Chapter 20
lovelillibet Do you like surprise parties? I used to find the idea stressful. If I’m going to an event, I want a chance to prepare, from choosing my look to selecting the perfect hostess gift. But one day I realized there was an easy workaround: always dress for a festive occasion and keep a selection of tasteful presents in the car. Now I’m ready for any celebration that comes my way.
Love, Lillibet
Image: A package wrapped in handmade paper with a bow woven from lauhala leaves.
#celebrateyourself #bestdressedguest #everydayisaparty
You look tired. That was one of the things Jefferson’s sister had taught him never to say to a woman. Right up there with, When is the baby due? and You should smile more. According to Susan, all of that was code for, Your appearance is my business, because I am a pig.
So instead of asking Libby if she’d had a bad night when she came into the kitchen looking pale and puffy-eyed, he poured her a cup of coffee.
“Thanks.”
He held on to the mug a little too long, caught by her smile.
“I am so sorry,” Hildy said, skidding into the room with her curls bouncing around her head like a personal typhoon.
Jefferson took a step back.
“What is it?” Libby asked.
“My freaking uncle. Trying to quote-unquote strengthen our bond by taking an interest in my ‘hobbies.’ He actually said that. What does he think I’m doing here, making friendship bracelets?” Hildy squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing the center of her forehead with two fingers. “Also, we were in the same family therapy sessions. Don’t try to pass off a basic exercise from the Showing You Care worksheet as your brilliant insight you came up with by yourself.”
Libby took a long sip of coffee before setting down her cup. Placing both hands on Hildy’s shoulders, she stared into her eyes. “You lost me.”
“Love, Lillibet. He looked it up last night. Allegedly he read a bunch of posts himself, which probably means he asked Thelma to summarize it for him. What do you think his main takeaway was?”
Jefferson caught the slight flinch before Libby smoothed her expression. “I can hardly begin to guess.”
“He wants Crepes Lillibet for breakfast.” Hildy threw up her hands. “Can you believe it? An ocean of profound spiritual insights, and that’s what he gets out of it. Me hungry. Woman make pancake.”
The door to the patio opened to admit Keoki, whistling as he stepped into the kitchen with a handful of fresh herbs. “Who wants a frittata?” His cheerful expression dimmed as he got a whiff of the tension in the air. “No eggs?”
“Could we maybe do Crepes Lillibet instead?” Libby asked.
Keoki frowned. “I thought that was for tomorrow.”
“Slight change of plans.”
“Um. Actually.” Hildy wrinkled her nose in apology. “He wants to watch Lillibet make them. I told him you weren’t our bitch, and he said, ‘I thought you wanted her to be our bitch,’ and then I said, ‘You can’t say bitch, Uncle Richard,’ and then he wanted to know why I could say it if he couldn’t—it was a whole thing. Long story short, it would be great if you could dazzle him with your crepe-making skills.”
“Sacrebleu,” Keoki said under his breath.
Hildy glanced from him to Libby with a stricken expression. “I hope this doesn’t ruin Me-mas. We can save the Me-mosas for tomorrow, at least.”
Libby’s friend, the un-housekeeper, sailed into the kitchen in time to overhear. “What’s going to ruin Me-mas?” Her eyes went to Jefferson, as if he were the most likely culprit.
“Nothing.” Libby stood a little straighter, lifting her chin. “We’ll just have to make it work.”
“Crepes,” Keoki filled in, tipping his head at Libby. “He wants to watch her make them.”
“Crap,” Jean whispered.
“Am I too early?” Uncle Richard asked, pausing to sniff the air.
“Go sit down and drink your coffee,” Hildy told him, flicking her fingers in the direction of the breakfast bar.
“I had a wonderful night’s rest,” her uncle informed the room at large as he settled himself at the counter. “It must have been that exceptional bathtub. Hildy, are we doing enough plumbing coverage?”
“Yes,” she said, with the finality of a slamming door.
Libby and Keoki were huddled near the refrigerator, conferring in hushed voices, while the housekeeper looked on, offering the occasional nod.
“What are we discussing?” Libby’s husband asked, wandering in with a leather-bound notebook.
“We’re having crepes for breakfast,” Uncle Richard informed him, patting the stool at his side.
“Really? How wonderful.” He did not sound like a man who regularly enjoyed that particular menu item.
“You should watch and learn, Hildy.” Uncle Richard gestured to the stove, where Libby was adjusting the heat beneath a flat-bottomed pan. “So you can make crepes for your own family one day.”
“Because that’s going to happen,” his niece replied through gritted teeth.
“What’s that, dear?” Uncle Richard cupped a hand to his ear.
“I said, this is the kind of work I do in the kitchen.” Hildy snapped her fingers twice. “JJ, I need you to take some pictures of Lillibet while she works. We can use them to promo the story.”
“Which story would that be?” her uncle asked, with the trepidatious air of someone who knows he’s supposed to know the answer.
