Page 104 of Ice Ice Maybe
“Nordstrom Rack,” Mom said.
Mrs. Dalton nodded her approval.
Zena beamed. “It’s so sweet you all wanted to make each other comfortable.” She giggled and pulled out her phone. “This is too good. We need a picture of you four.”
“We brought you a little something,” Mom said, handing the plant to Zena’s mother. “Indoor or outdoor.”
“Oh, I adore succulents—thank you,” Mrs. Dalton said. “And please! Come in.”
After introductions and salutations, our parents posed for the photo, looking both amused and slightly embarrassed. I couldn’t help but feel affection for all of them, for wanting to make a good impression. They knew how important this meeting of the parents was for Zena and me.
Once inside, Dad let out another whistle as Mr. Dalton took us all on a tour of the ground floor. “How big is this place, anyway?” He glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean.
“Ten bedrooms and ten baths—over ten thousand square feet,” Mr. Dalton replied casually. “More than we need, of course. Downsizing is something we considered a while ago, but if the family grows, one never knows.”
“Goodness gracious!” Dad exclaimed. “You ever consider installing one of those ‘You are here’ mall maps in this place? Seriously, I would need to leave a breadcrumb trail to find my way back to the kitchen.”
Mrs. Dalton smiled. “It took me a while to get used to the size. As a child, Zena certainly used the size of the place to her advantage. She’d hide from us whenever she knew she was going to be in trouble.”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I always pictured you as a sweet little angel growing up. I didn’t know you were a troublemaker.”
Zena smirked. “I prefer to think of my former self as rambunctious.” She tossed her hair dramatically.
“Rambunctious is accurate,” Mr. Dalton chuckled. “I seem to recall a certain young lady who once hid in the wine cellar for three hours because she didn’t want to go to her piano lesson.”
I laughed at the thought of little Zena staging a rebellion among the vintage bottles. “Sounds like you kept your parents on their toes.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Mrs. Dalton said, shaking her head fondly.
Mr. Dalton led us into a spacious room that exuded luxury. A long, solid wood bar stretched along one wall, stocked with every spirit imaginable. In the center, a gleaming pool table stood like an emerald island. But what truly stole the show was the massive screen that covered almost an entire wall, currently displaying the hockey game with crystal clarity.
Leather chairs were scattered throughout the room, perfect for lounging with a drink or watching the game. As I took in the surroundings, I noticed other touches of opulence: the climate-controlled wine cellar visible through a glass wall that Mr. Dalton had mentioned, a poker table in the corner that probably cost more than my yearly salary, and what appeared to be original artwork adorning the walls.
Mr. Dalton gestured to the bar. “We’ve got wine, beer, you name it. Help yourself or I’d be happy to pour something for you. We also have an excellent selection of brandy, sherry, ports, and Prosecco to your right. Nuts and olives are on the bar, or you can dive right into the desserts.”
After everyone picked their poison and had drinks in their hands, Mr. Dalton raised his glass. “To slowing down and enjoying life.”
We all echoed the sentiment, clinking glasses.
My eyes were soon drawn to a dessert table that looked like it had been transported straight from a five-star buffet. There were delicate fruit tarts, a towering chocolate mousse cake, red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, tiramisu, and what appeared to be homemade cannoli.
As our parents gravitated toward the desserts and were already helping themselves, Zena nudged me. “What looks good to you?”
I grinned. “I’m not saying. We’re going to write it down first.”
She rolled her eyes. “This again? Why can’t you accept that fact that we have the same great taste, like Jing and Tyson? Do you really think I’m copying you?”
“We’ll soon find out—let’s do this,” I said. “Got something to write with?”
“Hang on …” Zena disappeared behind the bar, returning with a pen and two napkins. “I’ll write my choice first, so you can’t say I saw what you wrote.”
She quickly scribbled her choice and folded the napkin before handing me the pen. I eyed the dessert table once more before writing my selection and folding my napkin.
“Okay, what did you write?” I asked.
Zena unfolded her napkin and showed me. “Tiramisu.”
I nodded. “Very interesting.”
