“Of course—they’re already peeled. The fresh chives are in the herb drawer.” She wiped her hands on a faded towel and smiled. I noticed the lines around her eyes had deepened, and she looked more tired than usual. “How are you today? Here, take some bread. Do you want some wine?”

My mother fussed about, putting out thick slices of Italian bread and pouring a glass of Bolla. I was used to it and let her do it without protest. First, it was nice feeling taken care of, and she’d told me numerous times she enjoyed feeding me, bringing back all the years of Sunday dinners spent at the table with my father, playing cards and Scrabble while the football or baseball game blared on the television. She’d been disappointed in my complete rejection of cooking—no matter how many times she tried to teach me, I hated it. At least Allegra seemed to bloom under her instruction. I sipped my wine and watched my daughter doctor the potatoes with an expert ease, moving around the kitchen with my mother like a trained dancer. Funny, she never wanted to cook at home or experiment with meals. It seemed the act of cooking gave her a sense of excitement only here.

“How’s the new account going?” my mother asked, peeking at the turkey and basting it a few more times while she watched the juices drip down the crispy skin.

“I pitch next week. If I get it, the brand has the potential to go national and bring in some bigger clients. It can change everything.”

She frowned, but she was focused on the meat, slicing off a piece and giving it a taste test. “I thought F&F was already profitable. You were written up in that magazine. Allegra, taste this, does it need more salt?”

“Yes, but even though the company’s grown, it only takes a few lost accounts to crash back down. I’m always looking to increase the company’s profits, Mom. Growth is everything, and one mistake can be critical with all the competition in this market.”

“It’s good,” Allegra said, nodding. My mother’s face lit up, and she powered up the electric knife, expertly slicing thick white pieces and separating the dark. The mixer roared, pausing only so Allegra could swipe a taste, her face screwed up in concentration as she sifted through the flavors on her tongue to decide if it was good enough. I watched them focus on their tasks with a strange sort of distance, feeling oddly out of place as I drank my wine and relaxed at the table, talking of a world they didn’t seem to care about. The longing for my dad cut deep. He knew the sacrifices it took to maintain a successful business.