“Does Aunt Simone not like you?”

We’re in a taxi heading to some place for brunch at her insistence. It’s where the trade-off is supposed to happen, which is probably for the best right now. Despite having plenty of space with three bedrooms, my apartment isn’t exactly the most cheerful or child-friendly place.

I look over at Stuart. “Why do you ask that?”

He shrugs and cocks his head at me, as though trying to figure out why she should dislike me. “She doesn’t smile at you like she smiles at me. Do you like her?”

I chuckle and stare out the window. “I tolerate her.” It’s as close to honest as I can get.

“What does tolerate mean?”

“It means I try to stay focused on the end goal in my interactions with her.” Another truth, but I can see I’ve left him more confused than anything. Fortunately, we arrive at the restaurant before he can probe any further.

It’s one of those trendy places in the East Village where the prices and the hype exaggerate the quality of the food. Already the line is halfway down the block. If Simone thinks I’m waiting more than five minutes to get into this place she’s sorely mistaken. I’ll happily take the three of us to a McDonald’s for Happy Meals and be done with it.

She’s nowhere to be found when we step out of the car. Naturally.

I look at my watch and once again calculate how much of my life she is wasting.

“Aunt Simone!”

Stuart’s hand wrenches free of mine and he’s lost in the crowd. It’s like he’s got some sort of radar, the way he always senses her presence long before I’ve even spotted her. She’s in yet another pink knee-length dress, much less formal today. It’s a darker hue than last night, with a kind of lacy material covering the slip-like thing underneath.

The thing that has most—and mostly male, at that—heads turning are the long, shimmery legs leading down to the platform sandals that lace up her ankles. That and the peek of smooth, brown skin showing through the top part of her dress. The slip underneath the lacy covering has spaghetti straps and a V neckline giving a hint of supple cleavage that is far more enticing than it would be if she was spilling right out of it.

She picks Stuart up into the comfort of said cleavage and his legs wrap firmly around her waist once again. I smirk to myself, wondering how many pairs of eyes that landed on her wish they could trade places with this five-year-old boy right about now. I couldn’t say I wouldn’t be one of them…if it were anyone other than Simone Parker.

The two feathered earrings that seem more appropriate for a trip to Coachella swing into her dark hair—still with the pink ends—as she twirls him around. She’s wearing those same ridiculous sunglasses she wore to the reading of the will. Based on what I saw last night, I have a pretty good idea why.

“It seems the crowd has beat us,” I point out as she finally carries him over to me.

She lets Stuart slide down her front—sending another tantalizing image to the male half of the crowd near us—and she gives me a pert twitch of the lips.

“Not a problem,” she says, raising her glasses to the top of her head and struts confidently to the front of the line and right through the door.

“Simone!” says the hostess looking at her with a bright smile.

“Maura,” she responds amicably and they perform that air kiss on both sides of the face that women and Europeans do.

“Your table is waiting. I’ll let Oliver know you’re here.”

I raise an eyebrow, my opinion of my brother’s sister-in-law inching up just a tad. I have a definite respect for people who have connections. In my business connections are everything.

Even though Simone is the star of the show in that dress, I draw my own set of stares. I’m still rather dull in comparison to her, wearing a dark blue Polo shirt, khakis and loafers. Stuart is cute in the way that I suppose children are, in the outfit I let him pick out this morning of blue corduroy shorts, a green polo shirt and tennis shoes.

We must look like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad, complete with that multicultural flair: just two attractive parents having brunch with their attractive son. But like all seemingly perfect families, the truth is far from what it seems. I have no doubt that this little hand-off is going to be more akin to Alexander Hamilton dueling with Aaron Burr than a happy little outing to brunch.

No sooner has Maura seated us than a man comes by to replace her, groveling at Simone before he even takes note of the rest of us.

“Simone, Simone, Simone....it’s been too long! When I heard you were coming I saved your favorite table.”

“Oliver, as always, you’re a sweetheart,” she says. They do that European kiss thing. He turns to take a look at Stuart, sitting at the head of the table and then me, sitting across from Simone. The eyes linger on yours truly just long enough to recognize which team he bats for.

DILF indeed.

“I see we’ve upgraded from he who shall not be named. And what a handsome son he has!”

Simone frowns up at him. “Stuart is not his son, and we are not dating.”

