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Across the room, Arabella Moon sat with her feet on a second chair. Rafferty, her husband, stood beside her holding a folded blanket. I’d not met them before today and had not realized that Rafferty was the town’s doctor and Arabella the veterinarian. They were having their first child any day now.

“Behind your back?” Rafferty asked.

“No, honey, I’m fine,” Arabella said.

“Under your feet?”

“No. Stop fussing. You’re making me nervous,” Arabella said.

I stopped beside them. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yes,” Arabella said. “Find him a sick patient so he’ll stop acting like a mother hen.”

Rafferty looked at me. “From one doctor to another, do you really think she should have been carrying that chair earlier?”

“One chair,” Arabella said. “Before I got busted.”

“You shouldn’t be lifting things,” Rafferty said.

“It weighed less than the dog I examined yesterday,” his wife retorted. “Also, nothing compares to this stomach I’m carrying around.” She rested her hands over her belly. “Honey, have a drink. I can drive us home. Seriously, I need a little space.”

“Do you want an orange juice or anything?” Rafferty asked.

“I do not,” Arabella said. “Now, please, go. Your brothers are at the bar. Go join them.”

After he wandered off, I said to Arabella, “Take it easy on him. Being a doctor with a pregnant wife must be hard on him.”

Arabella rolled her eyes but smiled back at me. “He means well. But he’s driving me a little nuts.”

“Comes with being this pregnant, I would think,” I said.

“This is really nice,” Arabella said. “I know all the Moons and the staff truly appreciate it.”

“Least we could do,” I said. “They’ve been beyond wonderful to us all month.”

I excused myself and headed back into the kitchen. Jack stood at the griddle with a spatula in his hand, studying a row of ham quesadillas.

“I need another platter of grilled cheese,” I said.

“Almost ready,” Ivy told me.

She was cutting sandwiches into strips. There was butter on her apron, and a lock of hair had escaped the knot on top of her head.

Grant reached for a clean plate and said, “Somebody wants a quesadilla without ham.”

Jack looked up. “Then it’s a cheese quesadilla.”

“Is that against the rules?” I asked, laughing.

“It kind of misses the point, but, whatever,” Jack said, completely serious. “We’re using fancy ham instead of the way they should be done, so what can I do about it?”

“I think the ham’s a great addition,” Grant said diplomatically.

“Let me be the judge of that. I’m the original diner, after all,” I said. I took half a quesadilla from a plate beside the griddle and took a bite. The tortilla was crisp, the cheese melted, and the ham smokey and salty. “Okay, Jack’s right. They’re not exactly the same but they’re still really good.”

“What are people saying about them?” Jack asked, without an ounce of humor. He actually cared.

“Jack, you’re an international super star,” I said. “You’re not judged by your quesadillas.”