The Art of Stealing Hearts

by Stella London

  My heart sinks. Tears begin to burn behind my eyes and I walk away fast, quickening my pace even though my feet are blistered and sore. I have to hope that that spoiled, shiny-haired, smug girl is wrong. That this whole day wasn’t just a formality like she thinks, that I have a chance. Mom, I did my best. I cross my fingers as I head back out into the city streets.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Order up! Table six!”

  The dinner rush at Giovanni’s Restaurant is organized chaos. I was intimidated three years ago when I first started, but now I can maneuver through the twenty-five tables and their red-and-white checkered tablecloths blindfolded and carrying a tray twice as wide as my shoulders. I may still smell like marinara, but I wear a hell of a lot less of it down my shirt now than in those early days.

  I grab two steaming plates of Giovanni’s signature dish—classic spaghetti with homemade marinara and meatballs the size of your fist. The head cook Fred’s wide, smiling face appears in the window to the kitchen. “How’d the big interview go today?”

  “How do you know about that? I only told Nona.”

  “You answered your own question, there, missy,” he says and laughs. “You know her.”

  Great. “So everyone knows?”

  “Pretty much!”

  Lonnie, a line cook, shouts, “You did great for sure, Gracie!” A chorus of encouragement from the kitchen reminds me why I love this place, but also makes me worried about disappointing the people who have become my family.

  “It was just an interview,” I say, placing a sprig of parsley on each plate.

  “You’re the smartest girl out there, Grace,” Fred says, draining a giant pot of linguine.

  “Thanks, but it’s really competitive, and connections matter…”

  “You got the best connection there is—to our family here, right?” He puts up a plate of pasta primavera and a meatball sub. “Order up! Table two!” Fred winks at me. “It’s in the bag, kid.”

  I deliver our prize meatballs—voted best in the city for the last five years, a recipe Giovanni himself brought from Italy—to a couple obviously on their first date.

  “Fresh parmesan?” I grate the cheese as they watch. “Buon Appetito!”

  We’re always busy, and normally the fast pace of this restaurant is enough to distract me, but tonight I can’t get away from Carringer’s or my anxiety. Just after I set down a bread basket for the new family at table ten, Nona’s familiar voice calls me over. “Grace, you get over here and give me a hug!”

  Nona and Giovanni are the original owners. They’re in their seventies now, and though technically retired, still spend most nights at the center table drinking grappa and holding court over their own private Little Italy in North Beach, San Francisco: greeting customers, talking up the food (Giovanni) and squeezing cheeks and distributing lollipops (Nona). Everyone loves them almost as much as the food.

  Nona puts her arm around my waist and hugs me in. “This,” she says to a table full of her friends, “is my Gracie.”

  “Hello, Gracie,” the ladies chorus in unison.

  Nona beams like a proud grandmother. “You should see this one’s paintings! A real talent, like her mother.” Nona squeezes my cheeks. “She’s going to be famous someday.”

  I fake a smile I hope looks real. “Thanks, Nona,” I say, taking a step back.

  “She’s shy,” Nona stage-whispers to the table and the women all laugh loudly.

  “Nice to meet you all.” I kiss Nona on the top of her head. “Gotta get back to making your guests happy.”

  The weight of all the expectations and cautious hope is starting to get to me, so I take my break and head through the back door to the alley outside. If I smoked, I would totally want a cigarette right now. I know it’s stupid, but I check my phone. No calls, of course. “What am I going to do?” I whisper, looking up at the rolling banks of fog turned yellow by the streetlamps.

  “Do about what, dollface?”

  “Shit!” I jump and turn around to see Cousin Eddie, a fast-talking wannabe charmer ten years older than me and a lot less focused, unless he’s at the gym or talking to a girl. “I thought I was alone, Eddie.”

  He emerges from where he was smoking in the shadows. “You can be alone with me anytime, you know that.” The words are genuine and heartfelt despite his flirting, which is just second nature to him. His leather jacket creaks as he leans closer. “What do you need to fix your little problem?”

