Page 53 of Under Southern Stars
“I’ll supervise,” Sophia says, settling onto a bar stool.
“Now,” I tell Madison, “the secret to good meringue is making sure no yolk gets in the whites. Even a tiny bit will ruin it.”
She watches intently as I demonstrate. “Why?”
“Fat prevents the proteins from binding properly. It’s all chemistry.”
“Like the pasta temperature thing. Science cooking!”
We work together, Madison asking constant questions, Sophia occasionally offering commentary. When we get to the whipping stage, Madison’s fascinated by the transformation.
“It’s like magic! How does liquid become solid?”
“Air bubbles trapped in protein networks.” I show her how to test for stiff peaks. “See? Perfect.”
“This is the coolest thing ever.” She carefully spoons meringue onto the parchment. “How long does it bake?”
“Hour and a half, very low temperature. Then it cools in the oven overnight.”
“Overnight?” She looks disappointed. “So we can’t eat it tonight?”
“Afraid not. But I’ll make another one before we leave for New Zealand. Deal?”
“Deal.” She high-fives me with a slightly sticky hand.
As I slide the pavlova into the oven, Madison starts cleaning up without being asked. Sophia joins her, and I watch them work together, comfortable in their rhythm.
“Mom, can Jack stay for movie night?” Madison asks suddenly.
Sophia glances at me. “I’m sure Jack has things to—”
“I’d love to,” I interrupt. “If that’s okay?”
“Yes!” Madison pumps her fist. “We’re watching ‘The Princess Bride’. Mom can quote the whole thing.”
“As you wish,” Sophia says in a perfect Westley impression.
Madison groans. “See? Every. Single. Line.”
We settle in the living room, Madison claiming the middle of the couch. As the movie starts, she provides running commentary.
“Okay, so this is the best sword fight ever filmed. The guy actually learned to fence left-handed for it.”
“Inconceivable!” Sophia and Madison shout in unison at the screen.
I’m not really watching the movie. I’m watching them—the way they mouth the dialogue, Madison’s head gradually dropping onto Sophia’s shoulder, Sophia’s fingers absently playing with her daughter’s hair.
This. This is what I want. Not the estate, not the business meetings, not the charity galas. This cozy living room with these two amazing people.
“You okay?” Sophia whispers.
I realize I’ve been staring. “Perfect.”
By the time Westley mostly-dies, Madison’s mostly asleep.
“Should I carry her up?” I offer quietly.
“She’s fifteen,” Sophia smiles. “And would be mortified. But thank you.” She gently shakes Madison’s shoulder. “Bed time, baby.”
