That feeling was nowhere to be found by Tuesday evening. I’d spent the entire day scrubbing my place from top to bottom, making it shine and sparkle like an ad for cleaning products. Enticing smells of thyme, garlic, and red wine came from the kitchen and made my mouth water. The beef bourguignon—that would probably make Julia Childs roll in her grave, considering the adjustments I’d made to it—had been simmering for hours, making the meat so tender it would fall apart just by looking at it. The potatoes were mashed, the homemade bread rolls hot from the oven, and the wine decanting.
Everything was ready to go.
And yet, I stood by the dining room table, jumping from one foot to the other while gnawing at my lower lip. Wringing my hands. If I’d been wearing pearls, I’m sure I would have c
