Page 8 of Only Mine
Wrenley’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “Wait, that’shuge.Congratulations.”
I shrug, shoving enough food in my mouth so I don’t have to continue the conversation.
“Papa doesn’t like being famous anymore,” Ivy stage-whispers, leaning toward Wrenley. “Not since Mama went to heaven.”
An immediate and suffocating silence descends. My grip tightens on my fork until my knuckles whiten. Ivy continues eating as if she hasn’t dropped a bomb on our perfectly civil dinner.
Wrenley’s eyes dart to mine, questioning, uncertain.
“Enough chatter. Eat your dinner,” I say to Ivy, my voice a low warning.
“What?” She looks genuinely confused. “Aunt Celeste says we should talk about Mama sometimes so we don’t forget her.”
I set down my fork with a carefulclinkagainst the china. “Aunt Celeste talks too much.”
Wrenley takes a sip of wine, her throat working as she swallows.
“This chicken is incredible,” she says, deliberately changing the subject. “What’s in the sauce?”
“It’s a trade secret,” I answer, grateful for the redirect.
“Papa won’t tell anyone his secret recipes,” Ivy explains, sauce now on her cheek as well as her chin. “Not even me. And I’m his favorite person.”
“That’s because you’d sell them to the highest bidder,” I say, reaching over to wipe her face with my napkin.
“Nuh-uh. I’d give them away for free.” She grins. “And for candy.”
A soft smile crosses Wrenley’s face, and the tightness in my chest loosens just a fraction.
“How do you know Celeste?” I ask her.
Wrenley takes another bite and swallows. “She was a collab of mine. We met in Paris maybe a year ago and became friends.”
Ivy says, “I talk to my grandma and grandpa every Sunday on the computer. They live in France. That’s where Papa’s from.”
“Is that right?” Wrenley asks, glancing at me.
“Half right,” I correct. “Born there, raised here after age ten, then went back to pursue my culinary career.”
Ivy waves her fork. “Say something in French, Papa!”
“Non.”
“That doesn’t count!” Ivy giggles, then turns to Wrenley. “He only speaks French when he’s really mad.”
“Or when little girls don’t finish their dinner,” I add pointedly in French.
Ivy rolls her eyes—a gesture she definitely picked up from Celeste—but returns to her food.
“So what did you do before you squatted in strangers’ guesthouses?” I ask Wrenley.
“Papa!” Ivy scolds.
Wrenley’s cheeks flush pink. She licks her lips. Big mistake, because that’s where my focus goes. “I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding.”
I take another sip of wine to distract myself from a plush, rose-colored mouth. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Wrenley tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I worked in content creation.”