A panicked look comes over his face, realizing he’s made some sort of faux pas.

The ice in her voice melts a bit as she continues on. “Stuart is my nephew, my sister Bette’s son.”

He nods his head solemnly then bends down, placing his hands on his knees. “Well, hello there Stuart. Do you like pancakes?”

“Yes,” he replies gingerly, shy once again.

“We have some perfect little silver dollar pancakes just for a boy your size. Would you like that?”

Now his brow is wrinkled in confusion. “Pancakes made of dollars?”

Oliver laughs and stands up. “Oh he is adorable, Simone.”

She beams at Stuart proudly. “They’re just mini pancakes, sweetie. Just like regular ones, only smaller.”

“And…?” Oliver asks, casting that appreciative glance my way again.

Simone’s glance is decidedly less proud as she answers. “This is his uncle.”

“I see. Well, what an attractive family you all make.” Now we’re both frowning up toward him at the implication.

“I’ll be having my usual, Oliver,” Simone says, quickly changing the topic.

“And I suppose I’ll have a menu,” I say pointedly.

By now he’s more than happy to make his escape and scurries away to get Simone’s “usual” and my menu.

“So I’m guessing you're a regular here?”

She gives me a dry look. “I wrote a glowing blog piece on this restaurant. That line you see out there? It’s partly because of me. Naturally, the owner plays favorites with me.”

Once again, I find myself mildly impressed. Perhaps this blog of hers isn’t as frivolous as I thought. It’s worth looking into. If she’s a halfway decent businesswoman, it could be problematic.

I finally get my menu. At the same time, a tiny bottle of champagne and similar sized carafe of orange juice appears, alongside an empty champagne flute for Simone. So this is her “usual” at this place. No surprises there.

“I would have thought you had your fill last night,” I say, raising an eyebrow at the mimosa she’s now mixing, heavier on the bubbly than the OJ.

“Hair of the dog, dear brother-in-law,” she says with a wry smirk as she sips it.

I actually cough out a laugh.

“What does that mean?” Stuart asks, sitting on his knees in his chair as he leans forward on his elbows to inspect the small bottles.

“It’s”—she pauses and looks at me—“like a kind of medicine.”

He wrinkles his nose. “I don't like medicine. Are you sick?”

“I’ll feel better when this brunch is over,” she says, raising a pointed eyebrow in my direction as she takes another sip. “Then we can plot our day. How would you like to go to Central Park?”

“Can Uncle Archer come too?”

She brings the flute down to the table a bit too suddenly, causing whatever is left in it to slosh around. I’m more surprised than she is at this request. I wouldn’t have thought I’d made much of an impression on the boy, as quiet as he’s been during his time with me. Apparently, all it takes is the right amount of Aunt Simone nearby to open him up.

“Well, I’m sure Uncle Archer is very busy,” she says looking at me with a not so subtle hint in her voice.

I grin back and watch her expression change as she realizes I’m not taking the bait. “Nonsense, I have all afternoon free.”

I look down at Stuart and I’m surprised at how flattered I am at his pleased smile. “After today your aunt gets you all to herself. I think we should make the most of the time we have together. And I happen to love Central Park.” I haven’t been in years, but the result is worth it.

Stuart smiles.

Simone steams.

Our waiter comes by at just the right moment to take my order of a Spanish omelet and, what the heck, a Bloody Mary. Stuart orders chocolate milk, in the spirit of us drinking our troubles away.

“So have you been enjoying your time with Uncle Archer?” she asks conversationally. I can hear the subtext though. Perhaps Auntie Simone is trying to dig up her own dirt?

“Mmm hmm,” he says, nodding with a shy smile, which gives me a nice little stroke to the ego. “He let me have gummy bears on the plane, and the lady on the plane brought them in bowls—she was very nice—and he let me have a Swedish fish, but they aren’t really fish, and chocolate milk, and then we had an Irish Wake—I mean a Bennett Wake,” he smiles proudly at me, “at Uncle Archer’s—”

“Is that so?” she interjects, raising an eyebrow my way. That’s the exact moment that my Bloody Mary arrives.

“Yes, I had chocolate milk and Uncle Archer had—”

“We don’t need to give Aunt Simone all the details,” I say easily, interrupting him.

Simone just gives me a smug smile.

Fair play to you, dear sister-in-law.

Let the games begin.