Yep. Just like at the Mankato Diner back home.
Ha.
I had just come out of the kitchen with ice cream and fresh blackberry desserts for the CAA guys when Gabi stopped me. “You’re my ace,” he told me, which made me feel great. Then he offered me a private party. “They’ve taken over the side room where you first started out. Eight people. All young. You’ll go home a lot wealthier than you came in. Want it?”
Did I want it? Of course I wanted it.
Gabi told me he’d assign someone else to finish up my tables and not to worry about my tips; he’d protect them.
“Thanks so much,” I told him, adding up the potential money in my mind.
He waved me off. “Stay on your toes,” he said, taking the desserts for the CAA group from me. That was my cue to start on the young party of eight. I put on my best smile and strode toward the side room.
Two steps in, I stopped dead.
There was Brooke. There was Skye Lewis, the almost-six-foot-tall, very thin girl who had been Brett’s on-again/off-again girlfriend. There were the MacGregor sisters, who I’d met on Sunday at the yacht club—Brittany and Frances. There was Gray Marshall. And there were three other guys. One was an eight on a scale of ten for dark-haired hotness, another a seven in cross-cropped-hair hotness. The third was African American and off-the-charts handsome.
I introduced myself per restaurant rules. Everyone already had their menus.
“Natalie, relax. You don’t have to be so formal,” Brooke gently chided. “Do you know everyone? Simon? Kyle? Malcolm?” She indicated the dark-haired guy, the close-cropped guy, and the African American god respectively.
“Good to meet you,” Kyle offered, a paragon of politeness. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”
One of the MacGregor sisters snickered. I should have taken that as the omen it was, but then Brooke made a lovely speech about how cool it was that one of the hottest restaurants in town would hire me as a waitress, and how this would be an opportunity for all of us to have a fresh start. “Have you heard anything from Alex in Arizona?” she concluded.
“No, and I don’t expect to,” I said.
“Me neither. If she does call you, just say I asked after her, okay? Please?”
Good lord. Was Brooke being nice to me? Please, let that be so. Please.
I smiled brightly. “Will do. What would you like? Are you ready to order?”
My question was apparently a prearranged signal for a game of torture-the-waitress.
Everyone started talking at once, barking orders, then changing or modifying them three or four times. Brittany asked for the baked Cornish game hen, but would they please hold the eggplant and the onion and go light on the tarragon seasoning. Oh? Did she say tarragon? She meant basil. No. Not basil. Cilantro. Extra cilantro. But not too much.
Brooke was even more obnoxious. She wanted the baked Pacific rockfish, head on, eyes removed, gills removed, light on the breading. She said to substitute spaghetti squash for the mashed Peruvian potatoes and please ask the chef for a salad of the little Sun Gold tomatoes and foot-long Armenian cucumbers that he grew in his home garden. It wasn’t on the menu, but she knew that he would be happy to put it together for her.
Oh? Did she say Sun Gold tomatoes? She meant sliced Early Girl tomatoes. And not Armenian cucumbers. Persian ones. Oh, forget it. Skip the rockfish. Instead she wanted that night’s seafood special, the hand-harvested California mussels cooked in a homemade basil tomato sauce, topped with shaved truffles.
Around the table it went. All I did was treat them the way I’d treated the expresident of Bolivia. That is, I was the server, they were the guests, and I had a job to do. Even when Brooke changed her mind one more time, adding extra sauce to her mussels order.
I finally made my way to the kitchen. As I gave their order to the chef, I realized they were sure to stiff me on my tip. Or worse, leave eight cents so that I couldn’t rationalize that maybe they’d forgotten it completely.
Well, if they did? There was nothing I could do about it. They’d have to look in the mirror when they woke up the next day. Of course, they’d probably just look at themselves in their mirrors and say, “Yo! Lookin’ good!”
I brought the food to their table, and the complaints started. Kyle’s steak wasn’t done enough. I’d fouled up the seasoning for Brittany’s game hen. Malcolm claimed there was a speck of meat in the vegetarian lasagna. Skye pouted and said her side dish of minced Swiss chard was overcooked.