“The one about me. And JJ. We’ll do a whole behind-the-scenes bit about our tropical vacation and meeting Lillibet. The story itself will be part of the story.”
“And that young man’s charming grandmother?” Uncle Richard nodded at Keoki.
“A totally separate story.” There was a strongly implied duh at the end of that sentence. “Trust me, it’s handled. This is what it looks like when someone is a tastemaker and a rainmaker.”
“That was one of my first showerheads,” Mr. L said with a dreamy smile. “The Rainmaker 3000. Obviously I’ve come a long way since then.”
That was Jefferson’s cue to pick up his camera and move away from the plumbing talk. On the other side of the kitchen, Libby had lined up a pitcher of batter, a mason jar with a handwritten label (“lilikoi-guava puree”) and a plastic tub with a sticky note that read “yuzu-infused crème fra?che.”
“She likes to prep everything in advance,” Keoki explained, as Jefferson snapped a close-up of the ingredients on the sunlit counter. “All she has to do now is warm up the caramelized mango.” He spoke with the slowed-down, slightly-too-loud cadence you might use with someone who wasn’t fluent in a language.
“I just take the pictures,” Jefferson said, assuming he was the one being talked down to.
“Is she flipping them yet?” Uncle Richard called.
“No,” Keoki said, before Libby could answer. “She always makes sure the pan is nice and hot first. Which she can tell because she flicks some water droplets on it first and hears the sizzle.”
Keoki stepped aside to let Jefferson get a better angle on Libby. She shifted uneasily, turning the handle of the pan toward the back of the stove before twitching it back to its starting position.
“Does the camera make you nervous?” Jefferson asked, lowering it.
“It’s not that so much as having an audience. Watching me.” She bit her lip. “Which is what an audience does. Redundant, party of two.”
“Because she likes to wait and show the finished product,” her ex-roommate volunteered. “When it’s been attractively plated. With an eye to composition and color. Not blobbed together like a melting sundae.” She cleared her throat, as if she suspected Jefferson of being the glop-and-run type.
He moved to Libby’s other side, trying not to crowd her. He was better at this with animals. Hard to imagine what kind of camouflage he’d wear to blend in with this kitchen, unless Carhartt introduced a stainless-steel-and-marble print.
“Not your usual assignment,” Libby said, reading his mind.
“Not exactly.” Sunlight hit the back of her head, and Jefferson took a picture of her long ponytail. It was a useless shot for any purpose other than recording the exact shade of her hair. “Like a mountain lion.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, and Jefferson realized he’d said the last part out loud. Too used to working in solitude, apparently.
“What is?” Libby asked.
“Your hair.”
Jean clucked her tongue. “Are you calling her mangy?”
“Do I really?” Libby touched the side of her head. “Have mountain lion hair?”
“Gag me,” her friend muttered.
“I thought you had wolf eyes,” Libby told Jefferson. “The first time I met you.”
He was instantly transported back to that day on the beach. Maybe they’d both felt it—the sense that something out of the ordinary was happening.
“Sizzle,” Keoki whispered.
Libby put a hand to her red cheek.
“The pan.” Keoki pointed at the stove. “It’s ready.” He demonstrated by flicking more droplets at the surface, which immediately evaporated with a hiss of steam.
She picked up the pitcher.
“Remember what you always say. The secret is in the wrist.” Keoki mimed tipping the pan from side to side. “No hesitation.”
“I certainly am full of helpful advice,” Libby said tightly.
The batter hit the pan with unexpected force, splashing droplets onto the surface of the stove. Libby grabbed the handle and made a slightly more violent version of Keoki’s gesture. She frowned at the resulting shape—more octopus than circle—before placing the pan back on the burner.
“Now is it time to flip it?” Uncle Richard asked.
Keoki shook his head. “First one’s always a dud.”
“Certainly true of marriage,” Uncle Richard quipped, chortling at his own joke.
“Very funny,” Mr. L agreed.
Jefferson looked at Libby to see if she was offended, but she was focused on the crepe, like she could make it cook faster by staring.
“Do you do weddings?” her husband asked.
It took Jefferson a second to realize the question was directed at him. “Not as a general rule, no.”
“Too bad.” The other man sighed. “I’m in the market for one.”
“A wedding photographer?” Hildy asked, giving voice to Jefferson’s confusion.
“It never hurts to plan ahead,” the other man said with a wink.
Hildy raised her eyebrows at Jefferson, confirming he wasn’t losing his mind. Libby’s husband had just openly discussed his next marriage—in front of his current wife.
“Too bad you won’t be able to take the pictures at your own wedding.” Uncle Richard beamed at Jefferson, who shot an immediate don’t-even-think-about-it look at Hildy.
“A wedding would be a ratings bonanza,” Hildy agreed. “Especially a beach ceremony.”
Jefferson was seventy-five percent sure she was teasing.
