She jumps at my question, eyes widening before she plasters a smile onto her face. “You assume correctly.”
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
“Of course,” she responds in a chipper voice. Perhaps too chipper. “Just surprised.” With another forced smile, she skirts past me and walks up to Nick. I follow, but give them space to celebrate their reunion.
“What are you doing here?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, her stance almost defensive.
“Is that any way to greet your husband after not seeing him all summer?” His response has a teasing quality to it, but I swear I hear a warning mixed in.
“I’m just…surprised. I thought you were still in London.”
“I finished with my client early. My flight to Charleston connected out of Atlanta anyway, so I figured I’d surprise my wife. We can spend tomorrow in the city, maybe you can take me down to Meemaw and Gampy’s old house and show me around, then we can all drive home together.”
“But I’m not scheduled to head back until the end of next week.”
Nick frowns, the lines of his chiseled and arguably attractive face falling. Then he puts Imogene down, crouching slightly. “Why don’t you go play with Uncle Wes for a minute while I talk to Mama, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Nick straightens, turning his bright blue eyes toward me, extending his hand. “Good to see you, Wes.”
“You, too.” I shake his hand, my expression even.
Then I meet Julia’s gaze, silently asking if she’s okay. She subtly nods. I hesitate, but eventually steer Imogene back toward the table, giving her some paper to draw on. I sit, drawing with her, but still keep an ear tuned to Julia and Nick’s conversation as best I can with all the ambient chatter and orders being shouted behind the counter.
“I just spent eight hours on a plane after being out of the country for over a month,” Nick says in a barely audible voice. “I’d expected a little enthusiasm from my own wife.”
“I’m happy to see you,” Julia tells him. “Like I said, I’m surprised you’re back so soon. That’s all.”
“Do I need to be concerned?”
“Of course not. I’d just planned to have next week to finish up training the new head pastry chef here. That way, I can be certain she has everything under control while I’m back in Charleston.”
“How hard can it be to follow some simple recipes?” he comments snidely.
I hold my breath as I sketch on Imogene’s paper. I fully expect to hear one of Julia’s notorious comebacks in response to Nick’s insinuation that her job isn’t difficult. Or at least argue that many of the pastries she makes aren’t as easy as following a simple recipe. That she creates works of art. Especially some of the wedding cakes she designs. But she never does.
“I want to make sure everything’s perfect. I’m sure you can relate.”
Neither of them says a word for what feels like an eternity, my anxiety increasing with every passing second. Finally, Nick speaks, his tone brighter and less accusatory.
“You know me so well. How about this? We spend tomorrow together here. If your new chef manages, you’ll know she’s ready to handle things without you. She’s most likely itching for you to stop being a helicopter boss anyway.”
“You’re probably right about that.”
“I usually am.”
The sound of footsteps grows closer, and I refocus my attention on my sketch, not wanting to let on that I’ve been eavesdropping.
“Come on, MoMo,” Nick says as he approaches, helping Imogene out of her chair. “I’ll take you to Uncle Wes’ house and we can play with that mongrel dog of his.” He shifts his gaze to mine. “You don’t mind an extra house guest for a few nights, do you?”
“You’re family, Nick. You’re always welcome.”
“Thanks, man.” He pats me on the back before glancing at the paper on the table. “Who’s that?” he asks, gesturing to my doodles.
I follow his line of sight to see I’d absentmindedly sketched Londyn’s likeness.
“That’s Miss Londyn,” Imogene says proudly.
“Wow,” Julia murmurs, sidling up next to me and peering over my shoulder. “That looks a lot like her.”
“Miss Londyn?” Nick looks from me to Julia, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Did I miss MoMo’s Meet the Teacher night for school? I don’t recall a Miss Londyn at the academy.”
“Miss Londyn isn’t a teacher, Daddy. She’s helping Uncle Wes with the house.”
“She’s my interior designer,” I explain.
“I see.” He studies my sketch for another beat, then returns his attention to Imogene. “Shall we be on our way, ladybug?”