James squeezes my hand briefly. I stay off to the side where Belle hangs out at the service bar. She slides a drink in front of me and winks a fake eyelash.
Stella is beaming—which has more to do with her being in her cups.
Please, mom. I beg silently, Please.
“Thank you everyone for being here,” she starts, holding a glass of white wine in hand. I hear the slightest slur, but I’ve seen her film entire shows while plastered and people can’t really seem to tell the difference. “Now, if any of you had met me ten years ago, you’d be surprised if I could boil an egg.”
There’s a chummy ripple of laughter in the audience. I, as the hardly-boiled-egg-eater, don’t think it’s so funny.
“My husband,” Stella says, to which a tiny whisper mutters which one. My mom smirks at the snide comment but continues. “My first husband, Lucky’s father, was the cook in the family. True, he traded stocks by day, but by night he’d come home to my burnt pot roast, and still he’d kiss me and pour us some wine and make pasta and sauce from scratch.”
I stand straighter, my feet killing me. I edge closer to see her speak. I’ve never heard her get sentimental. I’ve never heard her speak of my dad in public.
“When I met the good Adrienne Renault,” she gestures to the regal older lady and she nods appreciatively, “She taught me everything I know about cooking—traditional French first, of course. She taught me the simplicity of butter, and that resting is not just for tired old feet.”
The food crowd laughs, pleased.
James looks for me over his shoulder. He doesn’t have to look far. It’s as if he knows exactly where I’m standing because his eyes spot me in a second.
“And I learned and learned and I discovered that I loved learning how to cook. All of a sudden, years after John was dead, I was finally good at making his favorite meals.”
When I see my mother’s exterior start to break, I know that I’m going to have to step in. Part of me is furious. Part of me is overwhelmed with sadness. How can she use my dad’s memory as a publicity stunt? There’s an uncomfortable ripple in the crowd. James takes my mom’s hand and gives it a squeeze. It’s like he’s reminding her to smile, to wake up, to be on because everyone is watching.
“This restaurant is for him.” She takes a deep breath. I can see something in her eyes change. She looks from Bradley to me to James to Felicity. It’s like she’s willing her sadness to go away. “And when I met this young man here, a proud Sliced Champion, I just knew I had found a star to match my own. Don’t be fooled by those cheekbones, the boy can cook up a storm.”
Everyone cheers along with my mother in James’s direction. He takes a deep breath. No drinking for him tonight, so he twists his hands nervously.
“Thanks everyone,” he says. “I promise I’ll be quick and then you all can sit down to eat.”
The same heckler mutters, “Not too quick, I hope.”
James frowns, but keeps going. “I started washing dirty dishes and glasses in a neighborhood pub, like a lot of guys I know. Then I moved up to peeling potatoes and prepping salad until I knew enough that this was the thing that would save me. Now, as someone pointed out to me the other day, people want to eat really good food.” He looks at me and only at me as he keeps talking. “As chefs we want to take it to the next level—raw this, emulsified that—but at the end of the day nothing tastes as good or as comforting as food made with love. So, please join me in sampling my take on Boston comfort food.”
James doesn’t wait for the applause to die out. He waves, undoing his clean jacket, ready to swap it out for the dirty one. Stella wobbles on her stilettos, but Bradley is there to hold her up. Sky shakes her hand and congratulates her, but even from here I can see that my mom’s eyes are glossy and far away.
“Thanks, Brad,” I say, hooking my mother’s arm with mine. “I’ll take it from here.”
Bradley looks worried, but decides it best to not make a scene.
“Mom, I want you to take a look at some forms in the office.”
Stella waves her hands dismissively in the air. “Baby, I’m having too much fun. Let’s just have fun, okay?”
My face hurts from smiling. She claps her hands enthusiastically. Bradley comes back around and gives my mom his arm. He shakes his head at me. “I’ve got her, Luck. I promise.”
Bradley’s seen my mother drunk just as much as I have. Our moms used to drink pitchers of mimosas on Sundays when we lived next door to each other, before my mother was Public Enemy #1 after her second divorce. She went from being “Stella Dah-ling” to “That Woman.” Bunch of hypocrites.
I start to go back to the kitchen to see if they need my help, but something red and shiny catches my attention. She sits at my table with her black notebook and pen writing furiously. Her dress is red and skintight. Not wine red like my dress, but sharp, grilling, come-fuck-me red. It’s a deep vee, and her pillowy breasts are pushed to the extreme. Her hair is like straws of gold in big curls that frame a tiny heart shaped face. Her eyes are brown, and her lips match the dress. She smirks when she seems me watching her.
She gets up from her seat and makes a beeline for me. Even if I tried, I couldn’t sashay my hips like that. In the back of my head I think, relax, it’s not a competition. Except, I think it is.
“Clarissa Adams,” I say. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”
She smiles like we’re old friends. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Chapter 36
Clarissa flips her hair over her shoulder. “I was just hoping to talk girl-to-girl.”
“About the photo you gave me?” I say, trying for business-like and friendly.
“I knew you’d open it.”
“Curiosity is a bitch,” I say.
“Well,” she says. “Are you ready for an interview?”
