she was only kidding, but Amanda had had enough of Mae’s jokes, and of Mae, and of everything. She turned around without saying another word to her sister, hitched up the tote bag that was slipping off her shoulder, and left. She didn’t need Mae’s help, or her sympathy, or her plan.
She needed to go home.
MAE
Amanda was such a drama queen. Mae followed her up the slope, well aware that her sister wouldn’t stop until she got wherever she was going, and that wherever that was didn’t involve Mae. It was a tree, and, yeah, it was sad, but it was ancient history. Things changed, just like they’d changed between her and Amanda. Mae had hoped, with a shared mission, that they could at least slip back into their old ways a little. Weren’t they on the same side? Of course, that’s not the way Food Wars would see it, but in reality. The Merinac side, the make-this-a-huge-success side. Why wouldn’t her sister even listen to her? It would be so much better for everyone if they worked together behind the scenes, at least a little, but no. Amanda had to be stubborn.
Mae squared her shoulders as she walked through the backyard, avoiding even so much as a glance at the house. She’d heard the door slam just before she came up the ridge, and now she could just see her mother disappearing in front of Mimi’s. On to the rest of the day. Step one: chase Barbara down. Mae sped up slightly. Step two: figure out how far Barbara would let her go in getting Mimi’s increasingly more camera-ready before each Food Wars appearance. Sadly, burn it down and start over was not a practical option, but scrape the counter area and the patio back to walls and concrete was, and Mae intended to persuade Barbara to let that happen.
Mimi’s wasn’t going to win in a head-to-head beauty pageant with Frannie’s, and everybody knew it. But it could appeal to a certain subset of viewers—the ones who valued simplicity and authenticity over variety and constant change, who would prefer one classic, beloved, well-made handbag over a collection of cheap knockoffs.
The ones like Mae, in other words, and the ones who would do two things: follow Mae, giving her increased visibility and setting her up for the next stage of her career, and, if they were at all local, come check out what Mae intended to bill as “fried chicken like your great-great-grandparents loved.” That would bring in a fresh influx of customers, all ready to see Mimi’s in a new light. Win-win, even in the face of an ultimate Food Wars loss.
Because while Barbara might have been adamantly declaring that Mimi’s was in fine financial shape, all around her Mae could see the same old signs of penny-pinching—except, of course, for the bizarre advent of Andy. Which brought her mind back to her mother’s disappearance last night, also bizarre. Step one and a half: figure out whether there was a reason Barbara was acting so strangely, or whether this was just one of those Barbara things. That might be step three, actually, because if they were going to get anything about Mimi’s improved before the Food Wars crew showed up again, they didn’t have much time.
Mae, now out on the sidewalk just past Mimi’s, could see her mother disappearing into the Inn. She set out after Barbara, not quite at top walking speed because the coffee shop was extremely likely to also contain Kenneth. Reunions weren’t on Mae’s agenda, as much as she wanted to hear the story—Kenneth had wanted out of town even worse than she had, and she couldn’t imagine why he’d trade pulling all-nighters at a start-up in San Francisco for pulling shots of espresso in Merinac. Later, though. Could she just pretend she already knew the whole thing? Her mother’s dog, sprawled on the sidewalk next to the Inn’s door, looked up but didn’t move as Mae grasped the handle and pulled it firmly open. Bells jingled, heads turned. Fine. She was a New Yorker now, a TV personality, a little bit famous. She put a little cock in her walk. She could handle this.
Her mother’s back was to her, but the man behind the counter, who was not Kenneth, looked up immediately. “Mae Moore,” he said with evident pleasure, and set down the cup he was holding, as if to come out and greet her.
Barbara leaned forward and tapped on the counter. “Patrick Lehavy,”