  “Nothing you can help with, unfortunately.”

  He spreads his arms as if he were welcoming me into a hug, and I think about the mysterious, and don’t forget utterly gorgeous, British guy/work of art from the run by coffee-ing this morning. I’d gladly step into his open arms. “Come on,” Eddie says. “Tell Cousin Eddie what’s wrong.”

  “Thanks, Eddie, really.” I pat his shoulder in an obviously platonic way. “But I’m fine.”

  He smooths the tops of his spiky gelled hair and grins in a Joey Tribiani how-you-doin’ kind of way. “In that case, come dancing with me tonight. You’ll feel better than fine—”

  “Eddie, is that you?” Nona walks out and pats him on the back. “Good, you are here. Go inside and help carry those wine cases, yes?”

  “If you change your mind, dollface,” Eddie winks as he goes into the restaurant.

  “Shoo!” Nona says and turns to me, shaking her head. “That kid…” She looks up at me from under her dyed red bangs. “You doing okay, sweetheart? You know Eddie’s harmless.”

  “I know, Nona. It’s not that. I guess I’m just nervous about the internship.” I glance at my phone again.

  “They will call, Gracie. They will.”

  I say the thing I’ve been thinking since before I even got dressed this morning. “But what if I’m just not good enough? What if I’ll never be good enough?”

  “Oh, honey.” She hugs me.

  I hold back tears. “I’ve been trying and trying all year and this is my one and only shot. No one else was even interested.”

  “You are strong and talented,” Nona says. “But even more than that, you are determined, just like your mom.” She sits on an overturned wooden crate. “I will never forget the first time I saw your mother, and you. You must have been about two years old, and you were throwing a real fit, screaming and thrashing in your stroller. Your mom came in, desperate, and asked for milk. Giovanni took one look at you and told her we had something better. He brought out a plate of cannoli—sweet cream calmed my Carmella when she was a baby—and you shut right up and stuffed your face.” She laughs her rolling guffaw and I can’t help but join in, even though I’ve heard this story a hundred times. It always makes me feel close to my mom.

  “Your mom was so grateful, even though you were covered in sugar and crumbs, because you finally stopped crying. After that, she visited us every time you two came into the city. I learned how strong she was, how hard she worked on her own to give you a good safe home. She did not once give up, and you have that, too.”

  Now I can’t help the tears. “I wish she could be here,” I whisper. “I wish—”

  Nona reaches up to touch my cheek. “She loved you, Gracie. And love never dies.”

  At the end of my shift I give the kitchen staff their share of my tips and leave to another round of “Way to go” and “You’re gonna be a star” and “Don’t forget us when you’re famous” plus a kiss from Nona. “Don’t you worry,” she says as I head home – right up the stairs behind Giovanni’s to the apartment on the top floor.

  I live right above the restaurant, which has been my residence for the last year. It smells like Italian food all the time, but the di Fiores offered this place to me at an unbelievably good price when I needed a new place to stay. Just another selfless thing they’ve done for me. Giovanni said it was so I would never have an excuse to be late, but I’ve only ever been late once and I know how much Nona worried every time I had to leave the restaurant past midnight and take the bus home. She really is like
an adoptive mother, and I am so fortunate to have been taken in by this loving—if a little interfering and lot boisterous—second family.

  I can still hear them laughing below me, a comforting din of voices, and I start getting ready for bed. Nona and Giovanni’s daughter Carmella will have closed up the deli she started next door, joined by her husband Fred and a few other cooks for a late night snack and wine. I have a standing invitation to join them, and when I do, they treat me like one of their own.

  I’m lucky. After Mom died, I felt like I had no one. I was so lost and lonely. And then the di Fiores gave me even more than a job, more than a family, they gave me another chance at my dreams. Without the money I made from Giovanni’s, I never could have paid for college—even the community college fancy-pants Lydia scoffed at—and without their support and encouragement, I never would have been able to continue studying and making art.

