parents were in practice together. A pediatrician, Cherie was marginally more successful than her obstetrician husband because of her high profile in the media. Issues like child protection were her specialty, and she was a frequent guest on talk shows.
At first Emma had been proud of her mother’s fame, until she realized she and her brother provided the case studies for many of Cherie’s theories. To the media, Cherie made much of being a mother herself, when in truth, their housekeeper spent more time parenting Emma and Todd than their parents did. Running a demanding medical practice plus writing and public speaking meant family interactions generally came down to “quality time,” not Emma’s favorite term.
“Most businesses struggle in their first few months,” Emma said, suppressing the urge to sigh. She wasn’t prepared to ask for financial help from her parents, knowing she would lose some of her independence. Being the only civilian, as Todd called her, in three generations of medical practitioners was tough enough. Becoming a chef and opening a catering business had really put her beyond the pale. She wasn’t giving her mother any more reason to find fault. “Thanks, but I’m doing okay, Ma.”
“You know I don’t like being called ‘Ma.’”
“You don’t object when Todd does it.”
“Yes, well.”
Cherie didn’t have to add that anything Emma’s older brother did was fine with her. Unlike Emma, Todd was establishing himself as an endocrinologist, to his parents’ delight. So she masked her surprise when her mother said, “This visit is about what I can do for you.”
“You need my catering services?” she asked warily.
Cherie looked uneasy. “Not me, Nathan Hale, the heart surgeon. His thirty-fifth birthday party’s in three weeks and he’s been made head of his department, both causes for celebration. I’m sure you remember Nate. It’s only been nine weeks since you met at our office Christmas party. The two of you spent enough time together, before you left in his car.”
Emma felt her face start to heat and looked down before her mother noticed. “The name rings a bell.” Mostly alarm bells. Of any night, that was the one she most wanted to forget. She’d never come on to anyone the way she had with Nate Hale.
Now her mother was proposing Emma have him as a client. Good grief. If he was only now turning thirty-five and already head of a department, he must have inhaled his medical studies with his mother’s milk.
She lifted her hands palms upward. She could hardly tell Cherie the real reason she didn’t want to work with Nate, so she used the only other excuse she had. “Renovation on the kitchen hasn’t even started, Ma. There’s barely room for Sophie and me to work together, much less the people I want to hire. It’s too soon for us to take on a large project.”
As usual, her mother demolished Emma’s objections with a gesture. “You can do anything you set your mind to. Besides, your father and I have already recommended your service to Nate.”
Emma felt herself start to drown. “Why?”
“You keep telling us how well you’re doing.” Cherie tapped a finger against the bank’s letter. “Even if this suggests not all is going smoothly.”
“Love This Catering is doing fine.” Emma dragged in a calming breath. “Exceeding the overdraft was a small oversight. Things will improve once I get the kitchen upgraded and my team in place.”
“How will you stay afloat until then if you reject every decent job that comes your way?”
The same way we’ve managed for the past five months, she thought. On a wing and a prayer. But she couldn’t tell her mother that. Instead she said, “Doing work Sophie and I can manage with the facilities we have, and the monthly chef’s dinners we hold here. The mailing list for them is growing all the time.”
Cherie all but wrinkled her nose. “People come here to eat?”
“Among Sydney foodies, the inner west has a reputation for innovative cuisine,” Emma pointed out. “Lewisham’s still making its mark.” That was why she’d chosen to buy in the suburb. With help from the bank, she’d been able to afford the ten-foot-wide single-story cottage that had been squeezed into the garden of the neighboring home several decades ago. The expenses gave her nightmares, but the place itself gave her nothing but satisfaction. And she needed somewhere to live. Besides, this way she only had one mortgage to support.
The previous café had gone broke, but the basic structure had made it easy for Emma to set up her business. After the redecorating she and a group of friends had done, the former café now provided an ideal venue for small dinners, and the sensational food and subdued lighting distracted diners from any flaws in their surroundings. The kitchen was functional enough for these occasions, but wasn’t equipped for more ambitious events.
“I don’t understand why you’re so touchy,” Cherie complained. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I know, and I appreciate the support.”
“Then why react as if I have no right to my opinions?”
Perhaps because there are so many of them? “I know you mean well, and I appreciate it. If it wasn’t…” that the client is Nathan Hale? “…too soon for me to take on big jobs, I’d jump at the chance.” Emma crossed her fingers under the desk.
Cherie gestured around them. “You’ll never grow by limiting yourself. I was so pleased when you bought this place.”
Emma masked her astonishment. “You were?”
“You finally seemed to be getting a sense of direction.”
One should always strive for the next goal, Emma had been reminded frequently when she was growing up. And what had been wrong with her sense of direction up to now? Wasn’t gaining her diploma in commercial cooking an achievement? Or winning a scholarship to an international food festival in Singapore where she’d worked with world-class chefs? That distinction had earned Emma a job as a junior chef, then she’d skipped a couple of levels to become demi-chef at the Hotel Turista in Sydney’s Rocks area. There she’d worked her way up to sous-chef, before deciding to open her own place. “One day I’ll get my life on track,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.
“Now don’t sound so sarcastic. Just because I think your talents could be better utilized doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate that you have them.”
Emma didn’t bother trying to unscramble the compliment. Her mother cared about her and her brother, even if she had an annoying way of showing it. “I know, Ma. You and Dad should come to one of my chef’s dinners and see how I do things.”
Cherie gave her a bright smile. “We’ll see.”
Code for a snowball’s chance, Emma knew. What else did she expect? “I’ll email you the next few dates.”
“Thank you, darling. But we really should discuss Nate’s dinner party.”
Over her dead body, Emma thought. “Can I get you some coffee and cake? Sophie’s baking mini Bakewell tarts with wild huckleberry jam.” Distraction didn’t only work with customers. She could smell the delicious aroma from here.
Evidently so could her mother. “I’ll
