With A Little Help. Valerie Parv

challenge in the operating room, finding a way around it and saving the patient at the last minute. Wasn’t that what always happened with his type? Her father’s stories of his heroic interventions had been regular dinner table fare when she was growing up.

      “I’ll keep your advice in mind,” she agreed crisply. “How many guests are you expecting?”

      “Fifty at a minimum. I’m thinking of having the party on the terrace—sit-down, of course.”

      He must have some terrace. A sit-down dinner for fifty would be way off her radar. “Look, Nate, I’ll gladly put together some options and email them to you to see if anything I can do meets your requirements.” Her tone told him she doubted it would.

      “No.”

      “Just—no?”

      “I’d rather discuss this with you face-to-face.” She heard the tap of keys as he consulted his schedule. “How does Friday sound?”

      “I’m committed on Friday.” She had a breakfast meeting with Carla Geering, a talented chef Emma had known since catering college, and Margaret Jennings, a self-taught cook who helped with the chef’s dinners once a month. Both were prepared to leave good jobs to join Emma as soon as she was ready. She looked forward to their meetings. All three of them came away inspired and excited about what lay ahead.

      But Emma’s answer would have been the same whatever day he’d suggested, and she had a feeling he suspected as much.

      “I’m sure you can uncommit yourself. I’ll see you at my place at eleven.”

      Just time for her to keep her breakfast date before seeing him. He reeled off the address, which she scribbled down, aware of Cherie watching her keenly.

      “Unless you’d like me to pick you up,” he added. “I remember the address.”

      His tone suggested he remembered far more than she wanted him to. Was one impulsive action going to haunt her forever? “I’ll find my own way,” she said quickly. Meeting the lion in his den didn’t appeal, either, but it was better than a live-action replay of a night she would rather not think about. Maybe by Friday she’d have swine flu and be in quarantine, she thought. Or maybe she’d be at Nathan Hale’s house. Either way, his catering options wouldn’t change, so he’d have to accept what her business could provide or find someone else. She knew which she preferred.

      Or did she? Wasn’t she the slightest bit intrigued at the prospect of seeing him again? Another thought struck her. “Will your partner want to participate in the discussion?” The idea of him living with someone was surprisingly unsettling.

      “No partner, female or male,” he informed her, sounding amused. “Not that the question worried you last time.”

      Last time was an aberration, she wanted to say, but was restrained by her mother listening across the desk. “We can discuss everything when I see you,” she said, hoping Nate would get the message.

      In the background she heard him being paged. “I have to go.” He sounded reluctant. Imagination, she decided. “I’ll look forward to discussing—everything—on Friday.”

      She handed the phone back to her mother. “Happy now?”

      Cherie stood up. “Why shouldn’t I be? I’m trying to help your business. What made you ask Nate if he has a partner?”

      Her mother was like a bloodhound when it came to her daughter and men. “If he’d had one, I’d rather meet with them together. Saves a lot of time and disagreements.”

      “Not to mention ensuring you’re aware of any potential…um…obstacles.”

      “Nate can have a harem for all I care. This is purely professional.”

      “Pity.” Cherie sounded genuinely disappointed.

      “Honestly, Ma, haven’t you given up matchmaking by now?”

      Her mother’s shoulders lifted. “I didn’t make you go home with him.”

      “I didn’t go home with him. He gave me a ride, that’s all.”

      “In that case, why so defensive?”

      Emma shot her mother a chilly glare. “Telling Dad that if I can’t be a doctor I can at least marry one might have something to do with it.”

      Her brother had shared the information with Emma, saying he wanted her to be forewarned. Not that the news came as a surprise.

      Her mother colored slightly, although media experience kept her body language in check. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”

      “Then you don’t deny saying it?”

      “I can’t deny that I’d be pleased to have you carry on the family tradition in some way.”

      Emma splayed her hands. “Can’t you stop being media medico for ten seconds and give me a straight answer? If you’re planning on fixing me up with Nate Hale, I’m entitled to know.”

      “Emma, what’s gotten into you? He’s having a party. You’re a caterer. Why should you suspect me of a hidden agenda?”

      “Because I know you. And obviously my choice of career bothers you as much as it ever did.”

      “Nonsense. I’m proud of both my children.”

      The same nonanswer Emma had been given when she’d told her parents she’d decided to go to culinary school rather than pursue a career in medicine. A few stints helping out in their practice and at a local nursing home had convinced her she’d rather feed people than minister to their ailments. Cherie had arranged the internship at the nursing home, never suspecting Emma would find her vocation in the facility’s kitchen rather than with the residents.

      “Didn’t you ever want to do anything other than become a doctor?” Emma asked now.

      Tucking her phone into her bag, Cherie paused. “How is this relevant?”

      Emma already knew the answer. Cherie’s father, Emma’s grandfather, had helped pioneer bone marrow transplantation. Cherie had grown up hero-worshipping him and took it for granted that she’d follow him into medicine. Not for the first time Emma wondered if her mother had ever questioned her choice. Many years ago, Cherie had painted exquisite miniature landscapes. Perhaps…

      Emma killed the thought. No point going there. If life was this hard for her as the family misfit, how much tougher would it have been for her mother, hardwired for conformity since birth? Cherie never stepped on the grass if a sign warned against it, whereas Emma was likely to take off her shoes and run barefoot across it out of sheer devilment. Those genes had to come from Emma’s paternal grandmother Jessie Jarrett, a wonderful cook who’d made her mark independently of her oncologist husband. Gramma Jessie was still one of Emma’s favorite people.

      “Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll talk to Nate and we’ll work something out.”

      Her mother looked relieved as she came around the desk and dropped a light kiss on Emma’s forehead. “You won’t regret your decision.”

      She already regretted it, Emma thought as she saw her mother out. Although she hadn’t actually agreed to cater the party, only discuss it. Would she have been so uptight about the meeting if the client wasn’t Nate? Probably not. And for that, she had no one to blame but herself.

      In the kitchen, her assistant Sophie had finished packing the cold canapés and desserts into insulated containers for their client’s cocktail party that evening. Emma double-checked the list, more from habit than because she doubted Sophie, who was always meticulous. “I’m glad they didn’t book us to staff tonight’s affair. I’ll take these around in my car, you lock up and have an early night for once,” she said.

      Sophie shook her head. “And miss hearing what happened with your mother? No way. I’ll make the coffee while you’re gone.”

      Arms