  I brush my teeth and stare at one of my mother’s paintings. A landscape of Oakland’s hills, the rolling green grasses and trees seeming to come alive and move in an invisible breeze. This apartment is small, but it’s homey, just like the apartments I lived in growing up. My dad left when Mom was pregnant with me, so it was just the two of us and her single working mom’s salary, but she never made me feel like we lacked.

  I learned tricks from my mom to spread beauty without bucks. I have a few small potted plants near the windows for life, and I used lots of bright colors and fabrics for texture all around the studio. I spit out toothpaste and place the brush back in its holder, which is shaped like an ocean wave. “It’s the little things”—like my mom always said—and it’s something I have taken to heart.

  My mom’s love lives on, and I know what Nona said is true, but I miss seeing Mom laugh and her smile, the way she lit up when we visited museums in the city on their free days, how she would stand in front of paintings or sculptures for hours.

  “Look at this line, Grace, the way it splits the light into shadow.” She taught me to find the point of energy in the piece, where all the lines seemed to flow from or to. “That’s where the meaning is.”

  I slip into my pajamas and admire all the different prints on the walls, pieces I picked up in Chinatown and from street vendors at art fairs. Mom loved art for art’s sake, not because it was famous. She taught me to trust that if I was moved, it was enough.

  Most of all, I miss watching my mother work in our living room, an old sheet draped over our thrift store furniture, the look on her face when she painted: concentrated bliss. I like to think that’s the way my face looks, too, when I’m in the zone. It’s been a while since I felt inspired. I haven’t been able to paint since she died, like her leaving stole the joy from my work too.

  My phone dings just as I’m getting under the covers. I must have missed a call while I was cleaning up after my shift ended. I grab it off the night stand and peek at the glowing screen.

  You have one new message…

  I go to my voicemail and press the play button, my heart in my throat as I listen. It’s Lydia’s assistant from the auction house!

  “Miss Bennett? Congratulations. Please arrive tomorrow at 9 am to start your new position.”

  Yes!

  I listen to the message three times in a row, just to be sure I’m not dreaming, smiling so wide my face starts to hurt. I got it! After all the work, all the worry, I finally have my break.

  I lay back and let my imagination run riot. First this internship, and then who knows? With this job on my resume, and enough real-life experience, I could become an appraiser or buyer at one of the most prestigious and respected auction houses in the world. No more paycheck to paycheck living. Things are finally looking up for me.

  CHAPTER 3

  I arrive at the big golden doors of Carringer’s early, at 8:30 sharp. No jerk cab driver, no jogging in heels, no sweat-smeared make-up. This is my chance to show them they made the right decision. My phone pings just as I’m approaching the entrance.

  ‘Good luck! You’ll knock ‘em dead!’

  It’s from my friend Paige, my roommate-turned-partner in crime from Tufts. We stayed close after I left, but these days, she’s working in London and our friendship is conducted via Skype and texts. Still, I’m glad to have the encouragement.

  ‘Thanks!’ I type back. ‘I’ll need it.’

  The salty ocean wind whips through my thin black dress, but I wait a moment outside trying to get my cool back. I look around at the morning rush hour crowds and wonder if I’ll see the body by Michelangelo guy from yesterday. He must work near here, right?

  At 8:45 I heave open the doors. The lobby is empty, but there’s a tall, gangly man in a designer suit looking around. He approaches, looking stressed. “Grace?”

  “Yes, hi!” I extend my hand. “I’m so excited to be here.”

  “Charmed. I’m Stanford, follow me,” he says, opening the door and leading me down a stairwell. “I’m in charge of the newbies.”

  I keep up as he heads down into the basement. The stairwell is spooky: bare concrete and metal, nothing like the luxury upstairs.

  “Is this where we get our badges?” I ask, nervous.

  “What’s that, sweetie?” He leads me down a dark hallway and flips on the lights. I look past him into a storage room filled with buckets, mops, spray bottles and an assortment of rags and sponges. “And voila! You can go ahead and get started right away.”

  Wait, what?

