2022-07-02 - Lots of Plans

Between one thing and another, it's already been a busy summer-- and chances are that's not going to stop. Today, though, the weather is actually nice-- not just in the gardens of 1-5 Oak, where the faerie ring is not yet dismantled, but everywhere-- and Una has retreated to the front porch, where she flicks through the pages of an old children's book, looking deeply troubled. There are cookies on offer, and a pitcher of lemonade, but neither has been touched: the redhead has other things on her mind.

With summer, Jules has been increasingly scarce. Between her work, her art class, and her own propensity for the outdoors — not to mention those times she’s hanging out on a certain person’s boat — she’s barely home. Not to mention those excursions through space and time.

Today, though, she’s actually off, and actually home. Jules wanders out with her sketchbook, coming to join Una on the porch. “Hey, you. Whatcha up to?” She flops down in a second chair, legs sprawled out before her.

Una glances up as Jules joins her, and hesitates; her gaze flicks back to the book she's holding, then back at Jules, this time lingering. "Just the person I wanted to see," she says, not without her usual warmth, though there's a hesitation there, too-- and an apology. "I meant to show you this ages ago, and things got... it's been a bit much lately, hasn't it? I half forgot, and then I remembered this morning, because-- well, that doesn't matter. Here."

She offers out the picture book, flipping it closed. It probably dates from the 1920s, or perhaps a few years earlier; it looks worn and aged.

“What did I do now?” She’s grinning; it’s a joke. No sooner has Jules sprawled out that she’s straightening up and reaching to take the book when Una offers it. Her gaze is questioning, brows lifted.

“What’s this?”

"Actually--" but Una shakes her head, gesturing, instead to the book. "Open it," she says. "First page."

> For the Indian woman. I'm sorry.
> Millie

It's scrawled in a childish hand, the page foxed and yellowed, but the handwriting clear enough.

Una waits.

After one last curious look at Una, Jules turns her attention to the picture book and flips open the cover.

“Oh,” she says, stunned. “Wow. That’s—“

A hard sentence to adequately finish. After a moment of silence, Jules picks back up with another thought. “She was a really sweet kid.” Her voice is soft. “I wonder if we’ll ever see her again.”

Una nods, slowly, acknowledging Jules' reaction in silence, letting it last until Jules picks up that other thought.

"She died in 1940," she says, then, relating the information tiredly, and not without a sadness that is obviously genuine. "Giving birth to my grandmother. I keep hoping that maybe one of the doors will open back up to her, but-- I don't know. I mean, nothing so far. I did some research at the library. Census records. There's a lot I still don't know, though."

Jules leaves the book open on her lap, one hand gently resting on the page.

“So your grandmother grew up without her mother.” She looks across, smiling a touch, but it’s sad. “What a loss. I bet she grew up to be a good woman.” Jules lets the thought rest there. “Did the records mention who your grandmother’s father was? Do you know if he was around?”

Una shakes her head, still looking a little miserable. She reaches to take a cookie, but holds it rather than eating it. "The 1940 census was before Millie died and my grandmother was born, and it's just Millie and her mom. I guess the asshole was dead by then. By 1950, it's Cassandra-- that's my grandmother-- and her grandmother. They're both Irvings, and so was Millie, so... I don't know."

She exhales, sharply. "It's sad, though. Like there haven't been any recent generations of my family where both parents were around. I need more information."

Her expression is, as she says this, determinedly blank.

Jules lifts her hand, now, and reaches over with every intent to clasp Una’s fingers and give them a quick squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” she says simply. “It’s hard. I get it. I don’t think I ever told you, but I don’t know who my father is.” She offers Una another smile, not happy, but not unhappy either. “I get it.”

Una doesn't pull her hand away, and indeed drops her gaze to look at the two hands: one brown, one fair.

"You too, huh?" She manages to smile, a little, this time. There's still a line of some kind of tension in her expression, but she's pushing it away, actively-- so actively-- in order to focus on this instead. "It's hard. And I look at how we lived, mom and me, when her grandmother was living in this house, perfectly comfortable. The more I find out about my family, the weirder it all is, you know?

