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pretensions, separatist rhetoric, and questionable taste.
    Chet’s answer to my question was to shrug, sip blood, and change the subject back. “How’re things here?”
    “We’re on target to turn a profit this month.”
    “Is that before or after you pay these off?” He ruffled the edge of my invoice stack.
    I decided to plead the Fifth on that one and dug around for some more small talk I might have overlooked on the first pass through.
    “How’re things at the spa?” I tried.
    “We’re booked solid through the end of this year. Marcus is talking about expanding.” Chet drained his mug again. “Speaking of the spa, have you thought about my offer?”
    The invoices rustled uneasily. “Yes.”
    Chet had offered to make me a loan of twenty thousand dollars. It sounded small in the face of the other numbers that had been getting waved around today, but it was enoughto clear this stack, if only to make room to start building a new one.
    “Did you think about it seriously?” asked Chet.
    “Very seriously.”
    “It’d be enough to get the food truck you’ve been talking about…”
    “
Reese
has been talking about a truck.” In fact, my number two sous had been talking about very little else lately. “I haven’t.”
    “Why not? They’re all the thing…”
    “And that’s why,” I said. “They’re all the thing. Everybody’s got one. We haven’t got the time, the money, or the personnel to take it on, let alone to do it right.”
    Chet sighed and put down his mug. His pale skin had drawn tightly over the bones of his face. “Charlotte. I can help,” he said, softly, so I could hear the hurt under the words. “Why won’t you let me?”
    “It’s not you; it’s me,” I said, which was true. “Besides, I’ve got a new gig that should take care of the backlog.” Attempting to keep my voice at the appropriate level of warmth and enthusiasm, I filled him in on the pertinent details of the Alden-Renault wedding.
    Chet straightened up, one vertebra at a time. “You’re catering the wedding of a Maddox and a
vampire
? What’s next? Setting up the buffet for the Hatfield-McCoy family reunion?”
    “Not my business who’s marrying who, as long as the check clears.” I shrugged, smoothed the plastic wrap back in place over what was left of the veal blood, and stashed it back in the fridge. That this kept me from having to look Chet in the eye was strictly a side benefit. “As you’ve so helpfully pointed out, I’ve got a cash flow problem. Besides which, what I do with my business is not really your problem, is it?” Pride’s a nasty thing. It rushes you into hot spots before you’ve had time to get your asbestos panties on.
    “You’remy sister. It is my problem,” he shot back. “I helped build Nightlife. I’ve still got—”
    I did not need to hear the end of this sentence. “You
left
, Chet! You wanted to go run your spa and get your own existence. Fine. You got it. But you don’t get to tell me how I run the place you walked out on!”
    “I cannot believe you are still mad about the spa.” Cold lights sparked under the blue of my brother’s eyes, and I had to drop my gaze, fast. “Is that why you won’t take the loan? You can’t stand to be reminded that I’m making it and you’re not.”
    “I do not need you to prop me up so you can take the damned tax break!”
    We were both on our feet, just inches from each other, a whole world of old arguments and old hurts swirling between us.
    Chet broke first, backing up and swinging around so he could plant his hands on the edge of the counter. If he dented my stainless steel, I was going to stake him a good one.
    Judging from the way Chet curled his fingers into fists and pushed himself back up, the same thought had occurred to him. “Okay.” Chet dug his hands into his pockets and looked around the kitchen as though hoping somebody had left an answer lying around. “Okay. Are you heading out? Want me to walk you to the