  “I think there’s been some mistake,” I say awkwardly. “Are you sure I’m supposed to be here? The internship—”

  “Lydia left the instructions.” Stanford shrugs. “Sorry. You’re supposed to sweep the lobby first.”

  His phone starts to ring. “I need to go. Welcome to Carringer’s!”

  He leaves and I feel the lump rising in my throat before his footsteps fade from the creepy hallway. I look around. Is this some sort of test? Or a joke? Why would they do that? No, something is wrong. It has to be.

  I retrace our steps up the stairs to the lobby and then find my way to Lydia’s office.

  I take a breath and knock.

  “Yes?”

  The door swings open, revealing Lydia sitting cozily on the couch having tea with Chelsea, the shiny-haired girl from the interviews, the one who was boasting about having the internship locked up.

  I stop, confused. “I’m, uh, here for the internship,” I say, feeling like I’m on the edge of a cliff and about to drop. Something is totally off.

  Chelsea laughs. “What are you talking about? The internship is mine.”

  I turn to Lydia, ignoring Chelsea. “Your assistant called me about the position last night,” I say. I can hear the pleading in my voice but I can’t help it. “Listen.” I play the message on speaker so we can all hear it, and for once I’m glad I never delete my voicemails.

  “Oh. Dear.” Lydia actually looks a little sorry for me. “I apologize, Miss Bennett. My assistant was supposed to offer you a clerk position—filing, light cleaning, assisting with deliveries, that kind of thing.”

  My heart sinks. “So I didn’t get the internship?”

  “No.”

  I have to bite back a sudden rush of tears stinging in my throat. I knew it! After all my happiness and celebration, it was just a big mistake.

  “Sorry for taking up your time,” I say, glad my voice is coming out steady. I turn to leave, but Lydia stops me.

  “So you don’t want the job?”

  I stop. “You mean, the cleaning job?”

  “The clerk position,” she corrects me. “It may not be what you were hoping for, but it’s a paid position here with the staff at Carringer’s. And who knows? It could be a foot in the door for you,” Lydia says. “You did say you would do anything, didn’t you?”

  Chelsea smirks. “Did she?”

  “Here’s a chance to prove yourself,” Lydia says. “Perhaps if you can demonstrate you are Carringer’s material, there may be room for advancement down the road.”

  �
�You might actually be able to go near the art someday,” Chelsea adds smugly.

  My mind races. I want to walk out and leave Chelsea to her snide bitching, but I did say I would do anything. And I meant it. This isn’t exactly what I wanted, but it’s still a job in the art world. A start. It’d be foolish to turn it down.

  “I’ll take it,” I say, determined. Look for the beauty, Mom says in my mind and I nod again. “I’ll take the job. Thank you.”

  I spend the next nine hours in the filing room, which is where files go to die. And then they get brought back to life by some poor clerk like me assigned to organize and inventory all the old auction sales.

  Really though, it’s not that bad. Better than sweeping the lobby, which I’m sure I’ll have to do tomorrow. Stacking and sorting files lets me read up on the artwork, look at photos of some of the most beautiful paintings and jewelry and furniture ever created, and read up on the auction house’s history. I’ve fantasized about owning an actual Monet or Rembrandt or Rothko. Can you imagine?

  At six, I lock up the file room and head upstairs to find Stanford. “See you in the morning.”

  “Wait,” he stops me. “I need you to stay late.” He grabs my arm and steers me toward the main auction hall. “A caterer messed up and now we’re short five servers tonight. We need you to cover.”

  “I have another job,” I protest.

  “It’ll be extra pay, and tips too,” Stanford says. “Please? I wouldn’t even ask, but Her Majesty is taking this out on me. And hey,” he looks me up and down. “At least you’re dressed for it.”

  I don’t need to ask who Her Majesty is. Stanford looks desperate, so I sigh, and nod. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

  “Treasure!” He claps his hands together gratefully. “Can you start with setup? We need chairs brought out for the auction.” He points to a set of double doors at the far end of the hall. “There are more in there. Set them up in rows like these other ones.”