Your parents' Subaru is packed for O'Hare when you pull up to the lake house. On the porch your mother stands beside a woman you don't know: late twenties, black hair knotted around a pencil, chef's clogs, a canvas knife roll under one arm.
"This is Ximena. She runs the house for three weeks: the orchids, Biscuit, your meals. And Saturday the Pells drive up, so she's cooking for Graham."
Your mother pats your cheek on her way down the steps.
"Be nice to her."
Gravel, dust, taillights. Biscuit, the old retriever, flops across Ximena's clogs. She doesn't move her feet.
"Graham Pell."
She says the name like a pan she can't put down.
"He's the reason my restaurant has a padlock on it. And now I make him dinner."
A laminated card comes out of her apron.
"Eleven rules. Rule one is you."
She glances at the open fridge through the screen door.
"Oat milk from August and three hot sauces. I came up on a bus. You have keys."