“Not yet. Not until I know what’s going on.”

“Smart,” Jo said approvingly. “No point in scaring Beth into coming home.”

“Or Amy.”

“Oh, Amy,” Jo said dismissively.

“Amy would come,” I said. Amy, the baby of the family, did tend to slide away from anything unpleasant. But she was more sensitive than Jo gave her credit for. “She has to work.”

“I thought she didn’t leave for Paris until after Thanksgiving.”

“She still has her job at the boutique,” I said. Amy worked retail in Raleigh, at some high-end women’s store near the NC State design school.

The sliding doors opened. A man strode into the waiting room. Not Dad. Tall and broad, with short blond hair that looked as if he’d dragged a hand through it recently. John.

A warm relief washed over me.

Daisy looked up from the wire maze. “Daddy!”

“I have to go,” I gabbled into the phone. “John’s here.”

“’Kay. Love you. Call me,” Jo said.

“I will,” I promised.

John straightened, his arms full of twins, DJ’s little head resting trustfully on his shoulder. He looked kind and calm and utterly trustworthy. Coach John.

I swallowed. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” John said matter-of-factly.

I wanted to hug him. I repacked the board books and DJ’s blanket. John watched as I wiped the kids’ hands again with Purell and buckled them into the stroller.

He seemed to be waiting for something.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

Darling John. He’d left work in the middle of the day to be here. How could I tell him how overwhelmed I felt? How scared?

I shook my head. “I’m still waiting for Dad. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m staying home.”

I stared at him in mute gratitude. “What about work?”

“The dealership can run without me for one afternoon. You should be here.” He bent and kissed my forehead. “With your mom.”

Tears flooded my eyes. I blinked and looked away before I started bawling like Daisy.

Somewhere beyond those steel doors was my mother, separated from me by cold hospital corridors and regulations. My entire life, our mother had been there for us girls, calm and sure, guiding and reassuring.

Now I had to be there for her.

CHAPTER 3

Jo

Thwack. I smacked the cleaver down. I was cleaning sardines for the appetizer special, bloody guts and pinbones all over my board.

The Gusto kitchens looked like a casting call for Chopped, seasoned pros rubbing elbows with misfit stoners sporting mohawks. I was one of Chef’s charity cases, along with Frank-the-ex-felon and Constanza, single mother of four. Although they both pulled more weight in the kitchen than I did, my previous restaurant experience being limited to a couple years in campus food service. My occasional contributions to the What’s Cooking? column for the Empire City Weekly apparently didn’t count.

I tossed a fish head into a stock pan.

Technically, prepping the plats du jour was the sous chef’s responsibility. But the sous—who ranked right below Chef at Gusto, which in the kitchen hierarchy put him two steps below God—had delegated the task to me after I’d requested Thanksgiving off.