"Would you want to find your dad now, if you could?"

A small hum sounds at the back of Jules’ throat. “I don’t know,” she admits, giving it thought. “My mom was so young, and I don’t exactly know what happened—what kind of guy she hooked up with. She refused to tell my grandparents, and I assume the guy in question never knew about me. I have to think he would’ve showed up at some point if he had.” Rueful, that.

Jules squeezes Una’s hand one more time before she settles back, hands returning to her own lap and carefully closing the picture book. “I used to dream about it, when I was a kid. Especially since my brother has a relationship with his dad. Now…” She shrugs. “I think it would just open up a closet full of skeletons, and maybe it’s better this way.”

"My mom and yours sound pretty similar in that regard," agrees Una, who this time uses her newly-released hand to break off a piece of her cookie and draw it towards her mouth. "Except mine ran away with me, and I guess yours-- didn't."

She gives Jules a thoughtful glance, and nods. "Yeah. Me too. I don't think it would make a difference to me now. I've moved on."

Mostly.

“No. My mom left me with her parents, and then she ran away,” Jules says wryly. “Pass me a cookie?”

Her head falls to one side as she thinks. “I never forgave my mom,” she says eventually. “Even if I can try to understand why she did it. I can’t forgive her.”

"Moms," says Una, equally wry. She nudges the plate closer, into reach.

"I wish I understood mine better. I'm not sure I ever will. I don't think I'd find it easy to forgive her if she'd done what yours did, either. I don't think it's wrong not to forgive. And you-- you got to make different choices. So did I."

Jules rolls her eyes in apparent agreement. Moms.

With the cookies in reach, she leans over and helps herself. “At least I had my grandparents,” she says, finding solace there. “I can only imagine what it was like for them. And then with me, and my decisions around the same age.” She looks sidelong, considering Una. “So did you know your grandma? I don’t know if I ever asked that. I just assumed you did.”

"But you did, ultimately, make better decisions," Una points out, quietly. "You don't have a kid. And here you are, in school, working, doing well."

She breaks off another piece of her cookie, and shakes her head. "No," she says. "Mom left town after high school graduation, pregnant with me, and never looked back. I didn't even know my grandmother was alive until-- well, until she wasn't anymore, and it turns out I'd inherited. I guess she must have known about me, though."

A faint smile meets Una’s assessment. “I didn’t always make great decisions, but no, I didn’t have a kid. I took myself to the clinic and got on birth control as soon as that became a thing.”

Jules bites into her cookie with a noise of satisfaction. Another noise follows it, this one accompanying her, “Huh. Well, shit. I’m sorry. I’m guessing you would’ve liked to have the chance to know her.” She watches Una for verification, sympathetic.

"Sensible," says Una, evenly. She doesn't even blush, for once, despite the not-entirely-oblique reference to sex.

"Yeah," she agrees. "I would've. It was just mom and me, and... it would've been nice to have had someone else. But I didn't. But maybe that's part of why coming here appealed so much: a connection to her, even if I didn't get to know her myself. I kind of wish one of the Doors would take me to see her, though. But-- that's not how it works, is it? We go where we go."

Jules nods as she finishes off this cookie and brushes away the crumbs that have fallen. Not on the book. “They might still,” she remarks. “I wonder if there is a way to try to control it. Or direct it. No one seems to know how these things work, though, or why they’ve started happening now. Something’s got to be behind it, right?”

She requires a second cookie while thinking this over.

This is a new thought, and has Una straightening in her chair. "That's-- an interesting thought," she says. "I mean, they're different to the kind of doors that people like Ravn can open, but they're kind of linked, I guess? I wonder. I wonder who on the Other Side would do this, and why. What the purpose is... I mean, aside from the fact that most of them are horrific. Not so much that one this week, though. With the little girl."

Her smile, in remembrance of Salma, is fond.

“Or the one Della and I went through to New Zealand,” Jules points out. She’s still pushing back against the idea that all things Veil-related are awful, even if awful things occur. “Or when Millie showed up.” Her eyes drop down to the book again.

