Page 81 of Loaded

I’m going to kill her.

Bea’s giggling. “You didn’t look impressed. You looked irritated.”

“She has terrible timing.”

That sobers her. “Jingles promote a product, and all I have to do is come up with some catchy words and a solid melody. But with a real song, I’m sharing a message. Something personal. People can read into it, and they always do.”

“Sure,” I say. “That’s true. We all like singing the songs musicians share, because they resonate with us. That’s kind of the human experience.”

“I don’t want people to know how I feel,” Bea says. “That feels. . .like a violation.”

“Why?”

“You want everyone to know how you’re feeling?” Her eyebrows rise.

“I mean, they usually do.” I can’t help smiling. “You knew how I felt when I showed up at the Opus Westchester, right? So did my miserable date, Shelly.”

“Was that Miss Collagen USA’s name?” she asks.

“Like I remember.”

She’s giving me her irritated smile. “I grew up trying to make sure no one ever found out how I felt.”

“Why?”

“Are you a therapist?” She scowls. “It was just easier that way.”

“Were you angry a lot?”

When the waitress shows up, I contemplate telling her to lay off for twenty minutes, but Bea’s relief holds me off. I should stop pressing—she’ll open up when she’s ready. I hope. So for the rest of the meal, I don’t ask anyquestions. I don’t push about the song. I just make jokes. We chat about the food.

And then, just as dessert is coming out, she says, “Now the real test.”

“The real test?”

“My mom’s a great cook,” she says.

“Your mom?”

She smacks her forehead. “Seren.” She sighs. “I could call her Mom now, I guess. There’s no one who can do anything about it, but Grandfather had a rule. I could only stay with Dave and Seren as long as I never called them that. He was worried that people might find out his granddaughter was in a foster home.”

“And what does that have to do with this?” I point at the profiteroles. “They look pretty decent to me, although they aren’t exactly large.”

She pats her stomach and groans. “Thank goodness.”

The portions were small, but there were a lot of courses of them. “But?”

“Seren’s a pastry chef,” she says. “Her desserts are to die for, and after years and years of listening to her tell me how various places fall short, I’ll be curious how these rate.”

“And what should the perfect cream puff be like?”

“Well, it should be crisp on the outside—a little chewy, and filled with a light, brilliant burst of flavor.”

I pluck one from the center of the plate.

“You’re using your hands?” Tiny lines appear between her eyebrows.

“They’re the size of a grape. If I speared it with a fork, I’d be afraid it would roll off the plate and go flying across the floor.”

---