Page 32 of Loaded

The Richmond heir, being birthed by one of her children. I swear, I need to stay away for at least two weeksafter they tell her. Mom’s annoying enough without hounding me about having a child. When I’m not stuck working over the next day and a half, I’m looking for funny parenting reels and memes and sending them to Elizabeth.

What on earth is Instagram for if not this?

But really, I’m trying not to think too much about Tuesday—the lunch I’m dragging the board to so that I can see her again—and the fact that I have heard exactly nothing about attending her competition finals. I really can’t think of many things I’d rather do than go and see Bea perform a song she wrote.

Finally, on Tuesday morning, the idea hits me. I shouldn’t just sit around and hope she invites me. I should be proactive. I didn’t build my business into what it is by hoping people would call and offer me opportunities. I created the opportunities by badgering, cajoling, tricking, and forcing people into giving me a chance.

About twenty minutes of searching yields the information that thereisa final performance for the Jello Jingle Competition, and the finals are open to the public. I text a screenshot to Emerson, and he responds with, IT’S A DATE. He’s a pretty decent brother-in-law. I mean, that’s funny. He knows I want to date his sister, and he’s making a date with me to go cheer for her. Irony and a pun.

I do wonder, briefly, whether it might be a mistake to go without an invite, and I decide to feel her out at the lunch.

Which, thanks to the distraction of my research, it’s time for.

When I walk in, the host walks me, along with the three board members who arrived at nearly the sametime, into a side room. “We’re excited to welcome you to our facility,” the thin man says. “Right this way.”

Several other board members are already there. “This menu’s great,” Mr. Dressel says, already poring over the items listed. “I’m thinking we should order a handful of appetizers, and then by the time everyone’s here?—”

“Actually,” I say, “our waitress today has an amazing gift. If you answer a few questions, she can pick the very thing from the menu that you’ll like the most.”

Mr. Dressel arches one eyebrow. “That sounds. . .unlikely. How could anyone else know what I want better than I do?”

“For one, she might know the menu better than you.” Mrs. Yaltzinger sits. “I think it sounds interesting.”

“Me too,” Mr. Jimenez says. “I’m not sure about you, Frank, but I always seem to pick the wrong thing. The person next to me usually has something better than what I chose.”

“That’s because I make better decisions than you,” Mr. Dressel says. “It’s nice that you’re finally admitting it.”

“You certainly don’t have to let me choose for you.” Bea’s standing in the doorway. “But if you’re not sure what to order, I’m happy to help.” Her half smile is perfect. As the last few board members wander in, she explains to them that if they’ll answer a few basic questions, she can select their meal. Or they’re welcome to order for themselves.

Fifteen minutes later, everyone’s orders have either been placed or prepared, and a brawny guy in all black is helping her unload appetizers from large trays.

“For you.” She’s smiling when she sets scallops down in front of me. They look different than the ones I ordered for dinner over the weekend.

“I didn’t see those on the menu,” Mr. Dressel says.

Bea shrugs. “Sometimes the item someone would like most isn’t on the menu. I’m close enough to the chef that he’ll often make things that have been specials in the past for me.” She shrugs. “But the menu items are also all wonderful.” She sets his Wagyu beef tartare in front of him. “You chose one that I never pick for anyone, since it’s not one of my personal favorites.”

“See?” Mr. Dressel shakes his head. “That’s a flaw. What if the only thing I’d like would be the beef tartare?”

“In my experience,” Bea says, “that type of person never asks me to choose for them, so they always get just what they want anyway.”

Mrs. Yaltzinger laughs. “She’s got you there, Frank.”

“Well, now that we all have our food,” Mr. Dressel says, frowning, “we should get started.”

“But we need to see whether she was right,” Mr. Jimenez says. “This dangling bacon tower is weird. I’m surprised she chose it for me.”

“Yes, I was definitely not expecting oysters,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “I’ve never been brave enough to try them.”

“It’s the apple cucumber mignonette that makes these special,” Beatrice says. “Well, that and the fact that you’re going to try three east coast oysters, and three west coast oysters. I think you’ll quickly discover which you prefer.”

I go ahead and slice a scallop in half and pop it in my mouth. Unlike the buttery, seared scallops from the menu, these are light, almost sweet. I’m quite sure I can taste citrus, as well. While I’m chewing, I watch as everyone else tries their appetizers. I’m not the only one sighing with delight.

“Fine,” Mr. Dressel surprises us all by saying. “Scratch my order for the entree. Surprise me with something you’d choose.”

Bea nods slowly. “Alright.” When she starts to back out, Mr. Dressel objects.

“Don’t you need me to answer your questions?”

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