“I think they’re opportunities, you know,” she says quietly. “To learn about ourselves. I’m not sure what I learned from Syria—but I did see Ravn sacrifice something for that girl. And Millie—“

"Millie reminded me that not all my family are assholes," says Una, simply. She's lifted her gaze to meet Jules', now, her hesitation as the other woman speaks fading away into confirmation by the end of it. "And that people can learn, if we take the time to educate them."

She bites her lip, hesitating. "I'm still not sure I agree with your read of them. But-- I don't think you're wholly wrong, either."

Jules can’t help the grin that pops into place with Una’s first remark. “Definitely good to know that there’s good people in your family history,” she agrees. “Even if we only got a glimpse of her— well, we know that much.” Her gaze slips down to the book again, fond.

“Maybe they’re what we make of them. If we expect it to always hurt us, then, well, maybe they always will.”

"I know they don't always hurt us," says Una, frowning. "I've even had some-- have I mentioned the Mexico Dreams to you? Those aren't doors, I know, but still: they're wonderful escapes to a beautiful place and they don't hurt anyone. So I know it's possible. But most of them? Most things that have happened to me have hurt. A lot have been actively, actively horrific."

She shrugs. "You can't blame me for being cautious."

“No, of course not. We’d be dumb to just leap through without a care in the world.” Jules shares another smile.

A change of subject is welcome: the fun and beautiful instead of the horrific or the complexities of families. “You haven’t told me about Mexico. What happened?”

"The first time it was Dita, Ravn and I. The second time Ari was there too. We just... woke up in this beautiful mansion in Mexico, and both times, the whole Dream was just eating delicious food, with beautiful cocktails, and swimming in the pool." Una's expression is fond for the recollection, and perhaps a little wistful; faraway, indeed.

Then she glances back at Jules. "No narrative, no nothing. It was amazing. Like having a real vacation."

Jules does indeed look a little envious as she proclaims, “Jealous. That sounds amazing. I’m glad you got that.”

She climbs out of her chair alongside Una, saying, “Gimme one sec. I’m gonna get a glass. That lemonade may not be a Mexican cocktail, but it looks good.” Jules is gone and back in a flash, now with a tall tumbler in hand. She pours for herself before she sits again.

“If you could go anywhere, where would it be?”

By the time Jules comes back, Una seems to have remembered her own lemonade, because she's got her glass in her hand and is tracing out her name in condensation with the other hand: sometimes it's useful to have such a short name.

Jules' question, however, draws her to a pause, and she shakes her head. "I'm not sure. I'd've probably said, like, ancient Rome or something, once upon a time, but I've had that and it was awful. I'd like to see more of the world. I feel so uncultured sometimes, you know? I've never been anywhere, seen anything. Most things I know, it's just because I read."

“Oh, I know,” Jules agrees wryly. “Until these Doors, the farthest I’d been was the Dakotas or the Southwest. I’ve never been on a plane.”

She slips the picture book beneath her sketch pad, where drips of condensation won’t accidentally fall on it. “I think I’d go somewhere like Tahiti. A real tropical island. Or back to Paris and actually see stuff.”

"Yeah," says Una, making a face. "Until last year, I'd never left the state. I'd love to go on a plane one day. See-- Paris, yeah. I'd love that. Or anywhere. Properly, and not as part of some Veil thing, where it might all go horribly wrong at any moment."

She sets her glass down again, and shifts her position, hooking one foot up upon the edge of her seat. "At least you're getting your diploma, now. You must feel so proud, having finished your first semester."

Jules looks thoughtful as she sips her lemonade. “I guess I am. It still feels far away. But hey, I didn’t fail anything,” she says brightly.

“Hey,” Jules says then. “When I finish this? Why don’t we save up and make a plan to actually go somewhere. Take a trip to Mexico for real.”

"You didn't fail," agrees Una, firmly. "Maybe you didn't go to college at eighteen, but... you're doing it now, and you're-- I just think it's really impressive." The redhead is a year younger, after all, and seems to have decided that she is definitely too old for that.

