Family Practice. Marisa Carroll

      Callie made a little face. Karen rolled her eyes. “All right, I’ll add some ham. How does that sound?”

      “Better,” Callie said, grinning. Karen ate little meat. Callie had nothing against vegetables but she preferred some protein mixed in with them.

      “And I have a strawberry-rhubarb pie in the freezer. I’ll bake that for dessert.”

      “I’ll bring ice cream from Kilroy’s. I might not be able to get here early enough to make our own.”

      “Wonderful.” Karen shooed the chickens back toward their enclosure. They went, tails high and fluffed, ships under sail. “Call and let me know what day is good for you.”

      “I will, I promise. But it will probably be later in the week. Everything’s still pretty hectic at the clinic, and since I’ll be seeing regular patients for the first time, the visits will take longer than usual. I’ll probably be running behind schedule the first few days.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

      “Good luck with your negotiations with Doc Hottie,” Karen said with a little half smile that could be interpreted in all kinds of ways. Callie chose not to notice the open-ended comment.

      “Thanks. Love you.” She let Karen enfold her in a quick hug and then headed for her car before her mother could say anything else.

      * * *

      THE OTHER HALF of her family, she discovered, wasn’t averse to asking her questions about Zach Gibson, either; they were just a little slower getting to the subject. The five of them were eating at the cook’s table in the restaurant kitchen instead of upstairs. Ginger had no problem admitting she couldn’t hold a candle to Mac’s cooking and wasn’t about to try.

      “I helped Mac prep the vegetables today,” Brandon announced, proudly indicating the sautéed fresh green beans on Callie’s plate. He had evidently decided a grown-up stepsister was preferable to a new baby in the family and had attached himself to Callie as soon as she walked through the door, even offering to help her with chores around the cottage to earn money for a new computer game. Becca, however, had kept her distance. “Mac won’t let me use a knife until I’m thirteen, but I’m thinking I might be a chef someday,” Brandon chatted on.

      Becca snorted. “Last week you wanted to be a fireman. The week before that you were going to be a professional gamer and make a billion dollars designing computer games.” Callie noticed the girl had eaten two servings of the green beans and most of her fish, but hadn’t touched the fresh-baked rolls dipped in honey butter or the sweet-potato casserole.

      “I changed my mind,” Brandon responded. “The good chefs make a lot of money, too, and write books and have their own TV shows and everything.”