“Will you tell him to come down and help you set the table?”

“Okay.”

A few minutes later she returned with her brother in tow. Christian had long, blond hair and an excessive frown. “I was playing Xbox.”

“It’s time to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask,” she said. “Help Casey set the table.”

He rolled his eyes and walked out. Analise shook her head. “You can’t live with them, you can’t lock them up in cages in the basement.”

She put on oven mitts, then squatted down at the oven and brought out a pan of garlic bread. She set the pan on the counter and stacked the bread on a plate. Then she lifted a piece and held it up to my mouth. “Try this.”

I went to take a bite but she pulled it away from me. “It’s hot,” she said. “You’ve got to blow on it first.”

I blew on the bread, then took a bite. “That’s good.”

“I use garlic salt, then add Parmesan cheese.” She took a bite as well then set the piece on the counter. “The pasta should be done.” She stuck a wooden fork into the pot and lifted out a noodle, dangling it into her mouth. “Perfect. Al dente.”

“Al dente?”

“To the teeth. It means it’s not overcooked. Now, if you’ll take the bread out to the table, I’ll drain the pasta.”

I took the plate of bread out to the dining room. Casey was putting the silverware next to the plates while her brother sat on the ground by the wall playing a handheld video game.

“Christian won’t help,” Casey said.

“Of course he will,” I said. “Won’t you.”

He didn’t look up from his game. “No.”

I set the bread on the table. “C’mon, Christian,” I said. “Give your sister a hand.”

He looked up, glaring at me. “Who are you?”

“I’m Alan.”

“You’re not my boss, Alan.” He returned to his game.

Honestly, my first instinct was to smack the kid, but I doubted that would fly with his parents. So, being unsure of how to handle the situation, I just went back to the kitchen. Analise was in the middle of draining the pasta into a plastic colander in the sink. Steam was rising up around her.

“Need a hand?” I asked.

“No, I got it.” She poured all of the pasta out, leaving some water in the pot. “You always save a little of the water, in case the noodles get too dry.”

“Got it,” I said. “Emeril?”

She nodded. “Emeril.” She carried the colander over to the stove, where she mixed the pasta in with her clam sauce. Then she turned to me with a satisfied smile. “It’s ready.”

She poured the pasta into a large ceramic bowl and we both went out to the table.

Christian smirked when he saw the pasta.