Jules' latter comment draws a pause, and then a big, beaming grin. "I'd like that," she says. "A lot. We'll deserve it. That gives us plenty of time to plan, right? And save."

Jules grins back, pleased not only with her idea, but with how it pleases Una. “Done. It’s on,” she declares and leans over to seal it with a clink of lemonade glasses.

“And thank you. You ever think about doing it too? There’s people of all sorts at Bayside—I was really impressed by how this fifty year old woman ended up in one of my classes last term. And it’s like, if she can do it, so can I.”

Una clinks hers gleefully enough, all-but-wiggling with enthusiasm for the idea.

Jules' question, though, draws a pause. She makes a face. "I know I could," she says. "But-- I'm going to try and start my own business, I think. I've had some interest from a few places, mostly in Hoquiam. Cookies. Someone saw my dick choux at Pride, I guess? And-- I'd already been thinking about it, but now I'm thinking more seriously about it. I wish I'd gone to school first, though. There's so many things I don't know about running a business."

“That’s amazing!” It’s Jules’ turn to praise her housemate. “I know you’d mentioned the business idea, but how cool is that? That you’re getting press? Do you want me to pick up a course catalogue for the fall? I’m sure they’ve got some business management classes—they have to. Ohhh, that could be so cool, Una, we could go to college together! And have homework dates and stuff.”

Una's blush is a pleased one more than an embarrassed one, though of course there's an element of that too. She hesitates, though, studying Jules' expression carefully. "You... wouldn't mind that?" she wants to know. "It wouldn't be like I was getting in your way? I mean, it'd have to be just a class at a time, if I'm going to do a business as well, I think. But--"

Whether she was actively thinking about the prospect before or not, she does seem to be giving it serious consideration now.

Jules dismisses that concern with both a semi-startled laugh and a wave of her free hand. “What? No! I think it’s awesome that you’re thinking about starting your own business and want to get some knowledge to go with it. And it’s hardly like I have a claim on the community college—you do what you need to do, for you, and you know that me and all the rest of your friends are just gonna cheer you on.”

Una opens her mouth, ready to jump in and say something, but evidently thinks better of it. It's not that she doesn't respond, but she takes a moment or two first. "If you could pick me up a catalogue," she says, with a smile that is slightly (maybe more than slightly) shy. "I'd really like that. I'll need to work out how to make it all work, but... it's exciting, right? Making big decisions. Making things work."

She takes a quick sip from her glass, and then hesitates. The flush of her cheeks is probably a leftover, right? "You and Della still have to have your night out, don't you?" she says.

"It is," Jules agrees. She smiles across the way, tempering her enthusiasm towards a quieter kind of support. "It is exciting," she affirms. "They have plenty of evening classes, you know, in case that works better with your schedule. They're really popular."

Another swallow of lemonade. "We do." If there's anything fishy about Una's question, it doesn't occur to Jules. "Totally forgot about it, what with everything that's been happening. I should check with her about it and see if she's still up for it. You don't mind us going out? You can totally come. The bet wasn't that serious."

"I'll have to do some research," Una confirms, with a light in her eyes that is unquestionably excitement, echoing her words from before.

Her head shakes, firmly, for Jules' reply to the latter question. "No, not at all. I was just telling Ravn yesterday, when I did that cooking class at HOPE, that it can be hard, sometimes, as an introvert. I love you all, but--" There's that flush again. "So you should absolutely go. Go dancing afterwards, if you like. We'll go out, all three of us, some other time."

“We can be a lot,” Jules acknowledges. She’s admittedly speaking more about herself than Della. “I get that.” She probably doesn’t fully, extrovert that she is, but she accepts Una’s remarks at face value. “Alright. I’ll get it set up. I don’t know about the dancing—is there any place to go dancing here? Though that sounds kinda fun. And then we drag you with us next time!” There’s a wicked glint in her eye. Una’s been warned.

