“Madame Celeste? She’s had three readings this morning and has been anxiously awaiting brunch,” he said, collecting the Becketts’ coats. “She’s cooking now.”

“What?” all of the Becketts said at once, then rushed through the large, circular foyer and down the stairs, Groucho and Mary happily yapping and running along with them, Sir Hiss tucked into Nash’s arms.

Chelle turned to the man obviously waiting for her coat, too.

“Chelle Finch,” she said as she took it off.

The man lifted a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Chelle Finch-Beckett if I’m not mistaken.”

“For the time being.” Which was exactly why she shouldn’t be feeling all warm and gooey on the inside right now or thinking about how nice Finch-Beckett sounded together.

“Well, Mrs. Chelle Finch-Beckett for the time being, I’m Bennie.” He took her coat and hung it in the closet by the front door. “Just Bennie. Now”—he tilted his head toward the hall where the Becketts had disappeared—“let’s go find out what disaster they found in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was gorgeous, all commercial quality stainless steel, high-end countertops, and enough La Cruset cookware on every available surface to be the background for a streaming show about the cooking lives of the rich and famous. It smelled like heaven. In the middle of it all was Celeste Beckett talking a mile a minute as she moved from one dish to the next, mixing here, folding there, and adding spices everywhere. As she moved from one pot or skillet to another, Nash hovered behind her, handing her an oven mitt the moment before she grabbed a casserole dish straight out of the oven, obviously so distracted by trying to talk and hug her children at the same time she cooked that she’d nearly burned her hand off.

“Chelle!” Celeste called out the second she set the baking dish down on a purple trivet and spotted her. “I’m so glad we can have our first meal as a family. And you brought the babies!”

There really weren’t enough exclamation points for how Celeste talked. It fit with the rest of her with her miles of bangles on her arms, purple-tipped dove-gray hair, and seventies Stevie Nicks witchy aesthetic. She wasn’t like anyone else. She was absolutely 100 percent exactly who she was. It was both overwhelming and welcoming—kind of like the massive annual Bath & Body Works candle sale.