Chapter Eight
Later that night, Piper stared down at the package of ground beef and tried to gather the courage to touch it with her bare hands. “I can’t believe meat looks like brains before it’s been cooked. Does everyone know about this?”
Hannah came up behind her sister, propping her chin on Piper’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
She thought of Brendan’s smug face. “Oh, yes I do.” She sighed, prodding the red blob with her index finger. “Even if we could find a way to stretch our budget to cover takeout for every night, you should have home-cooked meals.” Shifting side to side, she shook out her wrists, took in a bracing breath. “I’m the big sister, and I’m going to see that you’re properly nourished. Plus, you cleaned the toilet from hell. You’ve earned dinner and sainthood, as far as I’m concerned.”
She sensed her sister’s shiver. “I can’t argue with that. There were stains in there dating back to the Carter administration.”
After her work call, Hannah had tripped over to the hardware store for cleaning supplies. They’d found a broom, dustpan, and a few rags in a supply closet downstairs in the bar, but that was it. Meaning they’d been forced to spend a chunk of their budget on bleach, a mop, a bucket, paper towels, sponges, cleaning fluids, and steel wool to block the mouse holes. All eight of them. When they’d dragged the bunk bed away from the wall, the panel running along the bottom had resembled Swiss cheese.
They’d been cleaning since midafternoon, and the studio, while still irreversibly grungy, looked a whole lot better. And Piper could admit to a certain satisfaction that came along with making her own progress. Being part of a before and after that didn’t involve makeup or working with a personal trainer.
Not that she wanted to get used to cleaning. But still.
It smelled like lemons now instead of rotting garbage, and the Bellinger sisters of Bel-Air were responsible. Nobody back home would believe it. Not to mention, her manicurist would shit a brick if she could see the chipped polish on Piper’s nails. As soon as they were settled, finding a full-service salon that did hair, nails, and waxing was top of the agenda.
But first. Bolognese.
Looking at the lined-up ingredients forced her to recall her impromptu morning shopping trip with Brendan. God, he’d been smug. Right up until she’d brought up his deceased wife. He hadn’t been smug then. More like distraught. How long had the woman been gone?
If Brendan was still wearing his wedding ring, the death had to be recent.
If so, he had a thundercloud attitude for a good reason.
Despite her dislike of the burly, bearded fisherman, she couldn’t stave off a rush of sympathy for him. Maybe they could learn to wave and smile at each other on the street for the next three months. If growing up in Los Angeles had taught her anything, it was how to make a frenemy. Next time they crossed paths, she also wouldn’t mind telling him she’d mastered Bolognese and had moved on to soufflés and coq au vin.
Who knew? Maybe cooking was her undiscovered calling.
Piper turned the stove burner on, holding her breath as it clicked. Clicked some more.
Flames shot out of the black wrought iron, and she yelped, stumbling backward into her sister, who thankfully steadied her.
“Maybe you should tie your hair back?” Hannah suggested. “Fingers might be sacrificed tonight, but let’s not lose those effortless beach waves.”
“Oh my God, you’re so right.” Piper exhaled, whipping the black band off her wrist and securing a neat ponytail. “Good looking out, Hanns.”
“No problem.”
“Okay, I’m just going to do it,” Piper said, holding her spread fingers above the beef. “He said to cook it on the pan until it turned brown. That doesn’t sound too hard.”
“Who said?”
“Oh.” She made a dismissive sound. “Brendan was in the supermarket this morning being a one-man asshole parade.” Closing her eyes, she picked up the meat and dropped the whole thing into the pan, a little alarmed by the loud sizzle that followed. “He’s a widower.”
Hannah came around the side of the stove, propping an elbow on the wall that was much cleaner than it had been this morning. “How did you find that out?”
“We were arguing. I said I felt sorry for his wife.”
“D’oh.”
Piper groaned while poking the meat with a rusty spatula. Was she, like, supposed to turn it over at some point? “I know. He kind of let me get away with sticking my foot in it, though. Which was surprising. He could have really laid on the guilt.” Piper chewed on her lip a moment. “Do I come across really spoiled?”
Her sister reached up under her red ball cap to scratch her temple. “We’re both spoiled, Pipes, in the sense that we’ve been given everything we could want. But I don’t like that word, because it implies you’re . . . ruined. Like you have no good qualities. And you do.” She frowned. “Did he call you spoiled?”