“You can’t get married here, Hildy. Your aunt would murder me in my sleep. You know she’s been dreaming of planning your wedding for years.”
“Um, yeah, not to mention the part where I’m twenty-one.”
“And still in school,” her uncle added.
“For now,” Hildy said, too low for him to hear.
Libby, who had heard, turned to face her. “You might regret it later. Not finishing college. People look at you differently.”
“That’s a good point,” Hildy admitted.
“Why is she allowed to say that and I’m not?” Uncle Richard protested. “Is it one of those words I don’t have permission to use?”
“Yes,” Hildy said. “Don’t say college. It shows your privilege.”
“It’s never too late to improve your circumstances.” Mr. L smiled at Libby’s back, like she was Exhibit A.
“My circumstances are magnificent, thank you very much.” Hildy fluffed her curls for emphasis.
There was a commotion at the trash can, and they all turned to see Lillibet peeling the blotchy remains of the first crepe off the pan.
“She’ll flip the next one,” Uncle Richard announced, with the prophetic confidence of a man used to getting his way.
“Whatever she does, she’ll do it with intention.” Hildy smiled at Lillibet, who was pouring more batter into the pan.
“And a two-handed grip,” her uncle continued his sportscaster-style narration. “Like Albie’s backhand. For the added power.”
“You would think it’s about power,” Hildy scoffed. “Finesse is what matters.”
While they continued to mix tennis metaphors, Jefferson saw Libby wince in pain before sticking a finger in her mouth. He was moving before he realized he’d made the decision.
“Let me see,” he said, low enough that no one else noticed.
Reluctantly, she showed him the pink pad of her finger. It didn’t look like it was going to blister, but he held her hand under the tap for a minute just in case, cupping her wrist in his hand.
“I think you’ll be okay,” he told her.
“You’re not going to amputate?”
Jefferson shook his head. He wouldn’t have minded holding on to her a little longer, but he was already playing with fire. Not that her husband was paying any attention.
“Here’s a perfect example.” Hildy pointed at Jefferson, though the speech was clearly for her uncle’s benefit. “You jump straight to our wedding, which is totally OTT.”
Uncle Richard looked at her blankly.
“Over the top,” she translated. “Why not throw in, ‘Our Secret Baby Joy,’ with a full nursery photo spread while you’re at it?”
“Not before the wedding, Hildy. Our midwestern readership skews conservative. You know that.”
“What I know is that it’s a waste of resources to put on an actual wedding when all we really need is to get the rumor mill going with a lightly staged shot of JJ shopping for a ring. Isn’t that right, JJ?”
He was still trying to untangle the layers of presumption in that statement when Keoki spoke up.
“You like black pearls?” he asked Hildy.
“Yes, please,” she purred. “Do you know a place?”
“And do they also sell ukuleles?” Uncle Richard interrupted.
Hildy spun her stool to stare at him. “How much apology jewelry have you bought over the years? In all that time, have you ever seen a combination jeweler and music store?”
Jean raised her hand. “Pawnshops.”
“There! You see, Hildy?” her uncle crowed, though Jefferson would eat the spiky part of a pineapple if the CEO of Johnson Media had ever set foot in one himself.
“That caramel smells really, really perfect,” Keoki said with an urgency that drew everyone’s attention back to the stove. Libby yanked the saucepan off the heat.
“About my uke,” Uncle Richard began, breaking off when Hildy made a throat-slitting gesture.
“Add that to the you-don’t-say list,” Hildy interrupted. “Ukulele or nothing for you, and personally I vote nothing.”
“It’s not for me. I thought Albie would like one. He was always very musical.”
Hildy eyed him skeptically. “You mean before his voice changed?”
“You could go to PCC,” Keoki said, cementing Jefferson’s impression of him as the peacemaker of the group. “They have everything. Jewelry, ukuleles, Dole whip—”
“Yes!” Libby burst out.
For a beat, it seemed like she was really excited about Dole whip, whatever that was. Then they noticed the perfectly browned crepe resting (mostly) in the pan. If Jefferson hadn’t been holding his camera, he would have clapped.
“Darn,” Uncle Richard said. “I missed it. I’ll catch the next one.”
“Easy come, easy go.” Hildy’s voice turned syrupy. “Why don’t you eat the first one, Uncle Richard? I know your blood sugar gets low in the morning.”
There was something to be said for the Good Niece/Bad Niece routine, because her uncle brightened at this scrap of encouragement.
“Thank you, Hildy. Don’t mind if I do.”
The erstwhile housekeeper handed him a plate. It was the most domestic gesture Jefferson had seen from her yet.
“I’ll make a few calls, and then we can get our shopping on.” Hildy glanced at their hostess. “Is that okay with you, Lillibet?”
Libby wiped her forehead with the inside of her elbow, smearing batter all the way to her hairline before offering a weary thumbs-up.
“She’ll need to freshen up first,” Jean said, throwing her a dish towel.