An hour before service, Malik, the headwaiter, bustled into the kitchen with the reservations book. “Heads up. The phone’s been ringing off the hook. We added twenty covers to the second seating.”

Lucas swore. “I need to prep more sunchokes.”

“You knew we’d be slammed. It’s the holidays,” Ray said.

“It’s that blog. Hungry,” Malik said. “Nothing brings out the foodies like thinking they know something nobody else don’t know.”

“We should sell tickets,” Frank said.

“Give sex tours,” Kevin suggested.

Lucas laughed. Constanza hit him with a spoon.

“What? Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Jo.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

Not fine. I didn’t want them to censor themselves on my account. I wanted the comfort of being one of the guys, part of the team.

When Eric called us together to demonstrate the day’s specials, I hung back, not pressing with the others around the table. I watched over Constanza’s shoulder as Eric layered colors and flavors on the plate, his hands beautiful and sure. I snuck a glance at his face once or twice. Okay, maybe three or four times. But he would not look at me.

When the staff gathered afterward for family meal, I fled to the storeroom, seeking out the deepest, darkest aisle behind the wire shelves. I was not going to snivel. I was not the type. I pulled out my phone, like a teenage boy surreptitiously surfing for porn.

The torrent of comments had slowed. One hundred fifty-eight. But interspersed with the usual comments (Yummy. Hate dry scrambled eggs. And Do you know where I can buy fresh farm eggs in Millington, New Jersey?) was speculation on Eric’s identity. On mine. On our relationship. (I love it when my boyfriend cooks for me. And So does Bhaer wear the chef pants in the kitchen?)

You took something that was personal, private, and put it on your fucking blog without telling me.

Meg had messaged me a picture of a Christmas tree, a cluster of red balls weighing down one branch, a snapshot of her small, bright, perfect life. Decorating with Daisy and DJ!

A swell of longing for my sister swept over me. I tapped my phone once. Twice. Don’t go to voice mail, please don’t go to voice mail . . .

“Jo?”

I swallowed hard. “Hey, Meg. Whatcha doing?”

“Just throwing dinner together.” Something clattered on the stove. “What’s up?”

I couldn’t speak.

“Jo?” The concern in her voice nearly made me cry. “Can you hear me?”

I cleared my throat. “I’m here.”

“What’s the matter?”

I slept with my boss. But I posted his mother’s recipe for pierogi on my blog, and I lied to him, and now he’s acting like I released a sex tape.

“I just wanted to say hey.”

“Hey back at you. No crackers, Daisy. Mommy’s making dinner.”

“I hungry now, Mommy.”

“Sorry. You’re busy,” I said. Meg was always busy. She had twins. Not to mention she was visiting our mother in rehab and shoveling out the goat barn on a regular basis.