"If there is somewhere, I have faith you'll find it," grins Una, whose expression is bright and pleased. "You can scope it out, and I'll definitely come with you next time. We need to make sure we're spending time with each other, all three of us, no distractions sometimes, right? It's important. I--"

She hesitates. "I know we're not all going to live together forever. But for now, I don't know. It's important."

“It is,” Jules firmly agrees. She too pauses, trying to work her way through what to say and how to say it. “I know I’ve been gone more,” she says next, carefully, “but I hope you know that that doesn’t mean I don’t love being here, in this house with you and Della. I’m not about to give that up anytime soon. It’s important to me, too.”

She sets her glass aside, and the ice cubes click as they resettle. “Even if I’m seeing someone—especially if I’m seeing someone—I don’t want that to take the place of my friendships, or consume my whole life, or anything like that. And if you think that it is, or it’s starting to head that way, I’d want you to say something. That’s not what I want.”

Una's quiet, as Jules speaks, watching her-- and the ice cubes, just for a moment-- with a serious, thoughtful expression. By the end of it, she's shaking her head firmly. "I know," she says. "And I don't-- I don't ever want you to think like you're letting us," me, "down by not being around all the time. You're not. I'm not possessive. I don't need all of you, or anyone. And you're not-- you're not abandoning us, I know that. I can see that. You're spending time with him, because of course you are, but you're still here."

She swallows, and then adds: "But I promise: if I think you're letting him, or anyone, take over your life, I'll say something. I promise."

“Good.” Jules is firm on this. No more needs to be said, as far as she’s concerned.

Instead, she tilts her head to one side, considering Una from this angle, and asks, “Would you mind if I sketch you? Our assignments are portraits this week.”

Una's eyes widen with immediate surprise, and her cheeks flood with pink. "Oh!" she says. "Um-- sure, if you like. How do you want me to sit? I mean... well, just tell me what to do, I guess? I can do it."

“Just do what you were doing.” Jules looks pleased to have Una’s agreement. She flips open her sketchbook and wiggles the charcoal pencil out from the spiral loops she’s stuck it in. “I don’t need you to strike a pose or anything. Just relax and stay relatively still.”

With these instructions, Jules moves to easy conversation meant to relax and distract. “So the Pride cookies were a big hit, I take it. Tell me more about this business idea you’ve got cooking. You thinking like a storefront bakery, or more of a made-to-order catering kind of thing?”

"Oh," says Una. "Okay-- I can do that." She tries not to look too self-conscious in the process, focusing her attention on Jules but not too intently. Deep breath.

Jules talking at her definitely helps. "Yeah-- yeah, apparently they were. I had no idea. Definitely more the latter. Like, providing basic baked goods to coffee shops-- not Espresso Yourself yet, but we'll see, maybe in future-- and to restaurants, if they want that kind of thing. Or baked good gift baskets for summer airbnbs. And I'll offer things by the dozen, too, for people who just want some special treats, but I think that'll be more ad-hoc. I guess I'm going to need to actually properly learn how to drive, though."

“You thinking cookies? Cinnamon rolls? Or more like what you did with the dick pastries?” Jules can’t remember the word for choux. “It makes sense to me that you’d want to build a clientele base first,” she says, gaze flickering between Una and the first lines she’s putting to paper. “Really figure out what people like best, too, and perfect those recipes.”

Baking was, of course, the perfect choice for relaxing Una: keeping her talking without letting her focus too much on the fact that she is both being observed and actually committed to paper.

"I mean-- all of the above, probably. Mostly cookies, but cinnamon rolls, too, and if someone wants a tray of dick choux for a bachelorette party? I can do that too. I figure... well, that kind of thing spreads by word of mouth, doesn't it? I don't want to be the dick baker, but if that brings in the orders, I can work with it."

It's a pretty funny thought, though, and it makes her grin: Una Irving, the dick baker.

“Anything you would want to branch out into?” Jules inquires next. It’s calculated, of course, to keep Una relaxed, but she is interested. “Just sweet things?”

