The Chicken Sisters - K.J. Dell'Antonia Page 0,137

first time, Mae marveled at her mother. Nobody hid their feelings so deeply or so well. She wanted to go give her a hug, but that wasn’t what Barbara wanted right now, and she knew it. If back to business was better, back to business it would be.

“Actually, Mom, I’m here because I have an idea.” Mae sat down on a kitchen stool herself and tried to look casual, while Kenneth, Patrick, and Jay struggled to find a place that was out of Andy’s and Barbara’s way as they prepped for the night’s service.

Andy raised his eyebrows. “The last Moore sister to walk in here with an idea dragged us all into Food Wars, and that one isn’t finished yet.”

“Mine’s better,” said Mae, and came right out with it. “We’re going to win tomorrow. But I found out tonight that Frannie’s doesn’t even care very much. Amanda doesn’t want to make Frannie’s bigger, she just thought she did, and Nancy doesn’t want to run Frannie’s alone, or even at all, really. She just did it because Frank died. And now—they both think Frannie’s owes Mimi’s. So”—this was the big play—“I think we should run it.”

Barbara set down the raw chicken she was holding on the cutting board with a thunk and turned to face her daughter. “Run—Frannie’s?”

“Run it like Frannie and Mimi would. Take it back to basics, do all the food fresh. Nancy could still run the waitstaff and all the seating; we don’t do that. But the food”—she raised her eyebrows at Andy—“no more frozen stuff. Just Andy’s best, in both places. Partners.”

Partners. That was the part her mother would get hung up on, unless—

“I don’t need partners,” Barbara said, turning back to the counter.

Damn. “Mom,” she said, and hesitated. But there was no one to bail her out, no one who knew her mother like she did, which was kind of the point. “Mom, we get Amanda back. And Gus and Frankie. And Frannie’s is part of the family. We owe her. She didn’t want it to happen like this. We owe Mimi. It’s our recipe, Mom. Nancy might sell Frannie’s or hire someone we don’t like—I just feel like we need to bring it all back together.”

Barbara thunked into the chicken with her cleaver. “I don’t want anyone else in my kitchen,” she said.

“Hey,” said Andy.

“Anyone but Andy. And you. No Pogociellos. Well—”

Mae waited.

“Maybe Gus. And Frankie.”

And Mae knew it was just a matter of talking from here.

AMANDA

Amanda awoke to Mae shaking her shoulder gently. “Amanda. Amanda. Wake up. We need you.”

For just a heartbeat, she was in her old bed, in her old room, a teenager again with her big sister making sure she was on time for school. Then she sat up abruptly off the hard floor of Frannie’s and grabbed the sweatshirt she had been using as a pillow.

“Oh God, I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”

“You fell asleep hours ago,” said Mae.

While Andy and Nancy and Jay were debating the frozen stuff on the Frannie’s menu. Yes. Oh man, how could anyone care so much about mozzarella sticks?

She looked around. Gus was asleep too, with his head down on a table. Mae followed her gaze. “Frankie’s out in the car,” she said. “We’re all going to go home, get some sleep before we spring this on Sabrina.” She gave a cheerful wave to the camera still running in the corner. “But first we need you. Come on.”

Amanda got up—oof, she was too old to sleep on the floor—tossed the sweatshirt onto the bar, and followed her sister out into the warm night. Propped up on chairs in the parking lot was the sign that had replaced her drawing at Mimi’s, and Amanda stopped and stared at her sister. Why would she want to see that? She didn’t care if they had all made up, that still hurt, and the sight of Andy and Kenneth next to it didn’t help.

Mae gave her a little push. “You’re looking at the back,” she said. “I know. I’m sorry. But come on. This is good.”

That sign—MIMI’S, SINCE 1886—was the part that was facing down, leaning on the chairs. Reluctantly, she walked around. The front was blank, just white paint covering the boards that together formed the square.

“There,” said Mae happily. “We need you to make the new sign.”

Kenneth gestured to the ground, where he had spread out Sharpies, a fat pencil, black and red paint, and a few brushes, along with a pad of paper and smaller pencils.