“Are you sure you want an interview? It seems like all you want to do is drop grenades and see if anyone trips over them.”
She takes a drink for the bar and smacks her red lips. “I just want to give the public what they want. I’m not sure if you’ve got the beginning of a culinary empire or a soap opera going.”
I smile wide. “Either way, you’ll print what suits you best.”
Rage fills my chest so much that Belle walks past the bar and sets a drink in front of me as an excuse to press her hand on mine to calm me down.
“This is a great turn out,” Clarissa says, “I’m actually surprised none of his family is here. The Murphy clan used to be so close knit…”
I shrug, as if I give zero fucks. In reality, my brain is a tangle of spider webs, each one with James’s name on it. Murphy?
“What can I say, people love my mother.”
She arcs and eyebrow and says, “I’m sure they do.”
Before I can pounce on her she turns away and latches on to a group of people walking to their seats.
I march into the kitchen where James is arranging tiny sliders while Nunzio is wiping off the bisque from the rims of soup. The wait staff takes tray after tray. I collide with Sammy who manages to only drop two plates out of six. My head is a mess and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Smile. “Don’t worry, just get the others out.”
“Has anyone said anything?” James asks.
“Define anyone?” I ask. My arms are crossed over my chest. I don’t have ample boobs like Clarissa, but I have a dress that is armor and I much prefer that. Anger and confusion blur my vision.
The guys look at each other curiously, but decide not to get involved. One of them mutters, “I hate when mommy and daddy fight.”
“Shut it, Martinez,” James shouts, and the boys cackle onto themselves.
Nunzio brings over a tiny bowl of piping hot fried dumplings splashed with soy sauce. My mouth waters. I’d be truly insane if I didn’t take it, so I do. James assembles oyster sliders with the cabbage I prepped and he watches me eat the dumplings. I finish it in seconds.
“Clarissa Ada
ms pulled me aside to chat,” I tell James, biting my tongue to keep myself from rattling off demanding questions.
“What did she say?” James asks, wiping his forehead with his blue wristband. The angry vein on his neck does jumping jacks.
“Do you really want me to say it in front of everyone?”
“Yes,” the guys say in sync, still keeping their hands busy and plating like their lives depend on it. The wait staff returns with empty dishes.
“Well?” James asks Izzy.
“Everyone loves the salad and the tuna crudo. Except for one bitch who says she hates raw food and is complaining wicked loud.”
James shuts his eyes and curses under his breath. “Nunzio!”
“Got it, boyo.” Without another word, Nunzio takes over James’s spot.
Then, for the second time in a week, James walks past me as if I’m not even there.
I watch everyone from the bar. Belle pours me a glass of red wine. When I turn the bottle in my hand to look at the label I realize it’s the same bottle James and I first shared. LaRosa Vineyards. I shake my head, putting a few pieces in the puzzle of my head. This is the guy that sent my mom the flowers in her trashcan.
“Don’t worry, baby girl.” Belle says. “The night is going great. Everyone loves the food and my cocktail menu is the shizz.”
That’s something. At the end of the day, the success of the restaurant is what matters. Not my smooshed feelings, not a bitter ex, not flowers in the garbage. Over at my mother’s table, she’s deep in conversation with a man whose cummerbund screams, “I’m the boss of something.” He gestures to the bar and I already know he’s complimenting the structure.
Bradley is still sitting with her, laughing at something Adrienne Renault says to him. Bradley can be so charming when he wants to. He puts his hand on the back of my mom’s chair. She drinks water and I’m glad she’s at least not on the verge of fake tears. I knew that speech about my dad was just bullshit press. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the winding stress inside my chest, but I can feel the back of my eyelids get hot. I shut my eyes and drink more wine.
When I open them, Sky is walking out of the restaurant. James is going from table to table shaking grateful hands. He nods at whatever praise or critique he’s getting.
“They should put that boy in a bowl with a spoon and some maraschino cherries,” Belle says. “Speaking of, I’ve got everything ready for the dessert cocktails. Want a preview? Give me a lighter.”
When I see James take Clarissa’s hand and walk her towards the offices, I tell Belle, “In a second. Gotta check on something.”
My heart is a sledgehammer against my ribs as I wait to turn the corner behind them. James leads Clarissa into his office. I walk slowly, with my body pressed against the wall. The door is slightly wedged open. I lean as close as I can without fear of being seen.
“This has got to stop, Clarissa.”
The desk makes the slightest noise as she sits on it. Heels click as she crosses her feet and hits them against the desk. “What do you mean? I’m just doing my job.”
James grumbles. “Is your job to write about me every chance you get? Huh? Follow me around like a lunatic? I know it was you who wrecked my bike.”
She sucks her tongue. “Jimmy, you can’t know that for sure. Besides, is it my fault if my readers find you interesting?”
“What are you talking about? No one cares what I do.”
I’m surprised to hear him say that. I care what he does. Of course someone cares.
“Aww Jimmy,” she says, and it makes me furious to hear her call him that again. There are some people who just shouldn’t have nicknames. He’s not a Jim or a Jimmy. He’s a James. “You’ve come a long way in a few years. Remember when we could barely pay rent. You working those crazy shifts at the pub and me trying to be a real reporter. Why did we let that go?”