"I mean, more bread products, probably. That's the obvious one. I don't mind making bread." She clearly doesn't: she makes it semi-regularly, and has a well-tended sourdough starter on hand. "I think it'll depend on the market, though. If people really want the savoury things, I can absolutely do that. But cookies will probably always be my passion, you know?"

“Yeah.” Jules has a light smile playing at her lips as she sketches. She works relatively fast, trying to capture outlines and proportions. “How many kinds do you make now?” she asks. “Snickerdoodle, chocolate chip, those oatmeal-chip-nut ones I like…what else?”

"Oh-- I don't know, how do you even count? Shortbread, and I make the cookie butter ones-- speculaas or speculoos depending on where you're from-- and, um, I made hamantaschen for Itzhak, and just plain sugar cookies, and... raisin ones, for Ravn. There are just so many kinds. That's what I love about cookies, really: there are endless varieties, and they're all delicious, in different ways."

Una's trying hard not to focus her attention on Jules' sketchbook, and instead just talk. It's hard, though.

“I can’t wait to see what you come up with for Christmas.” The sketch pad is flat on her lap, so it’s relatively easy to peek.

“Raisin with oatmeal?” she inquires. “Oh, did you try the raisin croissant thing I brought back from Paris?” She means pain au raisin. “I’ve never liked raisins all that much until I tried that pastry. What are hamantaschen?”

"I'm going to have to do so much baking for Christmas this year," says Una, sounding genuinely delighted. "I've always wanted a proper tree, hung with cookies. Biscuits, I suppose, if we're being English about it. Or German, I guess? Lots of gingerbread. Maybe a gingerbread house?"

Una reaches for her glass again, sipping at it before she adds, "Raisin with oatmeal, yeah. I did. That croissant was amazing. You have no idea how good things can be until you get them properly, right?"

Slower, then: "Hamantaschen are sort of a pocket cookie. Triangular, filled with apricot, traditionally. They're Jewish, made for Purim. More like shortcrust pastry, I guess, than most cookies, but-- they're good. They were a fun challenge, particularly if you're being properly kosher and not including dairy. I think I threw out two batches first."

“Mmm, gingerbread. I didn’t know people hung cookies on trees.” A fervent nod meets Una’s assessment of the pain au raisin. “If you decided to experiment with making those, I wouldn’t complain.”

Jules keeps her tone casual as she asks follow-up questions. This is a conversation just about cookies, right? Right. “Those sound tasty. Anything with fruit tends to be good. Except I ate way too many fig newtons as a kid, and now, I’ll give those a pass. Apricot, though. That I’d try. Even if it’s butter-free. Were you happy with the end result? Planning to make them again? Also, what’s Purim? I know zero about Jewish holidays except for Hanukkah. Are you Jewish?”

"I'll keep that in mind," tease Una, amusedly. "That kind of laminated dough is... tricky. Time consuming and tricky. But I'll give it a go for you."

Just cookies. Nothing else. "Oh, I can't touch fig newtons either-- isn't that funny? For a while I thought they were amazing and now... blurgh. No, I'm not Jewish. Honestly, I'd never had the things before until-- well. I'd intended to take Itzhak cookies for ages, ever since Ravn mentioned he was having a hard time. And it's stupid, but I just had this... oh, he's Jewish, let me make some kind of Jewish cookie. Actually, they're really good. Not all that sweet, so a bit different, but really good."

Jules looks so pleased at the prospect of Parisian-inspired treats. That’s what explains her beam as Una continues. “He must have really appreciated it,” she says. “It’s a really thoughtful thing, to go out of your way to find that kind of recipe and experimenting to get it right, when you could’ve just whipped up a batch of chocolate chip. It only takes you fifteen minutes at this point, doesn’t it? If that.”

The faintest hint of a blush suffuses Una's cheeks. "He did," she admits. "He said they were good, that they tasted the way they should, which was the important thing for me. But-- yeah, I guess? I mean, I made snickerdoodles too and included some of them, because I wasn't sure. But I feel like, sometimes... we all have a special cookie. You and your monster cookies, right? Ari and snickerdoodles. I like trying to match people up."

