“All I’m saying is that since you up and left us, I find it interesting that you chose to stay at his messy apartment instead of at mine when you got home three days ago.”
She knows.
She knows that I lied and told her I got in today. I’m going to kill Bradley.
I set my cup down and keep the hot liquid on my tongue. It burns. My face turns red under her judgmental brow. Yes, when I got off at South Station, I went straight to Bradley’s. His parents were my saviors during high school, while Mom was jet-setting with her husbands and I was forced into private school. Bradley and his friendship were the only good things that sustained me. He’s just started medical school, planning on going to some third world country to heal the less fortunate—because it’s not enough that he looks like an angel, but he’s also got the soul to match.
“Bradley’s got a girlfriend,” I say, my tongue as bitter as the black coffee.
“That’s because you never stay put.” She runs a hand down her platinum hair. I can see the half-inch of dark at the roots, which is surprising because she never lets her roots show. “If you stayed in one place for more than six months, you’d have someone.”
“I’ve been in New York for almost a year,” I counter.
“And all you have to show is a case of bedbugs.” She grimaces. “I hope you didn’t bring any with you.”
“Don’t worry, I burned my mattress and sheets. Which is why all I have are the clothes on my back.”
She holds her hands up in mock defeat.
This dance we do, my mother and me, can go on for days. Last year, at her old place in Cambridge, we became slightly nocturnal, her trying out recipes in the middle of the night and me with Bradley at some overpriced, downtown attempt at a New York speakeasy until the sun came up. It went on for an entire week before we made it to our yearly dinner—
Her phone goes off and I see Felicity’s name and picture pop up on the screen. Round face. Freckles. She wears a suit that makes her look like a girl playing dress up in her mom’s clothes. She reminds me of a turtle who can’t suck her head back in her shell.
Mom answers, “Go for Stella.”
I groan at how fake it makes her sound, but I’m relieved that I don’t have to make conversation with her. I take an apple off the table and sink my teeth into it. The flavor doesn’t mix well with coffee aftertaste, but it temporarily satisfies the empty feeling in my belly. Then I take in the kitchen once again, and I think, “Dad would have loved this kitchen,” only to realize that in the parts of the house I’ve seen, there isn’t a single picture of my dad.
Come to think of it, there isn’t a single picture of me either.
“WHAT?” she shouts.
In that instant, my old mother is back. Her TV-personality voice, the husky alto of a sexy Martha Stewart, is replaced by the breaking pitch of her shrill scream.
“How bad is it?” She reaches for her cup of coffee and ends up pushing it instead. It tilts sideways and I’m close enough to catch it, but the contents slosh off the sides, and for the second time today I’ve got coffee dripping all over me. “I’ll be right there.”
My mom sets the phone on the white marble countertop and takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose, pushing the pressure of an oncoming headache away.
“Get dressed, we have to go.”
“Go where?”
“Apparently nothing is allowed to go right. I swear if it wasn’t for—Come on, Lucky, I don’t have time to sit here. Put on something clean and wash your face.”
“Why do I have to go?”
“Dammit Lucky, can’t I ask you to do something for me without you having to ask why?” Her hand starts trembling. It’s slight, and she grabs the shaky hand with the steady one, but I’ve already noticed it. Her white and gold exterior is cracking and for reasons I don’t know how to explain, it bothers me.
“Okay, but can I at least know where we’re going and where the fire is?”
She ushers me into a guest bedroom, her foot tapping the hardwood floor like a doomsday clock.
“And by ‘fire,’ I mean a metaphorical fire, right?”
“Something’s wrong at the restaurant.” She makes a face when she sees my outfit—faded black jeans and a t-shirt that says I EAT WITH ZOMBIES—and groans but decides there isn’t time for a second change. “Perhaps your luck can rub off on it while you’re here.”
I bark a laugh, which doesn’t console her. “Lucky, me?”
