down and find her in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee.
"I have a problem," I say without preamble.
"Oh? Is it sex related?" With a brow waggle, Lisa leans against the countertop. She's tall enough that her butt rests on the top of it. The perfect height that, if she wanted to, she could set a woman on that cool marble, spread her legs, and . . .
What is wrong with you? Stop thinking about sex, you hussy. A shudder moves over my shoulders, and I push those thoughts away. Push, push, push. So many unwanted thoughts. It's getting crowded in my mind now, harder to hide away from things I don't want to address.
"Hardly. My mother keeps texting me. She wants to know about my new job and is asking questions."
"So answer her." She pours me some coffee and slides it my way. "Or are you having trouble with what you should say?"
I shake my head. "No, I'll tell her . . . something. I'm not sure what at the moment, but it'll come. Thing is, I owe her a birthday lunch."
Lisa pauses and looks at me from under her straight brows. "You were preparing her brunch when I first texted."
"I never finished." I set my cup down. "I want to go home and host a makeup brunch."
"This is your home now," Lisa says in a quiet tone. "Host the brunch here."
My home? It doesn't feel like that in the slightest. "Here? You'd be okay with that?"
Her dark eyes are guileless. "Why wouldn't I? I love your mother."
"I know." After she befriended Jisoo, Lisa was at our house at all hours. Mama took her in like a stray puppy. There was always a seat open to her at our table. Even when she was being a shit to me.
"You two need to put aside your stubborn pride and mend this rift, Jennie," my mother said when I complained. "If that girl needs safe harbor from her homelife now and then, I'm not going to deny her because you have a bee in your bonnet."
To this day, I have no idea why she thought of Lisa's visits as a safe harbor, given that her favorite pastime at my house was to dog me at every opportunity.
I shake those memories aside. If I think of them for too long, I'm going to want to throw my mug at her. I have to live with my nemesis now. The past needs to stay in the past.
Lisa is frowning at me as if she's working things out in her head. Maybe she's remembering things as well. Sometimes I wonder how she views our past. Does she imagine herself the wounded party? I suppose she was at times.
Whatever the case, she crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a level look. "Quit trying to pick a fight, and call your mother, Tot."
Patronizing . . . I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. "All right, then, prepare to be invaded."
Lisa raises her cup in salute. "Bring it on."
..
Exactly one day later, Mama and her best friend, Samantha, descend upon Lisa's house with wide eyes and gaping mouths.
"Well," my mother says. "I can see why you'd give up trekking around Asia if you get to work here. It's simply beautiful."
So far, I've told Mama the bare minimum—that I took a job as a personal executive chef—and left out the part of assistant because I knew she wouldn't buy it. I insisted that the pay and opportunity were too good to pass up, all the while fighting down the bitter taste in my mouth that came from lying.
When she pushed for more, I promised to fill her in when she came for lunch.
We have the house to ourselves. Lisa and North are down in LA, doing God knows what. I think they made up an excuse in order to flee.
Mama's blue-gray eyes, so like Jisoo's, are alight with interest. "Who on earth are you working for, Jen?"
"Let me guess." Sam grabs my wrist in excitement. "Someone famous. It has to be. Famous people value their privacy," she says to Mama.
Maybe it's because they've been friends for so long, but despite the fact that Mama is pale and blonde, and Sam is dark and brunette, they look remarkably alike. Both wear their curly hair cut in bobs that pouf out like triangles around their delicate faces, both are of a height, and both love to wear loose-fitting capris and flowing tunics in various animal prints. Standing together now, they look as if a cheetah collided with a zebra.
Unexpected tears prickle behind my lids, and I have the urge to rush over and beg for hugs. Because the two of them together make me feel like a kid again, safe and protected. I always looked upon them with awe, wanting to be as uniquely confident as they were when I grew up. I still want that confidence.
Sam is on the move, investigating the great room for clues. "So," she says, peering around. "Who is it? A movie star? Big producer? Musician? Tell me he's handsome."
"Maybe her boss is a woman, Sam." Mama smiles at me. "Put your sexist auntie Sam out of her misery, and tell us, sweetheart."
Auntie Sam flips Mama the bird under the guise of scratching her eyebrow. As much as I'd love to see them go at it—because their squabbling can be epic—I take a breath and confess. "It's Lisa."
Mama tilts her head as if she's misheard. "Lisa?"
Dully, I nod.
Her mouth slowly drops open. "As in Lisa Manoban?"
"Lisa Manoban?" Sam parrots. "Jisoo's childhood beau?"
