“Chloe!” Jessica says, looking at Nick. “How are you?” It’s unclear who she is asking.

He stands and offers his hand. I introduce them, and then hesitate. Jessica helped to make O the success that it’s been. In business, you tap into the thought leaders to get your idea to go viral.

In the spa business, you find the equivalent, which means Jessica Coffin and her always-for-rent social media accounts.

Except she deleted her Twitter account a while ago and has been suspiciously silent. Hmm.

“You work for Andrew McCormick,” she says to Nick, her mouth twisting oddly as she says Andrew’s name. “I met you here, at some charity event.”

Right. I don’t know why I thought I had to explain the identity of a handsome, successful Boston man to Jessica Coffin. It’s her business to know. Might even be in her DNA.

She turns back to me, a tiny smile on her lips. “Chloe, didn’t I hear you’re about to be a mommy? That’s just so exciting. I guess we won’t be seeing you at restaurants like this anymore. From now on, you’ll only be eating—what are they called?—Happy Meals.”

She leans forward to kiss my cheek, then moves off, brushing against Nick as she goes, although there is plenty of space between tables.

He doesn’t seem to notice her. He is staring at my stomach.

Chapter 8

Nick

A giant, overstuffed blue nylon bag masquerading as one of my daughters appears at the door on this fine Saturday morning. Morning-ish. I look at the clock. Noon. Although for her, that’s the crack of dawn.

“Are you selling dirty laundry? If so, that is a terrible business idea.”

“Dad!” Elodie whines, the tip of her nose and one wide eye appearing around the large lump. Her long, glossy brown hair is pulled into a ragged top knot and she’s wearing flannel pajama pants that are entirely too long, covering feet in flip flops.

Very familiar flannel pajama pants.

“Are those mine?” I grunt, as she thrusts her clothes at me.

I take the load from her arms and she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, smelling like the T and cotton candy.

She also ignores my question.

“Where’s Uncle Charlie? Is he here?”

“No. He’s meeting with his business partner. They’re trying to trademark the phrase ‘Surf the Internet.’”

That gets an eye roll.

“But how wonderful you’ve come home to visit your dear old dad. What’s on the agenda for our relaxing hours together?”

“Is the washer empty? I have literally nothing left to wear and it’s ’80s karaoke night at school and Brandon is the emcee.” She’s standing in my doorway, phone in her hands, both thumbs flying. She is not even looking at the screen. How do they do that?

“’80s karaoke. So you’re Googling the lyrics to ‘With or Without You’? ‘Every Breath You Take’? ‘Born in the USA’?”

She’s nonplussed. “What are those?”

Let’s move on.

“How about a game of chess? Or we could play Candyland. You always loved that when you were little.”

I get a head toss and a sigh, as she drags her clothes into the laundry room off the kitchen. I accept my role as utilities provider and start up the espresso machine. Having my own washer and dryer has turned out to be a young adult insurance policy. At least once a week, I get their undivided attention for a few hours.

Especially when they know they can raid my pantry, too.

Elodie comes into the kitchen and snipes the shot of espresso I’ve just finished making. “Almond milk?” she asks, rummaging in the fridge.

“I don’t know how to milk an almond. Do they have udders? Besides, last month you drank nothing but coconut milk.” I point to the half-gallon I bought for her this week.

“Daddy! That was last month. Now I need the manganese.”

“Manganese?”

“It’s a mineral.”

“I know what manganese is, Elodie, but why do you need to drink it?”

She waves her hand in the air with an air of sophistication that reminds me so much of her mother, Simone, that I freeze, blinking into dead air.

“The college cafeteria refuses to stock almond milk now because of protests.” She settles for cinnamon and downs the espresso shot like tequila.

“Protests?”

“Almonds use too much water and some agricultural climate change group thinks we need to stop drinking almond milk because of a moral imperative.”

“Almonds have morals?”

“Daddy, stahp.” She draws out the word like a Minnesotan, then hoots.

Followed by the evil eye.

“You look different today,” she announces, peering at me. Of all my kids, she’s the one who looks and acts the most like Simone.

“Different?”

“Happier.”

I scowl.

“Ha! That’s what you normally look like. You have Resting Jerkface.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “What?”

“It’s like Resting Bitchface, but for men.”

I just peer at her. Sometimes I think I’ve produced progeny from another planet. Where do they come up with this stuff?

“You frown all the time, Dad! All the time. You never, ever smile.”

I give her the fakest grin I can muster.

“Now you’ll give me nightmares.” She grabs a reusable Trader Joe’s bag and starts stealing...er, liberally sampling from my pantry. “Where’s the good peanut butter?”

“Why don’t they make peanut milk?” I ponder, making myself an espresso and sprinkling cinnamon on top.

“Ewww”

“And almond milk is any better?”

She just sighs. Most of her tenth grade year involved nothing but sighs. I am fluent in Sigh. This one means, Shut Up.

Now that I think about it, they pretty much all mean Shut Up.

“How’s Brandon?” I ask.

Elodie has been half-chasing, half-ignoring Brandon for the past six months. I pretend to rifle through my day’s mail, giving her covert glances. If you look a young adult straight on while asking a question designed to elicit more than a Shut Up sigh, you will never get actual information out of them. You have to be an information ninja. Eye contact shuts down the speech center.