The Chicken Sisters(4)

Nancy leaned forward and gently snapped her fingers in front of Amanda’s face. “Come back,” she said. “This isn’t going to go away if you do.” Amanda smiled. It was a familiar joke between them. “She’ll do it,” Nancy said. “Why would she pass something like this up?”

Because it was Amanda asking, maybe? She put her chin in her hands and jiggled her leg under the table, silent.

“I know your mom can be tough.” Nancy knew better than anyone just how tough Amanda found her mother. “But this is different. She has to see it. She will see it. And your aunt will love it.”

That, at least, Nancy had right. Aunt Aida, who was actually Amanda’s great-aunt, had once had a thriving career in movies and television, until she’d faded out and moved in with Barbara. No one would welcome the arrival of cameras more than Aida. “She won’t be there, though. She hardly ever goes to the restaurant.”

“Well, talk about her, then. And talk about all the business Mimi’s will get.” Nancy stood up. “Come on, then. Off you go. I’d go with you, but we both know that won’t help.”

Not hardly. And wait—she was doing this now? Amanda had been thinking later tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Or never—what if Food Wars just showed up? Wouldn’t Barbara have to go along with it?

Her mother never went along with anything. Not for the first time, Amanda wished her mother was more like her mother-in-law. Reluctantly, she got up, then hesitated, her hand on her chair. “But what if she says no?”

Nancy smiled—the reassuring smile that had carried Amanda through a lot of years, ever since she’d married Frank and traded in her mess of a family life for Nancy’s ordered world.

“You won’t know until you ask,” she said. “And she’s going to say yes. This is going to be the thing you want that she wants too.” She squeezed Amanda’s arm. “They’re coming Wednesday? As in, tomorrow?”

“That’s what they said.” Tomorrow. Well, talking to Barbara would be over by then, anyway. And once Food Wars showed up, Barbara would be their problem. Amanda straightened up and smiled back at Nancy, her excitement returning. The money, and just the business, and all the publicity—this could save them all.

Unless, of course, Barbara said no.

Nancy was right, Amanda thought as she left the table and the cozy kitchen. The faster she asked, the sooner she’d know.



* * *



×


Away from Nancy, Amanda’s resolve faded almost immediately. When was the last time she’d been by Barbara’s place, anyway? It had to have been months ago—she remembered walking there with Pickle after getting coffee last fall. The dog hadn’t survived the winter. He had been her and Frank’s first baby, picked out of a litter by two utterly unprepared newlyweds months before Gus was born. After Pickle died, things got even lonelier. Gus started thinking about college in earnest. His younger sister, Frankie, started shutting herself in her tiny bedroom. If Pickle were here, Amanda would feel better about tapping on her mother’s door, knowing she’d at least have a sympathetic ear when she got back into the car.

Which was pretty pitiful when you thought about it.

So instead of thinking about it, Amanda turned into Mimi’s parking lot, wheels spinning at the switch to gravel, and pulled up next to an unfamiliar pickup. Must belong to the new fry cook. Amanda felt a little curiosity mixed in with her nervousness. Her mother’s dog, Patches, a fat black-and-white beast with a big head, hauled herself up from beside the stoop, barked once, then came forward to nudge Amanda’s hand. Amanda rubbed her under the chin.

Barbara appeared in the screen door exactly as if the dog had summoned her, and with her, the scent of Mimi’s, of frying and spice, a little musty, a little sharp, once the smell of Barbara coming home from work and then, later, Amanda’s own hair after every shift. Frannie’s smelled like cooking when they cooked, like cleaning when they cleaned, like fresh napkins and cooked vegetables. Mimi’s only ever smelled like Mimi’s.

“Amanda?” Barbara stepped out and stood for a moment, surveying her younger daughter. Amanda realized she should have prepared some sort of opener. Why was it always so hard to even say hello to her mother? She started forward, considering a hug, but Barbara leaned back into the kitchen. “Andy? Andy, come on out here. I want you to meet Amanda.”

Okay, that would work. Barbara had never hired anyone to cook for her before, although she always had counter and dishwashing help. From what Amanda had heard around town, the guy was basically some sort of weird charity project for her mother—good-looking (Mary Laura, Frannie’s bartender, had reported she “wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers”) but more than a little down on his luck, which was obvious, because otherwise, why would he be here?

Andy had to duck a little to step out of Mimi’s kitchen back door. He was tall and broad, and he wore an apron over a T-shirt and standard-issue chef’s clogs with shorts, which revealed pale but muscular legs, abundant tattoos (basically a Mary Laura prerequisite), and a lower-arms-only farmer’s tan that had to have been years in the making.

“This is Amanda, huh?” He held out a hand, and his big, warm grip covered Amanda’s smaller hand entirely. He held it an instant too long, looking at her face with curiosity. “The one who can’t come inside?”