Brooke, however, got the angriest. “One of my mussels doesn’t have any mussel meat in it! Come see, Natalie!”
I edged around to the head of the table, where she was sitting. She lifted her platter of tomato-sauce-covered mussels to point out the mussel with the missing meat.
It was a classic sucker play, and I was the sucker.
I don’t know exactly what happened next—whether Brooke tossed the platter at me, someone pushed me from behind, or a combination of both. All I know is that a moment later, I was flat on the floor, and Brooke’s mussels with tomato sauce covered me like a red-and-black version of Nickelodeon slime.
“Natalie? Omigosh! I can’t believe that happened! Are you okay? Bummer!”
Yes. That was her “apology.”
I stood. Mussels tumbled off me; rivulets of tomato sauce slid down my cheeks.
“I’m fine,” I said numbly. I carried a small towel in my back pocket and dabbed at my face with it. “I’m fine. Excuse me.”
“Hey! Ask her to bring you another entrée!” I heard Skye tell Brooke as I fled toward the kitchen.
I’ll say this for myself: I never cried. Not a single tear.
Gabi spotted me and hustled me to the back storage area. Silently, he opened a locker and pawed through it, finding a set of green medical scrubs, of all things. “Go in the bathroom and change,” he ordered grimly. “Leave your clothes in the hamper. I’ll take care of them.”
As I took the scrubs, my shock started to give way to fear. Getting food stains on your clothes was a Whitehall restaurant felony. I didn’t have stains on my clothes. I had a red tide. Plus, I was sure that Gabi was about to get a barrage of complaints from Brooke and the gang. I had to be close to getting fired.
When I went back out, though, Gabi handed me a glass of ice water and spoke three sentences of reassurance. “Don’t worry. I saw what those kids did to you. It’s not your fault.”
“But … how?” I asked.
Gabi smiled thinly. “Don’t advertise this, but I’ve got security cameras covering the whole restaurant. My instincts told me to keep an eye on that side room. I did.”
Now, finally, I cried.
Gabi handed me a couple of tissues and waited patiently for me to compose myself. “Now, love, let me tell you what’s going to happen,” he said. “They’re going to complain to me, and I’m going to smile, and nod, and listen. They’re going to think I’m their friend. But if any of them ever calls for a reservation? I’m ‘fully committed.’ Forever.”
“Really?” I choked out.
He nodded. “Go on home for the night. I’ll cover your shift. I’ll start a rumor that you were fired. That’ll wind them up. Remember, you’re on tomorrow night but off on Saturday. See you tomorrow. Go out the back way. I’ll have your clothes cleaned and ready for you.”
“Thank you, Gabi. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you, Natalie,” Gabi responded. “You handled this like a Whitehall professional. With pluck, with verve, and with dignity.”
I went out the rear entrance. I’d just turned onto Melrose when I heard my name. “Natalie? Is that you?”
I turned. It was Mia, in a short white cotton dress with a sweetheart neckline. What was she doing here?
She asked me the same question. I gave her the rundown on the evening’s misfortune.
She had a sly look on her face. “Gabi sounds like a great boss. That’s why I came to surprise you.”
“Huh?” I wasn’t tracking.
/> “Natalie? I’m starting as a waitress next week. Gabi wanted me to come in tonight and watch the show. The guy loves you. When I gave your name as a reference, it put me over the top.”
Okay. This was the greatest surprise ever. So great it was almost worth having been mussel-doused by Brooke Summers.
Almost.
Obviously, I got home earlier than I’d expected. Normally, after helping close Whitehall and reset the tables for the next day, I’d walk in after eleven. With that night’s tomato sauce surprise, I got home before ten.
I knew that my sister had gone to a performance of the Groundlings troupe with some friends from her comedy class. My mom and dad were already in their bedroom. Their door was closed; I didn’t want to bother them. So I headed straight upstairs.
Chad’s door was partway open. I knocked gently.
“Chad?”
No answer.
“Chad?”
He must be in the bathroom, I figured. No way he’d sneak out again. Still, I thought I’d better check.
