Sam served the fluffy omelets with cantaloupe, strawberries, and wheat toast with orange marmalade. He sat a carton of orange juice and a bottle of champagne on the table, along with three stemmed glasses. “Mimosa, Bo?” he asked. “The perfect accompaniment to this delicious omelet! By all means!” she smiled, her white teeth flashing. “How about you, Beck? Straight orange juice? Or would you like a splash of champagne in it?” Becky beamed. “I’ll try a splash! Thanks, Sam! It’s a day to celebrate, isn’t it?” Bo arched an eyebrow at Sam, but said nothing. He caught her expression and shrugged. It was none of her business. Becky was alone in the house a lot and could drink the plentiful bar dry if she were so inclined—but she never did. Sam figured a splash of champagne in her juice while under his supervision was responsible. That was the rule in Holland—where he had spent some time—and he thought it made sense. Several other European countries did as well. Several seagulls soared lazily in the cerulean sky.