There’s a silence. Heels tapping wood. James sighing.
“We didn’t let that go. You ended it.”
“Can’t a girl make a mistake?”
“You can make all the mistakes you want, Clari. It’s not my business anymore.” He starts walking away. I get ready to run back down the hall when I hear him stop.
“You know,” Clarissa says. “It would be such a shame if everyone knew the real you, after you’ve tried so hard to hide it.”
“Lucky already knows,” he says quietly. “I told her.”
“Everything?”
He’s silent, and Clarissa scoffs. “Does she know that you took your mother’s last name? Murph must be pissed. How do you think Stella Carter and her angry faced daughter would react if I wrote everything I know about?”
“They won’t let you do that,” he says shoving paper on the floor.
“You’d like to think that.”
I know I should move. Go. Be useful at the party. But I’m glued to the floor. Down the hall the kitchen is a flurry of people running in and out. A pleasant chatter hums from the dining room. That should make me happy.
“What do you want Clarissa?” His voice is steady, dangerous.
“I just want to see you happy,” she says pleasantly. “But if you’re offering, I think something along the lines of a hundred grand would cover the two years I supported you.”
I can hear James choke inwardly. “I paid you back every dime you lent me.”
“And yet, it wasn’t enough.”
“Lucky!” Felicity says my name down the hall.
I can hear someone gasp, heels hit the floor. I hurry down the hall, but my body isn’t moving fast enough. Heels clip-clop behind me, catching up. Clarissa walks past me, looking back once, a victorious grin on her come-fuck-me red lips.
Chapter 37
On what seems to be the longest day of my life, I’ve decided that I should never deviate from my intended plans.
Fact: I don’t know what my plans are half the time. Fact: sometimes the very best things in life come from trying something new. Fact: when you open yourself up to something, there’s a 98% chance you’re going to be let down.
As I talk to a food blogger in his thirties, with his mess of brown curls and sweet brown eyes, about how the ceviche shots are almost as good as his aunt Jeannet’s from Ecuador, I realize that I’m relieved.
I’m relieved because everyone loves the food. I wonder if they’ll love the food when they’re writing about us, but for now, the dining room is filled with yummy noises and hearty chatter. Upon closer inspection, the table designated for my friends is completely empty. Sky is gone. Bradley is doing his best impersonation of Narcissus: A One Man Show. Stella—well I seem to have lost her again. I guess I need more friends.
“Thank you so much for the invitation,” Andrés says, shaking my hand. “Can I say something without being insulting?”
“Shoot.”
“This isn’t what I expected from Stella Carter.”
“What do you mean?” I fix the cloth napkin over my lap.
He presses his finger to his lips and taps them thoughtfully. “She has this image for being so decadent, while still appealing to the stay-at-home moms and desperate housewives. But this restaurant has a much different vibe. It’s cool without being pretentious. I half-expected gold chandeliers and a wall with a golden bust of Stella.”
He polishes off his martini and licks the sugar on the rim.
I laugh nervously, thinking of the golden light fixtures in the storage room that didn’t have enough time to get installed because of the construction. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“You bet!” he says, leaving the table for the bar.
Felicity shuffles my way. Her heels pinch just as much as mine do. “Have you seen Stella?”
I shake my head. I didn’t realize that, at her own party, I would have to put a tracking device on The Star’s, well, star.
“Have you eaten?” Felicity asks. “It’s time for dessert. Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
I would very much like to crawl into
a hole and wake up after this is all over. A nagging feeling in my chest tells me that this is exactly what my mother expected from me. When did we swap roles? When I look up, James is coming out of the kitchen. I can see him charging in my direction.
Abort! Abort! My brain is hitting a self-destruct button and just before he reaches me, I put Felicity in front of me, as shield. I walk around them and dive to the bar.
“How are the dessert cocktails coming?” I ask. “Need some help? Please tell me you need some help.”
“I need some help.” Belle is sweating despite the blasting AC. Outside, lightning strikes. From the all-glass doors and the wall that faces the harbor, the storm outside makes the dining room feel cozier, warmer.
“I’m just a Jack of all trades,” I tell her.
“Don’t you mean a Jane?”
I shrug. “No, I’m pretty sure I mean a Jack.”
“Luck, I know this is supposed to be a classy place, but hows about we put on a little show?”
“As long as there’s no table dancing,” I grab a shaker from the rack, “I’m all ears.”
Wow, I really have matured.
She smiles, as if that’s just what she wanted me to say. It’s been a while since we tended bar together. Belle pulls her gold tie off and sets it aside. The Shooting Star is a drink from her wildest bartending dreams. When she told me about it, I thought it sounded impossible. When she gave me a mini demonstration, I loved it. There’s Goldschläger, Baileys, butterscotch schnapps, and a top layer of 151, and then the pièce de résistance.
We line up coupes all across the bar. There’s a solid seventy glasses spread all across the bar and we pack them in tight.
James, his green eyes dark, stands at the center of the bar area. He looks irritated, but I’m not letting myself care.
“At least the head chef came out for the show,” Belle grins at me.
Luck on the Line Page 20
