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won’t be . . . targeted.”
    â€œI have déjà vu. You just went through this in October, when you had to stay at Mom and Dad’s.”
    â€œI know—it’s crazy. It’s going to ruin Christmas.”
    â€œNo, it won’t,
Sorellina
.” Cam always broke into Italian when he said tender things. “We’ll be fine.”
    â€œWell, anyway. Unless you want Parker coming to get me at the end of my shift—”
    â€œI do
not
.”
    â€œCould you guys come and get me, and could I stay at your place for a couple of days?”
    â€œOf course. Serafina would have insisted, anyway. And we have a new landlord, so you can bring your big, goofy dog, too.”
    â€œOh, good. I was going to ask Mom and Dad to take him, but that would have involved explaining to them . . .”
    â€œThat can wait. What time should we be there?”
    I told him, and he said that I should relax. Typical Cam. To him, everything could be remedied with a few deep breaths.
    Still, I drew in a deep breath before I went into the kitchen, where four busy people stole secret glances at me as I readied my bowls and ingredients for the Gruyère and chive soufflés we were making for a family Christmas.
    I began whisking eggs, and Esther pointed at me. “Once those are in the oven, Lilah, could you be an angel and chop the walnuts for the salad?”
    â€œOf course. And I’ll head to the location early tomorrow so I can help prep the salads in their kitchen.”
    Esther and Jim exchanged a glance. “We’ll see,” Jim said. “What might work better is if you also prep the dessert batter tonight; then we can just bake them tomorrow in theiroven. You can stay where you are, and we’ll call you if we need you. Will you be at your parents’ house?”
    â€œNo—I’ll be at my brother’s in the city.”
    â€œSee—that would be a big pain to get back here in time, especially with traffic on the Eisenhower. Just set up those desserts, and Gabby and Nicole can bake them on-site.”
    The desserts were also soufflés, which were to be baked in little individual ramekins and served at the table with a crème anglaise. This was one of Haven’s specialties, and customers asked for it by name.
    â€œIf you’re sure, Jim. . . .”
    â€œI’m sure. This will be great. And the girls have already agreed to help tomorrow, right, kids?”
    Gabby and Nicole, who were normally caught up in gossiping with one another, had summoned up sympathetic expressions and now both nodded eagerly, looking like twins with their dark ponytails. “We’re excited to work on location,” Gabby said, wiping a fleck of mushroom from her cheek with the back of her hand.
    Esther looked at her watch. “Those look great, Gabby. You and Nicole go get your serving outfits on, and then we can all head over in our van. Jim and I will wrap these up.” Before they could move, the door opened again, and Bart Andersen came strolling in, wearing his habitual smug expression. Bart was a high school freshman who washed dishes at Haven. I wasn’t sure what Esther paid him, but he seemed pleased enough to be a wage earner while he was still fifteen. Bart was a nice kid, but he suffered from a severe case of overconfidence and teen narcissism, which we sometimes joked about in his presence. This never bothered him, due to the qualities previously mentioned.
    â€œHey, Bart. You’ve got your work cut out for you tonight, dude,” Jim said.
    â€œWhatever. I’m the greatest, so I’ll probably be done in about five minutes,” Bart said. When I had first started working at Haven, I had thought Bart was merely being ironic, and perhaps there was a slight dose of irony there, but in general Bart just liked to praise himself. The more he did it, the more I felt obligated to cut him down. Oddly he seemed to enjoy