Chapter 3
The Star, a fine dining “experience” is an extension of my mom’s new lifestyle. Clean. White. Modern. Glass.
Sure, it looks expensive, like a designer dress you’re afraid to wear because it might get dirty. Despite the careful selection of square white tables, the giant sculptured lamps, and tall vases ready and waiting for their flower bouquets, I can tell it’s missing something. Something my dad would have called spirit. Life. Love.
I run my hand along the length of the bar. The wood is freshly polished and I can smell the stain, but most of the bar is unfinished. Much to my mother’s dismay, I’ve served behind a few bars. And when I say “a few,” I mean “a lot.” They were never this nice, this fresh. The wall behind it has room for a huge selection of good booze, not the watered down stuff some places serve, which makes my bartending heart pitter-patter.
But I’m beyond that now. I’m here to hit the reset button on my life. So with my eye behind my camera I snap one shot of the most beautiful bar I’ve seen in a long time and I follow my mother’s scream.
“When did this happen?” my mom asks Felicity. Mom doesn’t introduce us, but Felicity smiles, and waves at me like we’re long lost friends, before returning her attention to my mother.
A throng of construction guys crowd around the women’s bathroom. Everyone holds their hands to their mouths. I don’t understand why until the reek hits my nostrils, like a dead cat wrapped up in flambéed human skin.
“What the—?” I nearly gag when I get closer.
My mom clutches her phone to her chest, her knuckles white. She’s seconds away from screaming or hyperventilating or both.
“The lines in the street are backed up. Something about the rain and flooding and clogging up sewer lines,” Felicity says, trying to smile despite the odor. “The whole block is having problems. I’ve been trying to get a plumber down here, but no one is available ‘til Monday. The ones that can make themselves available want to charge us a 400% markup.”
“That’s—I can’t—!” My mom’s knuckles go white around her phone. “This is completely unacceptable.”
“Oh! One of the construction workers thinks he can help,” Felicity says. Then she whispers in my ear, “But I think he’s just making it worse.”
The sound of wood breaking in half fills the room, followed by a loud crash.
I run with my mother to the main room where a wooden beam has snapped in half and fallen across a section of tables. Sparks flicker where a golden light fixture has shattered.
“Mom, no!” I hold my arm out to stop her from moving forward.
The sparks of the exposed wires turn into little flames that catch onto the fresh paint. Felicity screams and someone shouts wondering why the sprinklers aren’t going off. The construction guys don’t know which way to go. Everyone just stares as the small fire eats the head on the beam like a struck match.
I run to the bar area and grab the fire extinguisher. My last bar kept it back there because my bar-mate’s fire blowing trick sometimes got out of hand.
I hop on top of the bar and blast the flames before they do any real damage. White residue coats the entire section, giving the illusion of an abandoned Christmas display. A dizzy head rush makes me wobble. Someone’s hand grabs my leg to keep my steady but I insist I’m fine.
“Lucky!” My mom is on the border of hysteria, her voice ten octaves too high.
“I’m fine,” I say, hopping down from the bar.
She holds me at arms length
and studies my face. I shake from the adrenaline, but I’m good. The last time she held me like this, I had fallen off the roof trying to sneak out. For a moment I let myself think about the way she was before all this. I pull out of her hold and repeat, “I’m fine.”
Several construction guys scratch their heads as they survey the mess, wondering how in Construction Heaven this could have happened. More and more people come out of the kitchen area.
My mom presses her fingertips to her temples and closes her eyes. Her pristine restaurant is falling apart and she’s standing right in the center of it. All eyes drift towards her, waiting for her to explode. I know my mom likes attention, but this isn’t the kind she’s used to, and I can see it in the tension of her shoulders.
A short mustached man in a plaid shirt and tan work boots wrings his brown hands as he works up the courage to talk.
“I don’t know how it happened, Ms. Carter,” he says. “We used the best of everything—”
My mom inhales deeply. I recognize the look and the intake of breath that steadies her, readies her anger. She’s a dragon.
