"Nine sharp," I say. "I'll drive."
"Fine by me. I hate city traffic anyway." Then she lowers her voice and leans in slightly, close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume. "But we are getting separate hotel rooms if we're staying overnight, got it?"
"Yes, chef," I say, matching her quiet tone and trying very hard not to smile.
She holds my gaze for another second, like she's trying to figure out if I'm messing with her or not, and then she turns back to her station. I catch the tiniest smile on her face before she wipes it away and goes back to being all business, whisking her beurre blanc like nothing just happened.
We pick up Jack and Lark at SFO at four-thirty. The air out here is a mix of jet fuel and exhaust and, underneath it, the briny salt smell off the bay. Cars are double-parked the length of the curb, horns blaring every thirty seconds, and a traffic cop is blowing his whistle at an Uber that's been sitting too long.
Isabelle is standing next to me near the pickup area, arms crossed, scanning the crowd. TheChronicleshoot wrapped up about an hour ago and she changed into jeans and a white blouse with the sleeves pushed up, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual kitchen bun.
She turns to me suddenly, her expression hoveringsomewhere between nervous and annoyed. "I still can'tbelieveyou didn't tell me they're famous."
I laugh. "Jack is my insane disaster of a brother and Lark I've known for ages. I don't really think of them that way."
"He's a literal Formula 1 driver," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the arrivals area like Jack might emerge at any second in a cloud of tire smoke and glory. "And I have Lark's music on Spotify. Like, multiple songs. It's a big fucking deal, Alex."
"Are you going to be starstruck?" I ask, grinning at her.
"No," she says, lifting her chin defensively. "I think the only people I'd be genuinely starstruck around would be Julia Child, Jacques Pépin, or Rick Moranis fromGhostbusters."
I turn to stare at her, certain I misheard. "Did you just say Rick Moranis inGhostbusters?"
"Yes I did," she says primly. "I found himveryattractive in that movie. The whole nerdy accountant thing, the glasses, the awkwardness. It worked for me."
"Beaumont, you are full of surprises." I shake my head, amused by this information. "See, if I'd known that's what you were into, I would have worn glasses and talked about tax returns the other night."
She laughs, and the look she gives me is pure trouble. "Well, maybe you'll get an opportunity to test that out."
That fucking perks my interest and I'm about to respond when I hear "Alex!" and look up to see Jack waving from the arrivals exit.
He's wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low, the brim shadowing most of his face in what I recognize as his standard airport disguise. He's Ferrari's number one driver and on track to win his first championship this year, which means airports have become an absolute minefield for him. One wrong move and he's surrounded by people with phones out, asking for photos and autographs and generally making it impossible to get anywhere.
Lark is beside him, black hair tucked under a matching cap, laughing at something he just said. She's been selling out venues across the country for the past two years, and her songs have that sticky quality where you hear one once and it lives in your head for a week.
The sunglasses and hats help maintain some anonymity, but nothing really hides it with those two. There's an energy they carry, a magnetism that makes people look twice even when they can't quite place why. A couple of girls near baggage claim are already nudging each other and reaching for their phones.
I meet them halfway, weaving through a family with too much luggage and a businessman on his phone who doesn't bother looking up. Jack pulls me into a hug, clapping me on the back hard.
"Hey man," he says, stepping back and looking me over with the critical eye of someone cataloging changes. "Look at you all tanned. Napa agrees with you."
"Well, sunshine and good wine," I say. "Life doesn't get much better than that."
"See,that'swhat I'm always trying to tell our brothers," Jack says, shaking his head like this is a longstanding grievance. "Theo's up there in the rain with his flannel and his Subaru, Dom's brooding in a gym somewhere, Calvin forever stuck in a book, and you're out here living your best life in wine country."
"Someone in this family has to," I laugh, and it's so good to see him. We text constantly but it's not the same as having him here, in person, where I can actually see his face and hear his laugh.
Jack and I are the youngest of the Midnight brothers, and we were the closest growing up, though whether that was a good thing depends on who you ask. Our mom used to call us the terrible twosome, which she meant with love but also with the weary resignation of a woman who had been called to the principal's office one too many times.
Between the two of us we hold the family records for groundings, stitches, broken bones, and times our parents had to come get us from places we had absolutely no business being.
I turn to Lark and kiss her on the cheek. "How's the tour recovery going?"
"My voice is back, my feet are destroyed, and I've been sleeping fourteen hours a day," she says, squeezing my arm with warmth. "But the tour wassoglorious I'm already itching to do it all again. Also, FaceTime just isn't enough, Alex. We've missed you."
"Missed you too," I say, stepping back and gesturing toward Isabelle, who's standing a couple feet behind me with her arms crossed, looking almost shy in a way I've never seen her look in the kitchen.
"This is Isabelle," I say. "She's the brilliant chef behind the pop-up I've been helping with. She had a free afternoon so I invited her along."