in the butler’s pantry, which is practically another kitchen.”
“What a waste. But knowing this solves his catering problem how?”
Emma stood up, her efforts to pace hampered by the papers on the floor, so she sat down again. “I did some research on our Dr. Hale.” She didn’t add it was as much for her own interest as to get an idea of his lifestyle. “His parents split up when he was twelve. His dad is a country doctor living alone, and his mother lives in Sydney with her partner and their fifteen-year-old son.”
“Sounds fairly typical,” Sophie observed. “You and I are the minority these days with two parents still married and living in the same house.”
“Exactly my point,” Emma went on. “We all want what we don’t have.”
“Including Dr. Hale.” Sophie sounded as if she was starting to understand.
“You got it. By chasing exotic foods and recipes, I’d be giving Nate what he already has, when I should be giving him what he doesn’t have.”
“Meals like Mama used to make.”
“Except his mama never made them. If his life was like the family of most country doctors—or city ones for that matter—his father missed more meals than he showed up for. Or they’d sit down to eat when his father was home, then be interrupted by calls. Being dragged out at all hours would be normal.” Emma knew she was talking about her own family as much as Nate’s.
Sophie got her drift. “And when they moved to Sydney, his mother was working, providing for them both. I’m thinking pizzas and fast food.”
Emma dragged her fingers through her hair, spiking it. “No wonder he likes exotic foods now. And going out to eat must feel more normal than family dinners around a big table.”
Sophie grinned. “Is that what you’re thinking of giving him for his birthday?”
“You betcha. I’m picturing wonderful homemade dishes, big bowls of fluffy mashed potatoes, fruit and ice cream and rum babas with cream. How long is it since you had rum baba?”
“A long time. I used to think they were so sophisticated because of the alcohol oozing out of them.” Sophie tilted her head to one side. “At least we’ll have heart specialists on hand. This plan sounds decadent enough to send you straight to the cardiac ward.”
Emma shook her head. “Food can taste decadent without the artery damage. We could create the family dining experience by making grown-up versions of all that comfort food.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Emma couldn’t see what. “It’s perfect, I know it is.”
“The idea is brilliant, but who’s going to produce this bounty? I can help you with the prep work ahead of time, and I’ll be on the spot for the first hour, but I have an important oral exam I can’t skip. Carla’s working that night, and Margaret will be in Bali, so they can’t help. You’ll be doing the lion’s share of the work on your own.”
Emma spread her hands. “I can’t not do it, Soph. You said yourself we’re getting inquiries purely because word of mouth has us working with Nathan Hale. Can you imagine what will happen once we actually deliver the goods?”
“The business will go from struggling to booming,” Sophie said. “Why couldn’t this chance have come up after I finished my course?”
“Murphy’s Law. We’ll manage somehow.” Emma spoke with a confidence she was far from feeling. “If you don’t need me in the kitchen, I’ll turn this harebrained scheme into a workable proposal to show Nate when he comes here later today.”
Sophie stood up. “I can manage, thanks. I’ve finished prepping lunch for the lady bowlers. Plenty of time before I have to deliver everything to their club room. What can I do to help?”
“You can contact some furniture rental places and find out what it would cost to rent a stack of big, old-fashioned dining tables and chairs.” Emma’s mind was racing. “The chairs wouldn’t have to match. In fact it’s better if they don’t. They should look like they came straight out of Grandma’s dining room. I’ll include the costs in the budget for Nate’s approval.”
“On it, boss.” Sophie sounded excited. “Where are you going to get the nostalgic recipes?”
“I don’t have to look far for inspiration.” Emma rummaged among the pile of books on her desk and came up with the one she wanted. “Jessie’s Kitchen, by Jessica Jarrett.”
Handling the well-thumbed book bathed Emma in happy memories. As a little girl visiting her grandmother, she had enjoyed many of the foods described in the book. As well as her own recipes, Jessie had included some her mother and grandmother had handed down to her, creating a fifty-year history of family food, studded with anecdotes of her life as a young mother on the outskirts of Sydney. Early in their marriage, Jessie and her husband had lived not far from East Hills, then the last stop on the suburban railway line. Their house was set in the middle of acres of rugged bush between East Hills and Heathcote.
The book fell open at Jessie’s never-fail sponge cake recipe and Emma’s mouth watered, recalling the feathery lightness of the cake filled with cream and Jessie’s home-made strawberry jam, the top cloudy with icing sugar. Gramma had given her a big wedge of the cake as consolation for getting lost in the bush. Emma had been picking flowers when a bee flew at her. She’d screamed and run, not stopping until she stumbled into a shallow creek, splashing water around to scare the bee away. Only then did she realize she didn’t know the way back.
Remembering how the branches of the eucalyptus trees had reached for her like ghostly arms could still make her shudder. She’d tried walking back to the house, but went round in circles, always returning to the creek.
She’d never felt more relieved to hear her father calling her name. He’d been so angry, she was almost sorry she’d answered, but the sun was setting and she was afraid to spend the night alone by the creek. Without a word, he’d carried her back to Gramma’s house and sat her down on a stool in the kitchen. Gramma and Cherie had fussed, but Emma’s father had silenced them with his gruff doctor’s voice as he tended to her scratches and bruises.
“She’s fine, aren’t you, girlie?” he’d asked when he finished.
There was only one answer he wanted to hear. “Yes, Daddy.”
He’d patted her shoulder. “Good. You won’t go running off and getting lost in the bush again, will you?”
Not if it meant getting such a cold reception. When she was found, her fantasy of cuddles and warmth in tatters, she’d promised herself to be more careful next time. She’d rather have a bee sting her nearly to death than make her father that angry with her.
Gramma Jessie’s compassion had eased some of Emma’s wretchedness. “Give the child a break, Greg, she’s only four.” She’d lifted Emma off the stool. “You sit at the table and I’ll get you some sponge cake. And you,” she said, glaring at Emma’s parents, “might like to help yourself to something from the cocktail cabinet.”
Emma ate her cake and the homemade lemon drink her gramma served her in the brightly lit kitchen, surrounded by delicious cooking smells and an atmosphere of warmth, while Jessie