I pushed the door open gently and heard the toilet flush. I was about to close the door again and go to my room when I saw Chad’s computer monitor. It was a big one—twenty-one inches—so it was hard to miss. It was also hard to miss that he was in the middle of a Skype conversation, since a girl’s face was taking up nearly the entire monitor.
Lisa Stevens.
Lisa Stevens! Are you kidding me?
My hand gripped the doorknob. I checked again to make sure that I wasn’t mistaken.
Nope. It was Lisa. She played idly with her dark hair and hummed along to music while she waited for Chad’s return.
The bathroom door opened. I got out of there, with a bigger problem on my hands than a plate of mussels in tomato sauce.
My brother was lying about Lisa. He was lying to my parents. He was lying to everyone. Once again, I was the only one who knew it. Once again, I had to decide what to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Even after being nearly musselled to death? Even after my Lisa Stevens discovery, I slept fine. Truth was neither thing was my problem. Gabi had fixed the first. It was up to my brother to fix the second. I would tell him what I knew. What he did with that information was his decision.
So I showered and dressed on Friday with relative peace of mind. Even the big secret I was keeping about Sean and me wasn’t so fraught. Our communications blackout was making things easy. As for Brett, he was having another hectic week at Working Stiff; we probably couldn’t get together until Saturday night after the Wait/Great meeting. He was planning another of his Brett-special Hollywood adventures. The only hint was his asking me if I was afraid of ghosts.
Oh yeah. I’d emailed him about what happened with Brooke before I went to sleep. He texted me back that he’d have a little chat with Brooke and fill me in after it happened.
I went downstairs on Friday with my guitar and lyrics notebook, expecting to have breakfast alone on the deck. Instead, I found everyone in the kitchen. That usually meant an emergency family meeting about something serious, but the mood today was upbeat. Even excited.
“Perfect timing!” my dad called out. He was at the stove, making mushroom-and-cheese omelettes. “Big breakfast before my big announcement.”
I looked at the table. It was already laden with homemade grits, fresh-squeezed orange juice, sourdough toast, and coffee brewed in a metal French press.
My mom looked up at me. “Your father’s going to tell you kids what production company he’s picked for his movie. We’ve just been waiting for you.”
Wow. My dad had spent the last couple of days going to meetings with his new agent from Paradigm, but I didn’t know that he’d made a decision. It must have happened the night before.
“You know already?” I asked her.
She grinned mischievously. “I do, I do. He wanted to tell you kids together.”
“And once we get these omelettes on the table,” my dad announced, “I’ll share the big secret.”
When the food was plated, my father actually stood and clinked a spoon against his juice glass for attention. “Before I tell you what I’ve decided to do, I want everyone to know how grateful I am to Natalie and her friend Brett for getting me into Paradigm. Norm Aladjem is a total ace. Natalie, thank you.”
I waved to acknowledge his thanks. He squared around to face everyone. “So, I’ve made a decision. Norm and I have made a decision. It’s probably a little surprising. We’re going to place the book with Kent Stevens.”
“What?” The word was out of my mouth before I could self-regulate.
“No way!” Gemma exclaimed.
“What do you expect, Gemma?” Chad asked. “Kent set Mom up with a radio show. It’s called payback.”
“Hold it. Hold it right there, Chad!” My mother’s voice rang out like six quick gunshots. She rarely raised her voice at home, but she was raising it now. “The decision has nothing to do with my radio show. If you kids would give your father a chance to explain instead of jumping down his throat, maybe you’ll learn something.”
I thought that was an example of Marsha Shelton’s being confrontational.
“Charlie?” She prompted him.
“Thank you,” my dad said to her. “I was on the verge of sending everyone to their rooms.”
He turned back to us. “We had seven meetings and got five offers. Kent Stevens did not offer me the most money. In fact, he didn’t offer me anything. In fact, he wasn’t one of our meetings. Norm and I called him on our own, after we’d made the rounds.”
Gemma was incredulous. “You called him?”