“Then how, pray tell, did this happen, Carlos?” She’s speaking up at the ceiling, the naked wires exposed where the wooden beam broke the light fixture. “Because if that had happened during the tasting, I would’ve gotten my guests killed! And on top of that—” She turns her body to the bathroom, but can’t bear to look at it.
My mom’s hands start trembling. She holds her cell phone like a weapon. “Do you know what next week is?”
Carlos shakes his head.
“The restaurant’s tasting for my network, Boston Foodie, Lush Life, and a whole bunch of food bloggers who wouldn’t know a merlot from a malbec, but have hundreds of thousands of followers.” She’s so close to his face but the man doesn’t back down. Not one bit, like he loves standing in the way of her fire.
“Mom—” I grab her trembling hand. It makes her jump. “Relax.”
Then she flips on me, her gray eyes like tiny thunderstorms. “Relax?”
“You—”
“Relax? Do you know how hard I’ve worked for this? Look at what’s happening!”
Now we have an audience. There were times after Dad was gone that Mom wouldn’t sleep for days. Her eyes would get extra bulgy. She’d pick fights over my haircut, my clothes, my homework, until we were screaming and throwing things at each other.
Eventually she’d fall asleep, like she’d exorcised whatever demon was inside her. I wonder who’s been that person for her since I moved out. I wonder why whenever I’m with her, I feel like I’m the one who’s more put together. So I’ve got that going for me.
“Look,” I say, taking her by the hand and pull her past the staff and construction workers. Smoke lingers around the room. I hold her wrist. “How many people are coming to this pre-tasting thing?”
She thinks for a bit, then says, “Thirty five. Wait, Thirty six.”
“How many people does the restaurant sit?”
“Two hundred.”
“So you don’t need the whole place to be open, just a small section, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
I walk through the tables and point to a section closer to the front, facing the bar. “You can dim the lights over on that wall so no one can see the damage while they fix it.”
“But I’ll see it.”
“But they won’t.” I laugh and she looks incredulous. “Remember when I was in junior high and I had a zit as big as Texas on my forehead and I wouldn’t go on stage and you said—”
“No one notices it but you.” She’s trying hard not to smile, to remain stoic.
“This is the same thing.”
We stare at each other. Her hand starts to tremble in mine and she presses it against her stomach to make it stop. Our relationship isn’t ideal, but she’s still my mom. It’s like no matter what, I feel the need to take care of her.
Then she smiles, really smiles. She pinches my cheek and says, “See? I told you you’d rub off.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“I mean it, Lucky,” she says, pressing her hair back with a shaking hand. “Hey, I have a nutty idea. Why don’t you stay on and see this through?”
I shake my head, holding onto my camera for support. “I can’t, Mom. I’m only in town for—” I don’t finish it. I’m only in town for Dad.
She breathes in, and then Stella, of “Evenings in Stella’s Kitchen,” is back. “I see. Well, in the mean time, there’s work to do. You need a paycheck, don’t you?”
She sidesteps me and goes back to her team. She calls for Carlos, and the mustached man steps forward and starts taking measurements on the broken wall. Mom is giving people jobs. Felicity is talking so fast on the phone I tune her out for fear I’ll become dizzy.
So this is my mom’s life in the past year—building a restaurant while I was trying to become a photographer in New York and getting doors slammed in my face. Technically, after I leave Boston, I don’t have a next step. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a nice place to stay and a job while I try to figure things out. And my mom really could use the help…
I feel the warmth of someone standing directly behind me. The scent of beach and leather. Hands clap slowly.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
“Impressive.”
I whip around at the sound of his voice. My stomach drops like an elevator that’s been snapped from its harness, plummeting down, down, down. My heart races at the sight of his sea-green eyes. Done clapping, he crosses his arms over his chest and somehow seems taller than this morning at the coffee shop. He cocks an eyebrow and stares down at me. Mr. Tall Latte. Sprinkle-some-cinnamon-on-top Jay. How did he find me?