Ugh. I hadn't really thought of Lisa in those terms lately. It somehow makes it all worse—Jisoo's theft, the fact that I'm taking up her debt, all of it.
I clasp my hands tightly. "Yes."
They exchange a long look.
Mama's voice is subdued. "I see."
I fear she does and scramble to reassure. "It's a great opportunity. Lisa is famous. Chefs get a lot of exposure working for famous people." I fear that sounds as horrible to their ears as it does mine.
But Sam gives me a kind look. "This is true. And if I do say so myself, Dark Castle is my favorite show. Have you seen it, Andie?" she asks my mother.
"No. Or rather, I viewed the first few episodes." Her pale cheeks pinken. "But then there was that scene."
"Ah, that scene," Sam says, failing spectacularly to hide her grin. "I must say, it was a shock to see . . . that."
Yes, "that" being Lisa's ass. It seems the whole world has seen her ass except for me. I'm beginning to feel sorely left out.
Mama's color deepens. "I couldn't look. It was like seeing my own daughter . . . you know. For Pete's sake, how was I supposed to watch after that? It isn't as though I could do a search. 'Will Lisa Manoban have sex on Dark Castle tonight?'"
I snicker and quickly swallow it down. "I haven't watched either."
Big mistake.
Mama's expression turns sharp. Another glance at Sam has my honorary auntie suddenly finding a deep interest in the view.
Mama moves close to me and sets a cool hand upon my wrist. "You know I'm not one to question your choices, Jennie, but you're truly working for Lisa Manoban? Living with her?"
"I'm not living with her. I live on the property." It sounds lame even to my ears.
She shoots me a quelling look. "Lisa has her good and bad points, just like anyone else. But the two of you got on like gas and fire. She's the last person I'd expect you to work for. Now, tell me what is going on with you." Her eyes pin me to the spot. "Is it money? Has it something to do with Jisoo? It must, what with the way you've been desperately searching for her."
My mother isn't stupid. I knew she'd figure some things out. So I have my excuses planned.
When lying, it's best to stick as closely to the truth as possible. You'd think Jisoo taught me that, but it was my daddy. Trick is, I have to tell my mother a twisted version of the truth for her to believe it.
With a sigh, I meet her gaze. "Jisoo stole money from me."
Mama's expression crumples. "Oh, Jisoo, my misguided baby. My stupid, misguided child." With a shaky hand, she cups my cheeks. "Tell me everything."
I feel like a heel. A horrible, lying heel. "She took my savings, and I'd already closed up shop, as you know."
Grimly, my mother nods.
"Lisa had heard about my catering through friends and happened to call at an opportune moment. She offered me a job as her assistant and chef. The pay is enough that I can save up to go to Asia next year."
"This won't do," Mama says. "I have some money—"
"No, Mama. Absolutely not."
Her lips purse. "It's my money. I get a say—"
"Not with this." I lay a hand on her shoulder. "I've already given my word. I won't turn back on that."
With clear reluctance, she nods. And I smile. "Besides, look at this place. I'm not hurting here. It's beautiful, and the work is easy."
She glances around and then shakes her head. "It is. But it won't stop me from tanning your sister's hide when I find her."
"I'll help you do it. But you know Jisoo won't turn up until she's good and ready." I take her elbow and guide her back to where Sam is staring out of the living room window and undoubtedly eavesdropping the whole time. "Now, who's hungry for lunch?"
Sam takes my free arm. "I'm starved, doll."
I lead Mama and Sam out to a table set beneath a vine-covered trellis on the north side of the lawn. There is much oohing and aahing over the ocean view before they inspect the table. I managed to find a natural linen tablecloth, some tumbled glass votives, and a large chrome-and-wood hurricane lamp. Mixed with her everyday creamware plates and Mexican-style glasses, the setting is as nice as I can make it.
"This is lovely, pumpkin," Mama says, touching one of the sprigs of rosemary I tucked into the linen napkins. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble."
"It's your birthday lunch, Mama. And it was no trouble."
"I can't believe this view." Sam sighs as she stares at the ocean. She turns our way, and her salt-and-pepper curls lift in the breeze. "That girl has excellent taste."
"She always has." Mama takes the seat I pull out for her. "Thank you, dear. Though I will say, I had no idea TV acting paid so well. Oh, don't give me that look, Jen. I know it's tacky to mention money, but we're family."
I roll my eyes and pour her a glass of sweet tea.
Sam takes the seat to her right. "She's a star in one of the most popular shows on cable, Andie. I expect it pays well."
