I looked at her, then down at her phone, which was still glowing with the delivery confirmation screen.

I didn’t take your food, Juliette.

“The driver left it on the side porch,” Sarah said, her voice barely audible.

Juliette spun around to face her daughter, her eyes narrowing.

“And why didn’t anyone bring it inside?” Juliette demanded.

“Because it was addressed to you, and we were busy,” I said.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my apron.

The kitchen was stifling, the humidity from the open back door mixing with the steam from the stove.

Outside, we could hear the murmur of the other guests, their voices growing sharper as the afternoon dragged on without lunch.

Dan stepped between his mother and me, his hands raised in a calming gesture.

“Mom, why did you order catering anyway?” he asked.

“Annie has been cooking since six this morning.”

“She’s cooking cheap hot dogs and potato salad that’s probably sat out too long,” Juliette said, waving her hand dismissively.

“It’s fresh,” I said, my voice tight.

“It’s peasant food,” Juliette snapped.