to make it complete, and as she shook the oil off the last pieces of the night, Mae realized she was happy.
“Right back at home?” Andy asked. She hadn’t even realized he was still in the kitchen. Mae took the towel from the string of her apron and wiped her face before she answered.
“I was doing this when you were still getting stuffed into your locker in middle school,” she said. “This was my culinary education right here.”
“Well, I doubt you can clarify a broth, but this you can do.” He held out a full plate. “I’m the last customer of the night. Want some?” Mae grabbed her own plate, and he shook a share of chicken and fries onto it. “Your mom asked me to tell you to meet her out back. I’ll finish cleaning up.”
Not bothering to take off her apron, Mae carried her plate across the parking lot and around to the back door of mother’s house. She tapped on the window over the sink, trying not to see the dirty dishes or anything else, and Barbara, carrying a piece of chocolate cream pie, opened the sliding glass door and stepped out. She lowered herself onto the step next to Mae and set down the pie, and Mae picked it up and took a quick bite, making sure to get layers of cream and chocolate and graham cracker crust all stacked on her fork, before going back to the chicken and French fries. She’d forgotten how hungry cooking made a person, and now she was going to forget everything her trainer back in Brooklyn said about empty calories. She was hungry, and she was going to eat.
The door opened again, and Aida, who had spent the evening asking customers how they were doing in a regal tone and then ignoring their answers, especially if they wanted napkins, stuck a chair through the opening. Barbara pushed herself up to get it; then Aida herself came carefully out, carrying two more pieces of Patrick’s pie. She handed one to Barbara and then seated herself, back upright, on the chair.
“It went magnificently,” Aida declared. “I have not enjoyed a night at Mimi’s that much since—since never, actually. I think that young woman was very pleased with me. She promised to add some scenes from some of my earlier guest appearances. I suggested Bonanza.”
Mae, who would have much preferred her aunt highlight another moment of her career, such as the brief stint on Golden Girls, which Aida preferred not to discuss, rolled her eyes at her mom, but the night had gone so well that a little touch of corn pone was not going to turn them into Duck Dynasty.
“It did go well,” said Barbara, sitting back down. “I really do think that was thanks to you, Mae.”
Mae, her mouth full of French fries, nodded. There was no point in being modest. Knowing everything about both how Mimi’s worked and what Sabrina was likely to do or want next meant Mae could basically orchestrate the evening like a rock star. Almost immediately, the cameras had begun to follow Mae instead of the other way around, and knowing they were there—that she was on and making a connection that would eventually be shared with millions of viewers—felt like writing a term paper on Adderall. She had been tight, focused, on fire, and, as she’d promised Andy, at the top of her game. She’d bet anything Amanda had been a flaky mess at Frannie’s. With Mae on Team Mimi’s, maybe they had a shot.
“It would have been very distracting, Sabrina following me around asking me questions. Because we didn’t really need you to do anything, you could just kind of be an extra person to talk to her,” Barbara said. “Maybe I should have thought of that before I dragged you all the way here. Maybe Patti could have done it.”
“Really, Mom?” Mae was outraged. It wasn’t just being an extra person. It was everything Mae brought with her. It was being Mae. “Patti wouldn’t have known half what I know. Sabrina would not have paid any attention to her.”
“She did work for me once, a long time ago,” Barbara said, “Before you were born.” You don’t know everything, Barbara’s smile said.
Mae, brought down a considerable notch, put down the plate of chicken bones and took her pie. “Patrick’s pies are so good,” she said. “Not as good as yours, of course”—this in answer to Barbara’s sidelong look—“but you’re obviously a good teacher.