Chapter 2 - The Emergency Package Unveiled
Ryan slammed the sliding glass door so hard the frame rattled in its track. His face was flushed, red patches creeping up his throat like a rash. His wet board shorts dripped onto the kitchen tile, but he didn't care about the mess. He only cared about the notification on his phone.
"Who did you call?" he demanded again, stepping right up to the stool where I sat resting my braced leg. His breath smelled of stale lager and sunblock. "Catherine, answer me. Why did I just get an automated text alert from Crestview Fine Catering confirming an emergency event setup at this address?"
My expression didn't change. "Because you said you wanted a three-course dinner for ten people at seven o'clock."
"I told you to make it!"
"And I told you I have a fractured tibia." I patted the thick, black fiberglass brace locked around my leg. "Since you refused to hire help, and Mom and Dad refused to lift a finger, I took the initiative. I placed an emergency order through Lisa's company."
Through the glass, I saw my mother heading back toward the house. She opened the door, her eyebrows pinched in annoyance. "Ryan, what’s all the noise about? The ice is melting in the cooler."
"Catherine just booked a five-star catering service!" Ryan shouted, waving his phone like a weapon. "For ten people! On three hours' notice!"
Mom stopped dead in her tracks. She looked at me as if I had just announced I was burning the house down. "Catherine! Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea how much a last-minute catering contract costs?"
"I certainly do," I said calmly. "In fact, I used the professional discount Lisa gave me. It includes two servers, a line cook, a hot-station setup, and a full three-course dinner. They'll be here in ten minutes."
"Cancel it right now!" Mom snapped. "Cancel it!"
"I can't cancel an emergency booking," I replied. "And even if I could, I wouldn't. The food you bought is sitting on the counter raw. I am not standing on a fractured bone for five hours to cook for your friends, Ryan."
My father pushed open the door then, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. "What's going on in here?"
"Your daughter just spent hundreds—maybe thousands—of dollars on a catering company!" Mom practically shrieked. "Because she refuses to chop a few vegetables!"
Dad looked at me, his eyes narrowing into that familiar, tired disappointment he always reserved for me whenever I failed to absorb Ryan’s selfishness. "Catherine. That's completely unreasonable. Cancel the order. You know your brother is on a budget."
"Actually, Dad," I said, leaning back against the stool, "Ryan isn't paying for it."
Ryan froze. "What?"
"I booked it under the account registered to this household," I said, pointing to the credit card file my parents kept on record for family events. "And since Ryan is thirty-three, living rent-free in your basement while working a corporate job, and threw a fit because his injured sister wouldn't act as his personal servant, I think it's only fair that he settles the tab."
Before my father could explode, the loud, deep rumble of a commercial delivery van echoed down the driveway.
Outside the front window, a sleek silver truck bearing the emblem of Crestview Fine Catering & Events pulled to a stop.
Ryan’s face drained of color. "No. No, no, no."
The front door opened, and Lisa walked in. She was dressed in her sharp black event coordinator uniform, carrying a clipboard in one hand and a stack of professional stainless-steel warming trays in the other. Behind her came two uniformed staff members pushing a mobile prep cart.
"Good afternoon, everyone!" Lisa said, her voice dripping with high-end customer service polish. She didn't miss a beat. She walked right past my gaping parents and stopped in front of Ryan.
"Are you Mr. Ryan Vance?" she asked brightly.
Ryan swallowed hard. "I... yes."
"Wonderful!" Lisa tapped her tablet screen. "We received your emergency invoice request for ten guests. Per our rush policy, we have brought our artisanal Mediterranean roast chicken, garlic fingerling potatoes, grilled asparagus, and handcrafted chocolate tarts."
Mom stepped forward, her hands on her hips. "We didn't authorize this! Take it back!"
Lisa turned to my mother with a polite, razor-sharp smile. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Emergency catering calls carry a non-refundable retainer. The crew is already dispatched, and the food is prepped. Furthermore, as the registered property owner, Mr. Daniel Vance, your signature is required to process the final balance."
Dad looked at the two uniformed workers wheeling high-end equipment into his kitchen. Then he looked at Ryan. "Ryan... how much is this?"
Lisa flipped the invoice around. "With the short-notice surcharge and staffing fee, the total comes to $1,450."
"Fourteen hundred dollars?!" Mom shrieked. "For a casual pool party?!"
"It's a premium service," Lisa noted smoothly. "However, if you'd prefer, my team can pack everything back up. Of course, the $800 rush fee will still be billed to your card, and you will have no food for your guests, who I believe are arriving in..." She checked her watch. "...twenty minutes."
Ryan stared at the total on the screen. He looked at the raw chickens sitting on the counter, then at me.
I picked up my crutches, adjusted them under my arms, and stood up on my right leg.
May you like
"Well," I said, smiling sweetly at my brother. "The kitchen is all yours. Have a wonderful birthday, Ryan."
I clicked my crutches against the tile and slowly walked toward the stairs, leaving my family standing in the middle of the expensive storm they had created.
