Page 38

“Yeah. I thought it was normal until I met other kids when I went to school and realized I was the only one who had a sergeant for a father.”

“It’s no surprise how disciplined you are,” I said.

“I don’t necessarily try—it’s just ingrained into my brain.”

When I thought about Grant in this way, his reluctance to upset Jack was more understandable. He was raised by a man who expected a soldier. Soldiers were loyal.

We finished our layers just as Caspian headed to the cooktop to instruct us how to melt the butter in a saucepan and cook the garlic. “Only sauté the garlic for about thirty seconds. It can get scorched pretty quickly and that makes it bitter. And lastly, we add the cream and herbs.” He poured in the heavy cream and milk, then added rosemary, salt, pepper, and nutmeg.

“Okay, now you guys,” Elliot said.

Grant and I looked at each other, as if we were in an important science lab rather than a cooking lesson.

“Let’s do this,” I said.

For the next few minutes we focused on our butter and garlic, adding the cream and herbs as instructed. Elliot came over to take a look and declared it perfect.

“We’ll bake them covered for forty-five minutes,” Caspian said. “At that point, we’ll remove the foil and cook them for another twenty or thirty minutes.”

“And while that’s happening we’ll make our Blue Fern Salad,” Elliot said. “Although I’m the pastry chef in this operation, occasionally I come up with a recipe I want featured on our menu. This is one of mine.”

“She loves salad,” Caspian said. “Which means I do too.”

“Good man,” June said approvingly.

“Happy wife, happy life, right?” Caspian asked.

Elliot swatted him with a towel, rolling her eyes. “He makes me sound like a dictator.”

“Not at all,” Caspian said, winking at his wife. “More like my queen. And I your loyal servant.”

“Oh brother,” Elliot said, glancing over at me, shaking her head as if commiserating about our men. If only I had one.

Elliot continued. “Anyway, we’ll prepare the ingredients but keep it separate until we’re ready to serve. No one wants a wilted green or brown pear.”

“I hate red onion,” Grant whispered in my ear.

“Me too. It stays with you for days.”

“Do you think we should leave it out?” Grant asked.

“Not a chance. I’m not getting in trouble.”

“It’s best to follow the recipe,” my mom said, leaning over the counter in our direction. “Especially rookies.”

“Mom, how rude,” I said, laughing.

“You’re many things, darling. A wonderful daughter and sister and doctor. But I can’t remember you ever cooking anything that didn’t come from a box.”

“I learned that from you,” I said, slightly offended. “Things in boxes are cheap.”

“She just means you don’t have time to cook because you’re busy saving children,” Grant said.

“That’s exactly right. Thank you, Grant,” my mother said before returning to her pot.

I glanced up at him, a wave of affection washing over me—nearly knocking me over actually. “That’s nice of you to say,” I said quietly, hoping no one could hear. “I feel seen.”

He smiled gently and leaned close to speak into my ear. “I see you all right. All the dazzling parts of you.”