“Not me. Norm. At first, Kent told Norm—and I’m pretty much quoting here—that he did not want to produce the picture. That his relationship with us was more important than any movie. Excuse me. I’m hungry.” He took a bite of his omelette. Then another. Then a really, really huge one that made us all laugh.
“I hope you can see that your father hasn’t lost his mind,” my mom commented. “Though perhaps he’s lost something of his table manners.”
“It’s good!” my father protested.
“Of course it is,” my mom told him, laughing. “You made it.”
“How much was the option for?” Chad asked curiously.
“It isn’t about the money. Kent offered less than anyone else.”
Chad frowned. It didn’t make sense to me, either. But if his agent—
“But it’s only for six months. Plus, Kent let me control the sequel rights. That’s rare.” My dad poured himself some coffee and stirred it meditatively. “Norm and I think the book is in good hands. We’ll see.” He looked at us kids. “Can you guys live with this? You’re going to have to see Kent at church.”
“Not me, I won’t,” Gemma muttered.
“What does that mean, Gemma?” my mother asked.
Gemma bit her lip. She looked trapped. Then she shook out her long blond hair, took a deep breath, and puffed it out slowly.
“It means I wish we’d voted to go back to Minnesota. If you guys don’t want to go? You should let me go alone. I’ll stay with one of my friends or something. There’s nothing for me here. Nothing.”
Gemma reset her fork and knife on her plate as we digested this bombshell.
My mother was the first to react. She kept it low-key. “I’m surprised, Gemma. You say there’s nothing for you here? What about your improv class? You seem to be making new friends.”
“I actually thought you were loving it,” my father commented.
Gemma banged the table. “Okay. Here’s the truth. I suck at improv. I worse than suck. I’m the worst one in my class, and everyone knows it. I get laughs not because I’m funny, but because I’m not funny.”
Whoa. She knew. Maybe her instructor had talked to her. Or maybe she’d just figured it out on her own.
She fixed her gaze on me. “You and your friends saw my showcase, Nat. Tell me I have real talent, Nat. Go on. I dare you to tell me I have talent.” Her e
yes didn’t waver. “Tell me!”
What could I do? Tell a lie, saying she was good, when I agreed with her self-diagnosis?
I said nothing.
“See!” Gemma shouted mock-triumphantly. “She lied to me. After my showcase? Nat said I was good.”
“Gemma, that’s not fair.” My mother came to my rescue. It was a good thing, too. I was horribly embarrassed.
“Yes it is. Nat said I was good,” Gemma maintained. “She said it a few times. Anyway, it’s not because of improv. And it isn’t that I don’t have a few new friends. But I miss my real friends. I want to go home. If not now, then for the school year. Ashleigh is talking to her parents about me living with them. Talk to them.”
My father shook his head. “Not so fast. I think the first thing we need to do is talk to you. Alone.”
Gemma set her jaw defiantly. “Fine. But I have nothing else to say.”
My mother seemed unfazed by Gemma’s hostility. “Well. Maybe you will later.” She poured herself a little more coffee. “It’s certainly been an interesting morning. Anyone else have anything they want to share? Questions, comments, funny stories?”
Chad spoke up. “Fine,” he told my folks. “You want some questions? Here are some questions. Do you really think this grounding is keeping me and Lisa apart? What about my cell phone? What about me playing Xbox? There’s Xbox Live, you know. She can get on it just as easily as I can. What about Skype? Or iChat? What about Facebook? What if we had the same friend, and we sent emails to each other through our friend? What if when you unground me, we meet at the movies and you never know? Can you police all that? It’s not like when you guys were kids and your parents could take away the car keys and the phone. What’s going to happen in the fall? She and I are going to be at the same school, aren’t we?”
More whoa.
What had brought this on? Did Chad know that I had seen Lisa on his computer the night before? Not likely. Not that it mattered. Chad had said his piece. I had to admit it made a certain amount of sense, but so did his grounding. Lisa Stevens was two years older than Chad and—I’d bet anything—sexually active. What if she seduced him? How much temptation could he be expected to resist?
Little Lies Page 14
