Reluctantly she called her sister. It was late, but Lisa was a night owl. “I talked to her,” Lauren said, when Lisa answered. “One hundred and fifty people. Twelve thirty start time. We’ll do a buffet and offer cold drinks, dessert, and a simple bar of beer and wine.”
“I thought you were calling her to offer sympathy, not agreeing to cater the event.”
Lauren rubbed the back of her neck. “She needed us.”
Lisa was silent, struggling to choose the right words. “You can’t even come home to see us, hon. How are you going to come home to cater a funeral?”
Sighing, Lauren pressed the comforter down over her legs, thinking Lisa had a good point.
She didn’t know how she’d do it. She’d been to Napa only once since leaving in September, and that had been for Thanksgiving, and just sitting at the table with her family had been more than she could handle.
“And I’m huge, Lauren,” Lisa added. “I’m not going to be able to get out of the kitchen.”
“Hope you’re not that big. You still got six weeks to go, which means you could be putting on a pound a week from now—”
“Don’t go there. Can’t even fit into maternity extra large as it is.”
“You’ll lose the weight later.”
“I better,” Lisa said. “But you know, I mean it about not being able to do a lot. I’ve been on and off bed rest. I won’t be able to do more than man the kitchen on Friday.”
“That’s okay.”
“And the prep, and the cooking, and the—”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Lauren swallowed, remembering how devastated she’d been last June when Blake had died, remembering the shock and the grief, which had been so consuming. “This is Meg. How could I tell her no?”
Lisa had nothing to say to that, because really, it was the bottom line. They’d both worked with Meg frequently over the past six years, catering numerous events at Dark Horse Winery as well as holiday parties at the Robertses’ house. But Lisa knew that for Lauren, Meg wasn’t just a customer, she’d become Lauren’s friend, stopping by the bakery every week to pick up something special to take home to her family—flaky dinner rolls, warm, gooey cinnamon bread, or one of their special-occasion cakes—and when Meg came in, Lauren always came out from behind the counter to sit with her at a table by the window. They’d sip coffee and talk about life and work and kids. Meg had a son just a year younger than Blake and he played baseball, too. JJ was an outfielder, while Blake had been a pitcher. And how Blake could pitch. Scouts had been watching him for two years—
“So what are we serving?” Lisa asked quietly.
“A selection of our miniature sandwiches on our homemade breads. Soup. Salad. Dessert tray. But I really don’t think we should do soup.”
“Then don’t,” Lisa answered.
“But Meg requested carrot soup. Apparently it was Jack’s favorite.”
“Oh. Soup it is.” Lisa hesitated. “This is just so much work for you, Lauren.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it. I’m on my feet all day at Mama’s Café.”
“How is that going?”
“It’s an experience.”
“Still in the red?”
“Hoping we’re going to start turning a profit soon.”
“How?”
“Going to make some changes to the menu starting Sunday—”
“This Sunday?”
“Yep.”
“But you’ll be in Napa this weekend, catering Jack’s reception.”
“On Friday. I’ll drive back to Alameda Friday night, or Saturday morning.”
“That’s too much. Honestly, Lauren. When do you rest?”
“I don’t. But that’s because I don’t want free time. I don’t need free time. I’m better off being busy.”
“So, what changes are you making to the menu?”
“Cutting back on some of the Cajun items. Going to serve a little less blackened chicken and fish. Make just one kind of gumbo each day, instead of three. And add some appealing entrées, make Mama’s a little less regional and a lot more mainstream.”
“But Mama’s is supposed to be a New Orleans–style restaurant. People expect Creole and Cajun.”
“And they’ll still find sausage and gumbo and biscuits and think it’s fun, but I guarantee they’ll come back for the prime rib, grilled half chicken, and barbecued steaks we’ll soon be serving.”
“You’re offering prime rib for lunch?”
“No. For dinner.”