"Not this well." Mama waves a hand in the general direction of the lawn.
Knowing that Lisa might return home at any moment makes me itchy. I cringe to think of her overhearing my mother and her best friend being gossips.
"Lemonade or sweet tea, Ms. Sam?" I cut in before they can say more.
"Lemonade for me, angel." She leans past me to look at my mother. "This is likely from her family money. Turns out Cecilia's family was richer than a shiny-toothed television evangelist."
"I knew they had money, but not to that extent."
Sam gives a careless shrug. "Old money doesn't like to be showy."
Mama nods sagely, and I press my lips together in irritation.
"Does it really matter if Lisa comes from money?" I snap without thinking.
Mama grimaces and sets her cool hand on top of mine. "Of course not, baby." She smiles brightly. "Well, obviously you two have made nice this time around."
A noncommittal hum is all I can manage.
"I always thought Lisa was secretly sweet on you."
I can't help but snort. "Sweet on me? Not a chance. Her loathing was real."
"Now, I know she could be . . ."
"An asshole?"
Mama pretends to be shocked. "Language, Jennie."
It's Sam's turn to snort. Though my mother has excellent manners and is the soul of kindness, she also curses like a trucker when she thinks her children aren't around to hear. I don't consider that a flaw, but it is amusing when she tries to put on airs.
"She was horrible to me," I say firmly.
Mama waves a hand. "That doesn't mean anything. You know, they say people are meanest to the one they like the best."
"I hate that saying. Meanness is meanness. To tell a girl that there's some sort of benevolent action behind it all is to say that it's okay for her to be victimized."
Mama stares up at me for a moment, then shakes her head. "You're right, pumpkin. I don't know why I said that."
Sam snorts again. "Because you and I were raised with 'boys will be boys' tossed in our faces." She sits back in her chair and turns her face to the sunlight. "I say it should be 'dicks will be dicks, and a misbehaving dick deserves a knee to the balls.'"
Mama and I look at each other and then start to laugh.
"Well," Mama says finally with a faint gasp. "There you go, Jen. If that girl gets out of line, knee her in her balls."
"Hopefully I won't give her cause to do that," says a deep, amused voice behind us.
I'm ashamed to say we all jump like escaped convicts.
Lisa stands, leaning slightly toward her good leg, the sunlight glinting in her black hair. A slight smile plays on her lips. Her gaze meets mine, and a flush of . . . something goes over me.
"You're back." I try not to make that sound like an accusation. And fail.
A taunt flares in her eyes. "I am."
She lingers a second longer before turning her attention to my mother.
"Mrs. Kim, Ms. Davis, you're both looking well."
"As are you, dear girl," Sam drawls. "So pretty. Now come over here, and give your elders a proper kiss on the cheek."
I barely refrain from coughing "cougar" under my breath.
Lisa grins and strides forward, making it look effortless even with a cane and a severe limp. Dutifully, she leans down and kisses both Sam and Mama on their presented cheeks. As she pulls away from Mama, she gives me a sly wink before straightening, and I know she's going to put on a show—sweet, gallant Lisa Manoban.
"I hear felicitations are in order, Mrs. Kim. Happy birthday."
Mama all but titters. "Why, thank you, Lisa. And please call me Andie."
Lisa's smile is all charm. "I don't think I'd be able to. It would feel disrespectful. You've always been Mrs. Kim to me, ma'am."
Lord, help me.
But Mama soaks it all up. "Sweet girl."
Traitor.
"Look at you," she goes on. "All grown up."
"That I am."
"I'd read on Twitter that you'd been hurt." Mama glances my way as if somehow I'm responsible. I bristle, but she's back to patting Lisa's hand. And I try to wrap my head around my mother trolling through Twitter.
"I'll be fine in no time, Mrs. Kim."
"Yes," I add. "She just needs to rest." Go rest, Lisa.
Her brow raises as if she hears my silent demand. And I get a look that says, Not on your life, Tot.
"We're about to have lunch," Mama says, killing my hope. "You should join us."
Oh, hell no. "I'm sure Lisa has other plans—"
"Why, I would love to, Mrs. Kim. How kind of you to ask."
She goes to grab an empty chair from across the way, and I glare at Mama, who gives me a pinch under the table. I rub my thigh and get up. "I'll just be a moment. Help yourselves to the fruit plate."
Grumbling, I head for the kitchen with Lisa's rumbly voice haunting me as I go. I'd made Lisa a plate of food and left it in the fridge. I add it to our lunch, tempted to sprinkle some cayenne on it. Wily interloper. She'll charm Mama, and all I'll hear about for months is how sweet and wonderful Lisa is.
