French Pressed by Cleo Coyle Page B

when he drops by the coffeehouse.
    Finally, just before five, I dozed off.
    Around nine I awoke to the sound of a coffee grinder. I moaned, rolled over on the couch cushions, and pulled the throw up to my neck. Technically, this was my morning to sleep in because Tucker was opening the Blend, but when I heard the sound of laughter a few minutes later, and smelled the aroma of my freshly brewing Morning Sunshine Blend, I sat up.
    Voices and another laugh came from the kitchen. I got to my feet, wrapped myself in my baggy terrycloth robe, and approached the kitchen doorway.
    “Okay, muffin,” Matt’s voice declared. “You made coffee for me, so I’ll cook breakfast for you.”
    “With one arm?” Joy replied.
    “I can cook an egg with one arm. Just watch me.”
    I smiled, pausing just outside the room to eavesdrop a little more.
    “Step aside, Dad, and I’ll cook you the best egg you’ve ever tasted!”
    “Better than my famous peppers and eggs?”
    “ Much better,” Joy said.
    “Then I defer to your expertise.”
    I heard a chair move and then a clank as a pan hit the stove top. The refrigerator door opened next.
    “That’s how I got my job at Solange, you know.” Joy said. “For my audition, Tommy told me to cook him an egg.”
    “That doesn’t sound like much of a test,” Matt said.
    “You’re wrong, Dad. According to Tommy, it’s the simplest ingredients that truly test a chef’s skill and imagination—not to mention technique.”
    I continued to listen, feeling only a little guilty for spying. It was a charming domestic scene that would have warmed my heart a decade ago, when it would have counted. Now it only made me sad and maybe a little resentful, too.
    It was so easy for the two of them now. But then Matt always had been the yearned-for parent. Oh sure, he showed for the important moments: birthday parties, school plays, high school graduation. He’d arrive laden with presents and stories about exotic, faraway places. For Joy, those were the good times, with a doting, if temporary, father. And then Matt was gone, before the return of the disappointments, arguments, and frustrations of normal, messy, everyday living.
    During Matt’s absences, I raised my daughter as well as I could, but I resented having to be the sole authority figure, the de facto disciplinarian, the spoilsport, the stickler. I was the miser who vetoed things that were too costly, the prude who said no to activities a teenager didn’t have the maturity to handle.
    “You know, I can make a pretty good egg,” Matt said.
    “Sure. Uh-huh,” Joy said skeptically.
    “Don’t you remember those peppers and eggs I cooked for your eleventh birthday?”
    “That was my ninth birthday, Dad. And the answer is yes, I remember—”
    “Doesn’t seem that long ago.”
    “That’s because you’re old now.”
    “Excuse me, little girl, but those eggs must have been pretty good for you to remember them.”
    “How could I forget such a disgusting, greasy mess?”
    “You’ve got to be kidding! My peppers and eggs are world famous.”
    “You should have drained the peppers before you added the eggs.”
    “Drain the peppers? But that’s where the savory flavor is—”
    “It’s grease , Dad. Artery-clogging, cottage-cheese-thigh-creating grease. All it does is make you fat.”
    “Fat? Do I look fat to you? No, wait, don’t answer that. I’ve been living pretty easy with Breanne, and this arm has interfered with my workouts for the last few weeks.”
    “Is that why you’re getting a paunch?”
    I covered my mouth to stifle the snort.
    “I do not have a paunch,” Matt replied, sounding appropriately irritated. “What are you, size four?
    “Six.”
    “In my opinion, you should eat more. You don’t want to end up like the skinny models in Breanne’s magazine. They wolf down the catered lunch, then throw it back up right before the shoot.”
    “Gross,” Joy said. “I could never do the bulimia thing, which is too