“Could not be better. People are acquiring a taste for fresh, real food,” she says, earning a... frown?
Her eyes cut to me. “Why does that bother him?”
I shrug.
Shaking his head quickly, as if shooing away a gnat, Andrew smiles. “It doesn't. It’s just a hot topic lately.”
“Good food is controversial? Since when?”
“Do you think there's really been a turn in the market for high quality, pure food?”
“I do. And it's about time. Americans tolerate so much, what is the word?” She struggles to find it, finally exclaiming with a finger snap, “Crap! Yes, that is the word. Crap.”
“That's true,” I agree.
Andrew leans toward me and whispers, “Cheetos and marshmallows qualify as crap.”
“Then hand over the crap and save the real food for yourself. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.”
Pan con Tomate, crusty bread rubbed with garlic and oil and topped with tomatoes, appears as if an angel delivered it. Sparkling water in a wine glass, with lemon and lime floating in it, is the perfect accompaniment. Lefty and Righty start chanting “Eat! Eat! Eat!” and the vibrations of their little voices travel up from my womb into my mouth. My tongue and teeth operate before I've even grabbed a napkin for my lap.
Connie is deeply gratified.
“Good food, Andrew. Real food. Quality food cooked with love. That's the secret ingredient, the caring. We feel seen when we are fed well.” She pats my shoulder. “Is this not true?”
“Mmmph?”
They both laugh as I take a sip of water and swallow.
“Connie,” I say, “See me. See me as clearly as possible. I especially want to be seen through your dessert eyes.”
A half hug from above follows, her spicy perfume subtle but distinct. “I knew Andrew chose well with you. Knew from the moment he brought you here, that first time. Shall I choose your menu, taking great care with the sweets?” She looks to Andrew.
“You are the expert. I defer to you.”
Her eyes widen. “When does that ever happen? A McCormick renouncing control over something? My goodness!”
I have to swallow quickly before I choke on my own laughter.
Andrew cocks one eyebrow but says nothing.
A call from the kitchen, barely audible, makes her turn and wave to us as a tray of breads and oils appears, and I find myself facing a speechless husband.
“We're not that bad,” he mutters as he reaches for a piece of bread.
I laugh. “Andrew, you carried me up here because I made a joke. You insist you're 'winning' the baby-making contest with your brother because I'm carrying twins. You and Declan tried to outdo each other showering Shannon and me with gifts in Las Vegas, including a seven-foot animatronic–”
He pops a piece of tomato bread in my mouth to shut me up.
“Let's talk about something else. Oh, I know!” he says in a bright voice that instantly sets me on edge. “How about baby names?”
“Mmmmp pfttt iss eyem.”
“Perfect! Your mouth is full and you can't talk. I'll suggest something other than Lefty and Righty. How about Paul and Dominick?”
I shake my head.
“Richard and Oliver?”
I shake harder.
“Erik and Roger?”
I make a face.
“Well, Leo and James are out.”
I finally swallow and reply, “Your father and my mother would kill us if we name one of them Leo. But you're right.”
Smug looks always find their way to his face. “Of course I am.” He frowns. “About what?”
“We need names. Why not Andrew Junior?”
His turn to make a face.
“How about Al and Barkin?” I suggest. Al Barkin was my prom date in high school. He's a town cop now, and we had a run-in with him years ago, right after Shannon and Declan's wedding.
If Andrew's fingernails could make sawdust out of the table top, they would. “That's not funny.”
“Why are you jealous of a guy I haven't dated in forever?”
“I'm not.”
“You are!”
“How about Coffin and Raleigh?” A diversion technique: Those are the last names of the two people Shannon is most likely to call me in the middle of the night to help her dispose of their bodies.
“Hah!”
“Everyone's asking, Amanda,” he says as a seafood stew appears, along with an assortment of grilled vegetables, pastries I can't pronounce, and refills of our water. I stare at the loaded table and have just one question:
What is Andrew going to eat?
Rubbing my belly as the babies move and kick in response to the rush of calories hitting their bloodstreams, I sigh in contentment. This is going to be a fun food marathon.
Andrew had better clear the rest of his day.
For real this time, too.
“We said we wanted classic names. No children named after movies or television.”
“Baskin and Exotic are off the list.”
“And no family names,” I confirm before taking an enormous spoonful of soup, careful not to turn the top of my belly into a bathmat.
“That doesn't leave much.”
“It leaves plenty!”
“I want to bring up something more delicate,” I say, reaching for his hand. “It's about work.”
“What about it?”
“I think I want to quit.”
“Quit?”
“Quit. Give Carol a promotion to take over the division.”
“And do what?”
Pointing to my belly is the only answer that question deserves.
“Of course! The babies! Of course,” he emphasizes, face filling with joy as he leans in. “Are you sure? I never wanted to pressure you, but if you want to stay home with them, I'd be overjoyed. We'll still have nannies for support, but it would be a great honor to know our boys are being loved and guided by so much of you.”
“I'm increasingly sure. I need a few more days to make certain, but between Carol doing well, the trust fund money I get anyhow, and the reality check of two babies almost being born pre-term, I’ve been re-assessing my priorities.”
Something dark passes across his eyes. It reminds me of Declan.
“Right. I feel the same way.”
“You want to quit your job? Leave Anterdec?”
“What? No. The reassessing priorities part.”
“What's wrong? You suddenly seem different.”
“Nothing.”
“Andrew.”
A long sigh, then he leans back in his chair and scratches his chin. “It's Declan. And Vince. Dec laid into me for buying the gyms.”
“Why?”
“He says I can't run Anterdec and the gyms and be a good father and husband.”
All the air of this outdoor paradise seems trapped in my lungs.
Beseeching eyes meet mine. “Do you think he's right?”
Andrew doesn't falter very often. Asking me a question like this feels like minor key change that comes across as discordant. Dangerous.
A warning.
“I think,” I say carefully, feeling like every word is a step in an active landmine field, “you have a lot on your plate and will need to scale up support to make it all work.”