Mise en Place

Jasper stood up, a beaming smile of purple teeth. “Elijah, are you saying you WANT to hang out with us two weeks in a row?” He paused for dramatic effect. “WHAT IF we do this dinner thing again, except next week we all bring a dish that helps justify your theory?”

The evening had been winding down—Noah was already checking train times on his phone, Oliver had that look he got when he was mentally calculating how many hours of sleep he could still get, and Olivia was fishing under the loveseat for the shoe she’d kicked off two hours ago. But Jasper’s suggestion stopped all of it. The wine had loosened them, the theories had warmed them up, and now his ridiculous idea had landed in exactly the right soil. A real-life mystery to investigate. An excuse to cook, to gossip, to do something together that wasn’t just catching up on the same rotating topics. This was even better than their tipsy theorizing.

Emma set down her wine glass on the counter. “I’m in. I miss Hank. Can’t hurt asking around a little more.” She looked at the bottle on the counter—Hank’s handwritten label, the last few ounces of deep red sauce, the only bottle Dorothy had. “But can somebody else handle the entree? I don’t want to be selfish, but I’m not sure I’ve got the energy to do everything again.”

She didn’t say what she was really thinking, which was that she’d spent most of the day pretending she wasn’t exhausted—the kind of exhaustion that wasn’t about sleep but about the constant low-grade hum of uncertainty that had been her background noise since she’d left Bistro Lavande. Cooking for her friends had helped. It always did. But hosting, shopping, cooking, and cleaning for six was a different kind of labor, and her bank account was starting to agree.

Olivia, ever the planner, chimed in before anyone could reach for a number. “Hold on, Jasper. Oliver and I will handle the entree. It’s the most work, and there are two of us.” She shot a playful glance at her husband, who merely nodded in agreement—his default response to most of Olivia’s plans, which were usually better than anything he’d come up with anyway. “I’ll get extra creative with ingredients from all the local shops. There’s bound to be some neighborhood gossip.”

The way she said “neighborhood gossip” carried the weight of someone who considered information-gathering a core life skill. Olivia knew people. She knew the woman at the flower shop and the man who ran the cheese counter and the couple who’d just opened the new wine bar on Grand Street. She collected relationships the way some people collected stamps—methodically, with genuine interest, and with a near-photographic memory for the details people shared.

“And I’ll see what kind of permits farmer’s markets have to file,” Oliver added quietly.

Everyone turned to look at him. It was the kind of contribution only Oliver would make—practical to the point of being unexpected, delivered so softly you could miss it if you weren’t paying attention.

“You can’t eat city permits,” Jasper said impatiently. He grabbed the cap and shook it. “Alright, here’s what’s left: One is wine, two is appetizers, three is the second course, and five is dessert.”

Elijah reached in and drew a number. “Three,” he said. “The second course.”

“You know I love you, bud, but can you please not make a quinoa salad with a bunch of raw vegetables?” Noah asked, his voice peaking with genuine anxiety.

“Why do you say that?” Elijah asked, looking around the room. Nobody responded, their silence speaking volumes. Elijah looked at Emma for backup. She pressed her lips together and studied the ceiling. “Wow. Okay then.”

“It’s not that it’s bad,” Olivia started, in a tone that clearly meant it was bad.

“I’ll figure something out,” Elijah said, cutting her off. He took a sip of wine with the dignified silence of a man processing feedback he hadn’t asked for.

Jasper, wanting to move on, tapped Emma on the head with the hat. She reached in, took out a number, and said, “I got dessert. I’ll head to some specialty stores and find some fun ingredients. Should be perfect to implicate Big Hot Sauce.”

Noah didn’t wait. He reached into the hat and snatched out a number. “One.”

“Oh, God,” Emma accidentally blurted out.

“What!?” Noah snapped back.

“C’mon, Noah. I wasn’t even here to sample your wine choice from tonight, and I know it sucked,” Elijah added in Emma’s defense.

Noah looked annoyed. “You wanna get the wine, Jasper?” he said, tossing the paper at him.

“Hell yeah,” Jasper said, catching it. “I needed to talk to the wine merchant down the block about Russian CIA aliens anyway.”

“Okay, but are we, like, actually taking this seriously?” Noah asked, pulling on his jacket. It was a reasonable question, and for a moment, nobody answered. They were all hovering in that strange space between joke and commitment, where you’re not sure if you’re playing a game or starting something real. “Or is this just an excuse to drink more of Jasper’s fancy-label wine?”

Jasper, who had been shrugging on his coat by the door, spun around with a wounded expression. “Hey! I’ll have you know the wine merchant and I are on a first-name basis. And for the record, I am taking this very seriously.” He puffed out his chest. “In fact, I’ll probably have this whole thing solved by Tuesday. I know people. Very important people.”

Olivia rolled her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. “Of course you do, dear. Just try not to get us all arrested before the appetizers are served next week, okay?”

“It’s settled then,” Elijah said, looking around at his funny group of friends, his Brooklyn family. He set down his wine glass with a deliberateness that said he was about to make a pronouncement. “We’re all meeting here next week, dish in hand, with our definitive research as to what happened to Hank.” He paused, then added with the faintest crack of a smile, “Because nothing says ‘responsible adult’ like investigating a hot sauce vendor based on theories we came up with while drunk. My mother would be so proud.”

He raised his glass. The others followed—Olivia with flourish, Oliver with his usual quiet half-second delay, Noah with a resigned shake of his head, Jasper with both hands because he’d somehow ended up holding two glasses.

As they clinked together, the sound bright and slightly off-key from the mismatched glassware, something settled into place. Not a plan, exactly. Not yet. But the beginning of one—a shared sense of purpose that was equal parts absurd and genuine, the way most good ideas start when you’re among people who make you feel like the best version of yourself.

Emma leaned in her kitchen doorway and watched them file toward the hall, still arguing. Jasper was insisting that his wine merchant contact had “deep ties to the intelligence community,” while Noah was explaining, with increasing volume, why that was statistically impossible. Olivia had Oliver by the arm and was narrating her investigation strategy to no one in particular. Elijah brought up the rear, hands in his jacket pockets, shaking his head with a smile he wasn’t quite hiding. Their voices tangled and overlapped as they spilled into the stairwell, the sound fading down the flights like the last notes of a song she didn’t want to end.

The apartment went quiet. The soup was cooling on the stove. The tarte tatin had survived its encounter with caramel.

She didn’t know it yet—none of them did—but this was the last Sunday that would feel ordinary.