With cookies, Jules. Nothing else.

“Good for you, getting it right!” Praise Una, yes. This is entirely about her baking skills.

“So do you think you’ll make them for him again? Now that you’ve figured out his special cookie?” Jules says this with an absolutely straight face. Just look at how hard she’s concentrating on her drawing, brows drawn together, lips too. Definitely not repressing a giggle.

'Special cookie' is a phrase that Una will absolutely live to regret. She flushes dark, this time, and hastily shakes her head to try and get rid of... well, whatever it is she's thinking, probably.

"I don't know if they're his favourites, actually," she says. "I didn't ask, in the end. Maybe, though."

Jules glances up in time to catch just how extreme Una’s blush is—not that she’s likely to miss it. That’ll take some time to fade from her cheeks. Jules allows a small, thoughtful smile, like she hasn’t just inadvertently embarrassed Una with innuendo. “Oh.”

She lets it drop there, because she’s definitely not fishing for information. Not Jules.

"What?" says Una.

Please say something, Jules. Something that allows Una to focus on something that is not special fucking cookies.

“Nothing,” Jules claims. “I was just curious. If you were adding this into your cookie list and delivery service, or what. Turn your head a little to the right?”

Not, in the end, helping Una's blush. She turns her head as instructed, blurting her answer without even thinking about it (that's definitely not going to help the blush). "I'd need a proper kosher kitchen to be able to do it properly," she explains. "You can't mix meat and dairy. Itzhak," there's that name again, "said there'd be a market for it, but I don't think I could be the one to fill that gap. Not Jewish. That'd be wrong."

“I don’t think it’s wrong if you’re respectful and follow the rules,” Jules says thoughtfully. “And if he suggested it, then it’s not like you’re trying to elbow in on your own. It does sound hard, though. You’d probably want a second kitchen altogether. Especially since Della and I would probably forget and mess it up.”

A little pause. Jules is shading, now, with the edge of her charcoal pencil. “Sounds like he was really impressed.”

Jules has, whether she intended to or not, offered Una a lifeline: a way to slide past this other topic and focus on something she's more comfortable with. "I've been thinking about that," she says. "If my business takes off, I'll need a proper, professional kitchen. Not even for worrying about kosher or not, just-- food safety standards, and having the space I need. I was thinking about the basement. I mean, it's that or rent a separate space, and at least I already own the basement, you know?"

Jules is a little slow to respond. It’s wholly related to the concentration she’s giving her sketch, gaze flicking up and back again, trying to get the details right.

“It could be a smart investment, too. If you ever decided to sell this place. You could turn the basement into a kind of mother-in-law suite, complete with separate kitchen. Not that you’re planning to sell, but just thinking about long term home improvements. More than renting, short term, but maybe it would pay off over time.”

"Maybe," says Una, sounding faintly surprised, her brow furrowing in consideration. It's distracting her from her need to blush, at least. "I hadn't thought of that, but of course there's room. It is a big investment, but... it's something I need to do, if I'm going to do this properly. There's a lot to think about, you know? I feel way out of my depth with... a lot of it. A lot of things. I know how to make cookies, not the rest of this."

“One more reason to take a class,” Jules declares. “Here.”

She’s finished her sketch, or finished enough so that she feels ready to flip the notebook around and let Una have a proper look.

Una laughs... but doesn't disagree.

Comment, however, is held back, because Jules is flipping the notebook, and Una correspondingly leans forward. "Oh!" she says, not surprised but perhaps something distantly related to it. "Oh, it really is me. I had no idea you were so good at this. Are you... enjoying your class?"

Jules looks pleased, watching Una’s reaction. “Thanks. I used to draw a lot, and then I just…stopped. It’s nice to pick it back up again. And to actually get some instruction. I am enjoying it, yes. Learning a lot. And it’s good to get the constant feedback.”

"Learning new things is good," is Una's opinion. "And so is feedback. I'm glad. More lemonade? Another cookie?"

And so the afternoon continues.