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Mara breezed in from the formal dining room they would be using that night. She held up two tablecloths, one pure white, the other pale yellow.
“I’m using the stoneware from Italy,” she said. “It’s heavy but so pretty, and those flat pasta bowls work with the scampi.”
“I don’t know what the plates look like,” Allison admitted. “Summer, which one goes better?”
“The yellow,” Erica said firmly, walking in from the mudroom.
She crossed to her daughter and hugged her, then kissed her mother. She smiled at Allison. “You’re looking more rested. How do you feel?”
“Good. I saw my doctor and she’s happy with how I’m doing.”
Summer spun to face her. “Is your weight up?”
“I weigh two pigs now instead of one and a half.”
Everyone laughed. Erica set her bag on the counter and reached for Jackson, who was playing in his playpen, where he could be in the center of the kitchen and not underfoot.
“Rika!”
“Jackson!” Erica lifted him into her arms and snuggled with him. “How are you? Growing? You seem bigger and much, much smarter. Did you have a good day?”
Keeping him on her hip, Erica faced the three of them. “Thanks for all your help with this. Tell me where we are with the meal?”
“The French tart is in the refrigerator until exactly five thirty,” Mara said. “Then it comes out to warm to room temperature. I’m about to set the table. The beets are prepped and ready for the oven.”
“I’m making the mix for Allison and my drinks,” Summer told her. “Then we’re going to start on the bruschetta.”
Her mother nodded. “Good. The pesto-and-radish one and the classic diced tomato—”
“With basil and onion.” Summer rolled her eyes. “Mom, I know. No soft cheese, no processed meat. I get Allison’s pregnant.”
Erica smiled at her daughter. “Well, as long as you get it.”
She passed Jackson to Mara. “I owe you all. Let me go change and I’ll be down to help. Killion’s due at six and we all know what that means.”
“That he’ll be here at five-fifty-eight,” Mara and Summer said together.
“Exactly.”
Erica hurried toward the stairs. Allison turned to Mara. “How can I help?”
Mara put Jackson back in his playpen and handed him his stuffed caterpillar. “Let’s set the table. Once that’s done, we can figure out kitchen duty.”
The next hour passed in a blur of activity. When the roasted beets had cooled, Allison thinly sliced them and segmented the oranges. Erica passed her the recipe for the dressing and told her where to find the ingredients.
Erica prepped for the scampi while Mara and Summer made the toppings for the bruschetta, and the sliced French loaf toasted in the oven. The tart came out of the refrigerator to warm up and the white wine Erica had chosen was put in an ice bucket.
Allison was surprised to find herself enjoying her time in the kitchen. There was a sense of community as they worked together at the island. The other women talked about their days. Summer complained about her friend Avery’s father, who wouldn’t allow his daughter to get help in calculus. Mara mentioned a client with beautiful white hair who had insisted on a dark green streak.
“I tried to tell her the color wasn’t good for her. Try blue or purple, but she insisted on green, for her granddaughter’s high school colors, and now she’s unhappy.”
“What are you going to do?” Allison asked.
“Nothing for now. It will wash out gradually over time. Once it’s less bright, I can try to work with it.”
“Green’s tough,” Erica said from her end of the island. “It goes muddy so easily. Once it’s lighter, you can add blue and end up with teal.”
“I think that’s the plan. She wants to have the green streak for the weekend at least. There’s a family get-together. Then she can start washing it out.”