“Way to save the day, Lucy.”
Chapter 4
“You.”
Out of all the things I can possibly say, I go with “you.”
Jay circles me. His name is clear in my head, black letters drawn beside a heart and a number that’s blurry. His eyes, so bright in the whiteness of the restaurant, trace the lines of my face, my dirty hair, my zombie shirt. I smell—I must, after a sleepless, drunken night and then walking all around the city. But he still stares. The green of his eyes is so luminous, impossible, and totally unfair. Why do mean people get to be so—breathtaking?
His presence, his face, his smell, it’s like a punch in the gut. I tell myself to breathe. I’m sure if I did I’d need a mint, but I can’t think of anything to say other than, “You?” Again. Question mark.
His lips curl into a smile that makes the broken elevator of my stomach plummet some more.
“Me.” His arms are still crossed over his broad chest. I think of his tattoo again. I wonder where it leads, what the rest looks like. Wonder if his stomach is a tight as his arms. Wonder if he has a happy trail. Clearly, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex. Wonder—“What the hell are you doing here?”
Jay takes a step closer and I take a step back.
“I came for my latte,” he murmurs in his baritone voice.
“Hate to break it to you,” I say. “I chucked it. It tasted like ass.”
Whatever he thought I was going to say, it wasn’t that. His face scrunches up, like he’s gathering his thoughts. Then he says, “Have much experience in that area, do you?”
I grind my teeth. I walked into that one, fine.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He returns.
What am I doing here?
My mother’s voice rings out in a sing-song way, “Jaaa-mes—”
She clip-clops to where we’re standing. “James, there you are.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “Can you believe this mess?”
“I was back in the office,” he says, “when I heard the noise.”
Her hand moves across his back, like she’s presenting a showpiece. Please, please don’t let this be her new boyfrie
nd.
“Lucky, meet James. My executive chef.”
He smiles smugly. Stupid Mr. Smug.
“Are you sleeping together?” I ask.
“Lucky!”
My face is red. James-Jay-Girly-Latte’s green eyes widen.
“What?” I shrug. “He’s just a little young to be an executive chef is all.”
Chef James licks his canine and studies me some more but he doesn’t say No. He looks behind us to make sure that no one has overheard, and when he’s satisfied that I haven’t polluted the waters, he turns his attention back to us. “I’m twenty-six. And I’m more than qualified.” Then while my mother’s face is turned, waving at Felicity, he mutters so only I can hear him, “Which is more than I can say for whatever you’re doing here.”
I really hate Chef James.
“Lucky, don’t be ridiculous. Forgive my daughter.”
I hold my hand up. “Don’t worry, I’ll live without your forgiveness.”
“She hasn’t slept much. Just got back from New York.”
James cocks an eyebrow. “Go Yankees.”
“But now she’s here for—” She catches herself, about to say, for her father’s anniversary. Of his accident. The accident that was my fault. “To visit her mother.”
“How lucky for us,” James says, then he and my mom fall into fit of laughter. They should both sizzle in culinary hell, which is probably a Red Lobster, or a Denny’s.
“James won his episode of Sliced Champion, Luck,” mom says. “He’s come highly recommended by my colleagues and he understands what I’m trying to do here.”
“What was your winning dish, hot dog quesadilla?”
“That’s disgusting.” He barks a laugh. “Clearly the apple fell far from the tree. You’re not allowed in my kitchen.”
“Your kitchen?”
Mom nods. “I’m not the chef, darling. I’m the proprietor. My name with his finesse, it’s a match made in food-heaven.”
“I might just prefer hell,” I mutter.
“James, Lucky started out in culinary school before moving on to—well, whatever is the flavor of this semester. Writing? Sewing? I can’t keep track these days.”
Luck on the Line Page 2
