She eventually hung up, deeply unsettled.
Sunday morning, I found Daniel scrolling through recipes in the kitchen.
“Mom says she’s excited.”
“Wonderful.”
“She asked if we’re doing a seafood theme.”
“Wonderful.”
He slowly turned toward me.
“What do you normally make?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“What I buy.”
“What should I buy?”
“Food.”
Daniel followed me around the kitchen.
“What does Mom actually like?”
“She’s your mother.”
“You understand food!”
I took a sip of my cheap coffee.
“Your mother likes attention presented beautifully on expensive plates.”
That did not help him.
At nine-thirty, Daniel drove to the supermarket.
At ten-fifteen, he called.
“Why is wild salmon so expensive?”
“Because it’s wild salmon.”
“Do we normally pay this?”
“Sometimes more.”
“What about frozen?”
“Buy frozen.”
“Will Mom notice?”
“Yes.”
Half an hour later, another call.
“They don’t have those little fancy potatoes.”
“Buy regular potatoes.”
“But what makes the small ones special?”
“Marketing and anxiety.”
I hung up.
By eleven-twenty, Daniel returned carrying enough groceries to suggest panic rather than planning.
I went into the living room and opened a book.
For the next hour, the kitchen produced a soundtrack of destruction.
Pans crashing.
Cabinet doors slamming.
A blender screaming.
The smoke detector joining the performance.
Eventually, I walked to the kitchen doorway.
Flour covered the floor.
Flour covered the counter.
Flour covered Daniel.
“What happened?”
“I’m making bread.”
“You’ve never made bread.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
A sticky piece of dough was attached to his wrist.
I decided not to interfere.
Then Patricia called again.
She had made the situation worse.
Her neighbor Beverly Watkins was driving Patricia and Frank to our house.
Beverly and Patricia had been competing with each other for years.
Christmas decorations.
Gardens.
Grandchildren.
Mailboxes.
Anything could become a contest.
Recently, Beverly had bragged about a Michelin-starred dinner her daughter had purchased.
Patricia had responded by suggesting she regularly enjoyed private-chef-level meals at my house.
Now Beverly wanted visual confirmation.
She wasn’t joining lunch.
She was simply dropping them off.
At twelve-thirty, Daniel appeared in the living room.
“Do we have fresh parsley?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom likes parsley.”
“Then I hope you bought some.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“You’re enjoying this.”
I returned to my book.
Twenty minutes later, Daniel screamed from the kitchen.
“No. No, no, no!”
I hurried inside.
Six enormous live lobsters were sitting beside the sink.
I stared at them.
Then at Daniel.
One lifted a claw.
“What,” I asked slowly, “is your plan?”
CHAPTER 3: THE LOBSTER PROBLEM
“Mom likes lobster!” Daniel said.
“Why are they alive?”
“They were cheaper this way.”
“Yes. That is generally how live seafood works.”
“I thought the seafood guy would take care of them.”
“Take care of them how?”
“I don’t know. Make them less alive?”
I turned toward the refrigerator because I was dangerously close to laughing.
Daniel pointed at our largest stockpot.
“I’ll cook them in that.”
“That pot holds two.”
“We have six.”
“I noticed.”
Then Daniel made his worst decision of the afternoon.
He put all six lobsters in the sink while he turned his attention to the potatoes.
Apparently, he assumed lobsters respected sinks as architectural boundaries.
They do not.
Within minutes, three escaped.
One disappeared behind a countertop appliance.
Another moved beneath the rolling cart.
The third vanished completely.
Daniel crouched on the floor.
“Where did it go?”
“You’ve lost a lobster.”
“They move faster than I expected!”
“You have created a seafood fugitive.”
Then the doorbell rang.
Daniel froze.
“My parents.”
The bell rang again.
“Help me.”
“No.”
“Esme!”
“Unfortunately, my labor is currently funding your sister’s bamboo diapers.”
Before I reached the door, it opened.
Patricia still had an emergency key.
Apparently, lunch being slightly delayed qualified as an emergency.
She swept into the house in white linen pants, a silk blouse, sunglasses, and an expensive scarf.
Frank followed carrying Chardonnay.
Outside, Beverly waited in her enormous white SUV.
She lowered the window.
“Enjoy your private culinary experience, Patricia!”
Patricia waved stiffly.
“We always do!”
Then she shut the door.
“That woman is unbearable.”
Frank handed me the wine.
“I wanted beer. Patricia informed me that beer was inappropriate with lobster.”
I looked at her.
“How did you know we were having lobster?”
“Daniel asked what I wanted.”
Of course.
Then Patricia sniffed.
“What is that smell?”
A crash came from the kitchen.
Daniel shouted,
“EVERYTHING IS FINE!”
Patricia’s eyes narrowed.
“Where is the chef?”
I laughed.
That worried her more than anything.
She marched toward the kitchen.
I could have stopped her.
I didn’t.
She opened the kitchen door.
Two seconds later, Patricia screamed.
CHAPTER 4: THE KITCHEN TRIAL
I have worked in professional kitchens during actual emergencies.
I had never heard a human being produce the sound Patricia made.
Frank dropped the Chardonnay.
Inside, Patricia had climbed onto one of our dining chairs.
And we had finally located the missing lobster.
It was attached to the loose fabric at the bottom of her white pants.
It hadn’t touched her skin.
Patricia did not care about that distinction.
“GET IT OFF!”
Daniel stood several feet away holding salad tongs.
“Mom, stop moving!”
“I AM BEING EATEN!”
“It’s holding your pants!”
Frank entered, saw the situation, and began laughing so hard he had to lean against the doorway.
“FRANK!”
“I’m sorry.”
He absolutely was not.
Patricia kicked her leg.
The lobster released the fabric, flew several feet, hit the base of the island, and immediately continued sideways across the floor.
Patricia screamed again.
Dogs began barking outside.
A neighbor shouted over the fence asking whether everyone was all right.
Patricia abandoned the chair and climbed onto the granite island.
“There are still three in the sink!” she yelled.
One lobster raised a claw.
Patricia pointed.
“That one is looking at me.”
“They’re lobsters,” Frank said. “They don’t hold grudges.”
Then one moved.
Patricia grabbed the nearest object.
Unfortunately, that object was Daniel’s homemade bread.
She threw it.
The loaf hit the floor with a noise closer to construction material than baked goods.
Even the lobster stopped.
Frank stared at it.
“What is that?”
Daniel looked offended.
“Bread.”
“Son, that could be used for home defense.”
By then, multiple neighbors were paying attention.
Carla from across the street appeared at the kitchen window with her phone raised.
Patricia immediately panicked.
“Close the curtains!”
“Why?” Daniel asked.
“BEVERLY.”
Frank checked outside.
“She’s still parked there.”
Patricia went pale.
That was the true emergency.
Not the lobster.
Not the destroyed kitchen.
The possibility that Beverly Watkins might discover Patricia’s sophisticated luncheon had turned into a crustacean disaster.
Patricia climbed down.
Then she looked at Daniel.
“Fix this.”
Daniel surveyed the kitchen.
Flour everywhere.
Smoke from the oven.
Boiling potatoes.
Lobsters loose on the floor.
Bread suitable for masonry.
“How?”
Patricia turned toward me.
“Esme?”
“No.”
She blinked.
“No?”
“Daniel is responsible for lunch.”
“Why?”