Gwen laid out the menu options and a small photo album. “There will be some passed hors d’oeuvres during the cocktail hour. Then we will have a four-course meal. You will need to choose three salads and soups, four entrees and sides, and two desserts.” Gwen opened the photo album. “Here are some examples of how the various options have been plated in the past. Does that sound okay?”

“Yes, please continue.”

Gwen began describing each option with a passion that Jill found rare nowadays when people were talking about their work. With each new dish, Jill’s thoughts turned further away from food and more toward Reagan and how she was handling her father’s death. From their short interactions, Jill knew Reagan cared for people deeply, and when it came to caring for a father, she figured it would be off the charts, which meant that Reagan probably wasn’t doing very well. She wanted to call or text, do something and check in with her. But she didn’t feel like she had a right to do that. Reagan clearly didn’t want Jill in her life as more than a client. Maybe it would be best if Jill didn’t cross any sort of line. But she also couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that that was the wrong choice.

“Ms. Jacobs, are you listening?”

Jill jumped ever so slightly and cleared her throat. “Sorry. Thinking about all the things I’d rather be doing than this.”

“Right,” Gwen replied, dragging the word out longer than necessary. “Well, I think we’ve covered everything, so I’ll just get out of your hair.” Gwen stacked the menu lists and plating examples, placing them in front of Jill. “Take these and look them over. Let me know what you’d like to try. I’ll need the photos back when you’re done. Thank you again for meeting with me, Ms. Jacobs. Would you and your mother be available for a tasting at Wren next Monday, the fourteenth at two o’clock? The restaurant is closed that day, so that’s the best option for me.”

“Fine. I’ll let my mother know.”

Jill strode behind her desk, absently straightening a few papers before sitting down. Gwen gathered her things together and eventually made her way to the door.

“Is she okay?” Jill whispered.

Gwen turned, her brow furrowed. “What was that?”

“Reagan. Is she okay?”

Gwen clenched her jaw. “No. She’s not.” Then she left.

Shit, Jill thought. She reached for her keyboard and searched for the last name Murphy in the obituaries of the Star.

* * *