I counted in my head. It had barely been four months since Kristen and Trock’s son, Scruffy Gronkowski, had been wedded in holy matrimony. “Looks like you’ve done okay without me,” I said heartlessly, poking his stomach with my forefinger.

He gave a Pillsbury Doughboy giggle, which amused a total of no one in the room.

“Minnie, my sweet, my gorgeous, my favorite bookmobile driver ever,” he began, but I was having none of it.

“Trock, after the wedding you promised you’d stop sneaking out to eat fried food. You promised you’d start losing weight, and you promised you’d make a doctor’s appointment. Have you done any of that?” I demanded. “At all?”

Trock Farrand (not his real name) was a celebrity chef, current host of the very popular Trock’s Troubles. Son Scruffy (not his real first name) produced the show, which in addition to the dishes Trock made in whatever kitchen the show was using, also highlighted different restaurants around the country.

Three Seasons, Kristen’s restaurant, had been featured on the show last year, and her Chilson-based business had been booming ever since. Not that things had been slow before, but it was now so successful she was interviewing for a full-time manager so she could pull back from the day-to-day work and spend more time touring the country with the show. I had full confidence that it wouldn’t be long before we saw Kristen cohosting on Trock’s Troubles, and Rafe and I had recently made a five-dollar bet on what date that would happen.

Why, exactly, both Scruffy and Trock were in Chilson for a few days, I didn’t know, but then I’d never understood the show’s filming schedule. And I was not about to turn down a dinner cooked by Trock and Kristen, even if Rafe wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it until the dessert course. What I also didn’t know was if this Friday night dinner would cancel out the Sunday night crème brûlée that Kristen, almost without fail, made for the two of us at her restaurant. I hoped not, because I looked forward to that evening all week, especially considering that Kristen would be closing the aptly named Three Seasons soon and hightailing it to Key West, where she relaxed and tended bar in the warm sunshine for five months.

“There was,” Trock said, rubbing his chin, “one day I ordered a salad instead of French fries.”

I started to congratulate him but stopped in time. “And what did you have on the salad? Cheese? Croutons? Double salad dressing? More cheese?”

“You think so little of me?” He gave me a sad, sad look.

“When it comes to eating foods that are horrible for you? Yes. Absolutely.” Not that I was much better, but we were talking about him, not me.