When I return, Lisa's holding center court at the table. She sees me approach, and her eyes light up with mischief. But she doesn't say anything as I set down my massive tray on the sideboard and begin to serve lunch.
"Why, Jennie," Mama says. "This looks wonderful."
I've made squash blossoms stuffed with pimento cheese mousse—because my mother loves pimento cheese—and for the main course, lobster salad on fresh sweet potato rolls and a simple roasted-corn succotash and jicama-fennel slaw as sides.
"Jennie is a great chef," Lisa says. "Since leaving Shermont, I hadn't given much thought to food. Then Jennie comes back into my life, and I find myself craving all the time."
An awkward beat falls over the table. Lisa said it with a straight face, but damn her, her words have me hot and bothered and thinking of sinful cravings that are most definitely bad for me.
Sam clears her throat delicately. "Good food will do that to you."
Lisa quirks a brow my way as if to silently say, "Indeed."
I cut her a glare and attack my sandwich with vigor.
Silence descends as we eat, but then Lisa wipes her lips with her napkin and turns my mother's way. "Perhaps you can settle an argument, Mrs. Kim."
"Don't tell me you kids are going at it again."
For some reason the words hit me entirely the wrong way, and all I can picture is Lisa and me truly going at it. Against a wall, all hot and sweaty. And hard. So very, very hard . . . I reach for my lemonade and spill some in my haste.
The tops of Lisa's cheeks become slightly ruddy. "Er . . . no, not exactly. Jennie tells me she's named after an aunt who drowned in a pie."
I make a face at her, and she returns it while my mother is distracted by taking a sip of tea.
"Ah, yes, Great-Aunt Jennie, smothered by strawberry rhubarb."
"I didn't know rhubarb was involved," Lisa exclaims as if the addition of it makes all the difference.
"Cuts the sweetness of the strawberry with a little tart," Sam explains.
Completely straight faced, Lisa nods. "I like a little tart with my sweets."
I struggle not to roll my eyes.
"Personally," Mama goes on, "I can't stand to eat strawberry rhubarb pie anymore. Reminds me of death," she confides in a lowered voice.
With a groan, I rest my head in my hands.
"I much prefer a nice buttermilk pie or coconut cream," she tells Lisa.
"Chocolate chiffon is my favorite," Sam puts in.
Lisa keeps her eyes firmly off me as her mouth twitches. "I'm partial to warm peach."
"Oh, for the love of pie," I exclaim. "Would you please tell us why I was so named, Mama?"
She gives me a chiding look. "Your patience leaves much to be desired, Jennie."
Lisa clearly struggles not to laugh. "I'm always saying that, but she thinks I'm picking on her."
"If your leg wasn't broken, I'd kick it," I say sweetly before giving my mother a pleading look. "Go on, Mama."
"It was your father who picked the name. He did so love his aunt." She takes a bite of her lobster roll, then dabs her lips with a napkin. "I wanted to call you Fern."
"Fern?" I rear back. "Do you know the amount of verbal abuse I would have gotten at school over Fern?"
Lisa clears her throat, then presses a fist to her mouth like she's trying to force it to behave before speaking. "It would have been a lot."
"Mostly by you," I add with some asperity.
Her grin is quick and unrepentant. "Probably."
"I told her not to do it." Sam helps herself to another squash blossom. "I said, 'Andie, your girl will hate you for this. You want her to at least make it to her teen years before she tries to kill you.'"
"What's wrong with Fern?" my mother asks, spreading her hands in exasperation. "It's from my favorite book, Charlotte's Web."
I can't . . .
Lisa's broad shoulders are shaking, her face red behind the fist she still has covering her mouth.
I lean toward my mother. "Then why didn't you name me Charlotte?"
Mama blinks at me as if I'm off my nut. "I couldn't do that! Charlotte dies at the end. It would have been bad luck."
Agitated heat blooms over my chest. "Aunt Jennie died! By pie!"
Lisa loses it with a great burst of rolling laughter. She laughs so hard she leans back in her chair, holding a hand to her chest. She laughs so hard her eyes turn into little triangles of glee.
All the women at the table are momentarily stunned by the spectacle because Lisa Manoban full-on belly laughing is an undeniable thing of beauty. She's so jovial that it makes me start to smile. Before I know it, I'm laughing too. Mama and Sam fall under her spell as well, and soon we're all laughing like a bunch of loons under the yellow sun.
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