Free When in Doubt, Add Butter by Beth Harbison Page A

myself crazy, scanning the tiny ingredient list on every box, can, bottle, or bag I bought for them for a year, absolutely vigilant about not even purchasing a bag of something that had been next to a bag of something else that was processed in a plant that may or may not have processed peanuts. What a waste of time!
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Huh.” Well, it wasn’t like I could stop being vigilant about it, anyway. If she said she had allergies, I had to proceed as if that were true, even if it wasn’t.
    But why would she say it if it wasn’t true?
    There was no reason in the world she needed to lie and tell me she was allergic to stuff if she just didn’t like it. She was the boss—if she hated cheese or onions, or if she preferred that I sauté everything in no more than a quarter teaspoon of oil and drew big yellow smiley faces on the napkins, she wouldn’t get cheese or onions and I’d sauté everything in no more than a quarter teaspoon of oil and I’d draw big yellow smiley faces on the napkins.
    There was no reason to make it seem like a bigger deal than it was for her to want her specifications met.
    God, she was tiresome.
    “Anyway, thanks for trying to take care of Stephen,” Peter went on. “It was a lot better than letting him hear his parents argue. That’s for damn sure.”
    I agreed, but of course couldn’t do so out loud. “I was happy to have him here. He’s adorable.”
    Silence stretched between us.
    “I guess I’d better finish up here,” I said.
    “Here.” He handed me the knife, and I held it in my left hand as I measured out sesame seeds with my right.
    “Thanks.”
    “Is this the fake Parmesan?” Peter asked.
    I nodded. “It’s pretty rich, nutritionally.”
    “It ain’t Parmesan.”
    I laughed. “No, but it also ain’t dairy.”
    “Right.” He looked at me, and I saw a distinct weariness in his eyes. This was a guy who’d made a bad deal, and he knew it and paid for it every day of his life. “But it’s what she wants. And she gets what she wants.”
    “A lot of people would call that lucky.”
    “Yes, they might.” A muscle tensed in his jaw. “You’re not like her, though.”
    “Well.” What could I say to that? If we were friends chatting in a bar, I could be honest. We weren’t, and I couldn’t. “We’re all different, aren’t we?”
    His eyes flicked to mine, but he didn’t answer.
    So I followed my usual compulsion to fill a tense silence with empty chatter. “I have to say, I feel just awful about what happened earlier. It was my fault, not Stephen’s. I hate to see him getting in trouble when I asked him for help.” Not only asked, but in reflection, I had basically lured him right into a trap.
    God, the poor kid was already skittish enough. He’d trusted me for a moment there, and it had led him to get into trouble.
    I felt just terrible about that.
    “The poor kid.” A darkness I’d never seen before on him crossed his features. The bad deal wasn’t just his. His son was paying the price, too. “Thanks again for trying to help. I’ll go talk with her about it.”
    I could already anticipate how that would go, and I did not want to be anywhere near here when it blew. “Everything here will be ready in five minutes. I’ll leave it on the counter and slip out.”
    “Thank you, Gemma.” His eyes met mine again, and gratitude softened them. “You’re the best.”
    He went upstairs, and before he reached the landing, I heard Angela’s voice rising in anger.
    I don’t know what they said. I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t stand it.
    It was quite telling that every time I left their house after cooking for them, I felt sick.
    Quickly I finished the dish, pouring the hot tomato sauce over the vegetables on a platter, then grinding the nutritional yeast, sesame seeds, salt, and pepper in the blender to make Angela’s poor substitute for Parmesan cheese.
    I shook that into a bowl, set it next to the dinner platter, put a