(This is late and crap. >< Sorry!)

"Who is it?" Amelie asked, not looking up from Renee, who was in the process of eating, or trying to eat. The only end she was really achieving, however, was to whack herself on the cheek repeatedly with the spoon, full of food, and overally making a mess that was making Amelie cringe on the inside. Her daughter seemed highly amused with the ordeal, though, and seemed relentlessly focused on making a greater mess. Perhaps she did not want to eat. Evidently having inherited some of her grandmother's stubbornness, once her mind was made up, little or nothing could reverse her decision. Not that Amelie was about to let up, really. It was a battle of wills.

On the whole, it had been just this sort of a day - stubborn, unyielding and a little pigheaded. Those were, of course, adjectives that had been, more than once, associated with her, but that was a whole other matter. Not much had gone exactly as it should have, not much was particularly behaving itself. If it wasn't Renee, it was the mess in the drawing room (which was not so much a mess as it was a little disorganised - which of course was intolerable and frustrating), and if it wasn't the mess the drawing room, it was the food she'd tried to cook and failed miserably at. Amelie was a great many things - single mother, reporter, stubborn, annoying, somewhat obsessive woman - but she was no cook, and the kitchen, which knew this best of all, was taking great pleasure, it seemed, in rubbing this in her face.

The day, overall, was stubborn, trying to mock her or just generally get in the way, like a somewhat agitated pet might. Like Renee was. Amelie did not relent. She did take a break now to frown slightly, set Renee's food on the table, and head towards the door. Not too many people visited her; one could say her impression of too many people was rather warped - too many people was a hundred odd people cramped into her parents' house's hall. But even by normal standards, she sometimes felt, not nearly enough people visited her. Though she was not sure if she wanted them to visit her in the first place, given the overall situation at home, which, she felt, was less than presentable.

Hurriedly readjusting the newspapers on the coffee table, she walked to the door and opened it. And then blinked at the sight of Winchester Donovan Connolly III leaning ever so nonchalantly against the door. It was hard to tell whether she was grateful for the company or annoyed because of it. "Hello," she greeted, almost apprehensively, stepping back to allow the man to step inside. She was not sure if she wanted him to leave, though she was almost entirely certain she would not have willingly asked him to stay. With Donovan, however, usually one did not have to take these decisions. Not to mention that against all odds, she found his company not entirely terrible, even if he was an overgrown child. With hormones. That was a strange mental picture.

"Renee's temperamental today," she warned, before stepping into the dining room to find that her temperamental daughter had managed to upset the bowl of food entirely. "And messy," she sighed, getting the flannel to mop it up while her daughter smiled widely at Donovan. If there was nothing reason why Amelie would not ask him to leave, it was this; Renee seemed to adore him. Unsure of the reasonable and polite thing to do, she asked him, "How are you?" And attemped to ignore that Renee had poked the spoon onto her mother's cheek, taking it from her daughter, who seeemed loathe to give it up.