by Megyn Ward
I’m not going to laugh.
I’m not.
“That’s enough. Go get ready for school.” I manage to get it out without cracking up.
“But—”
“Now.”
Shooting Delilah a dirty look, he jumps down from his stool and stomps his way down the hall. As soon as he’s gone, I turn toward my sister.
“He’s only four,” I remind her, abandoning my waffle plans. Instead, I pull a banana from the bunch on the counter and slap it down in front of her.
“Are you sure?” she says, looking at the banana just long enough to turn green. “Because he’s the crankiest old man I’ve ever met in my life.”
I open the fridge and pull out the chocolate milk “I’d be cranky to if I woke up to my favorite aunt, throwing up all over my bathroom.” I get a glass and start pouring.
“I’m not his favorite aunt anymore—Sophie is.” She curls her lip. I’m not sure if it’s the chocolate milk or the mention of our sister that does it. I set it down in front of her, next to the banana. She promptly pushes it aside. “He told me so last night.”
I turn toward the cabinet above the sink and retrieve the bottle of ibuprofen. I shake two from the bottle before replacing it. “While you were hosing down his bathroom in old fish and strawberries?” I laugh at her, rattling the pills in my hand, gesturing for her to hold out hers.
“I didn’t hose anything down.” She cups her hand and I dump the pills into her palm. “I’m not an amateur,” she mutters, tossing the tablets into her mouth.
“No...” I sigh, finally letting my worry bleed into my tone. “You’re my sister. Noah’s god-mother. And I don’t like seeing you this way. I don’t like him seeing you this way.” I pick up the chocolate milk and press the glass into her empty hand. “Drink it.”
Ibuprofen. Chocolate milk. Banana.
The Silver Fiorella hang-over cure.
I’ve administered it to her too many times for my liking.
“You’re no fun anymore,” she chides me around her mouthful of pills.
“According to you I was never fun.” I make an impatient gesture with my hand. “Drink.”
Delilah sighs, tipping the glass to her mouth. Once she starts, she doesn’t stop until it’s drained. Setting it down she glowers at me while swiping the back of her forearm across her mouth, smearing chocolate milk and red lipstick all over her face. “There. Satisfied?”
“Not until you eat the banana.” I wait for her to peel it and take a bite before I come out from behind the counter. “After that, two glasses of water and—”
“A cold shower.” She grins at me, purposely pushing mashed banana through her teeth.
“You’re disgusting.” I shake my head at her. “I should take pictures of you and sell them to the tabloids—Hotel Heiress Delilah Fiorella—The Morning After.”
Swallowing the mouthful of banana she just shrugs. “You wouldn’t get more than fifty bucks for them—this is pretty tame compared to my usual shtick.”
But I know that’s why she’s here. Why she showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night instead of her standing suite at the Hawthorne. Because she doesn’t want anyone to see her this way. Because she’s ashamed of herself, even if she won’t admit it. It hurts my heart.
“Lil—”
“Want me to take Benjamin Buttons to school for you?” She sounds almost hopeful. Like she wants to be useful. Responsible for something.
But it’s Noah and I can’t risk it. “No,” I shake my head, tempering my refusal. “I’m going to take him. I have to get to the restaurant early today—we’re receiving a shipment of Langoustine and the last time I let Jean Luc sign—”
She waves her hand at me and rolls her eyes. “Got it.” She shoves the rest of her banana into her mouth and chews, mumbling something around it that sounds like, Better hurry. Don’t want to disappoint Dad.
I scowl at her for a moment, ugliness flaring in my chest.
No, that’s your job.
As soon as I think it, I put it away.
It’s not my fault. But it’s not her fault either.
“If I text you a list, think you can go to the market for me?” I ask, wanting to trust her with something. Wanting her to feel useful.
She nods, sullen. “Sure.”
She’ll probably just call and have them delivered but that’s okay. Delilah picking up a phone for something other than Instagram or Twitter is the same as graduating from Harvard as far as I’m concerned.
I’ll take it.
“Great.” I head down the hall to finish getting ready for work. “Noah,” I shout as I go. “Meet me at the door in ten minutes.”
He doesn’t answer but I know he heard me because when I emerge from my room twelve minutes later, he’s standing at the front door in his favorite Chewbacca T-shirt, his backpack already on his shoulders. He’s tapping his toe and looking at an imaginary watch on his wrist.
Did I mention he’s only four?
When I get there, he shoots a glare into the living room where Delilah is sprawled out on the couch, watching TMZ. “I didn’t get breakfast.” He says it loudly. “And my bathroom smells like a bait shop.”
“How would you know,” Delilah calls from her spot on the couch. “You’ve never even been fishing.”
He opens his mouth to say God only knows what. Thinking fast, I reach into my bag and pull out a shiny Mylar package and hold it out to him.
His eyes light up and he reaches for it, but I shake my head, jabbing a pointed look in my sister’s direction.
“I love you Aunt Lilah,” he says and I know he actually means it, even if he’s as frustrated with her as I am.
Mouthing thank you, I hand him the package.
My last strawberry Poptart.
12
Tobias
“What’s this guy’s name again?” I say, flipping through the stack of papers in my lap, trying to find the name of the potential business partner I’m meeting for lunch.
“Fiorella,” Angus prompts me from the front seat of the Mercedes-Maybach S600 he’s piloting through downtown Boston. “Davino Fiorella.”
“Right. The chef.” Not my usual flavor when it comes to business partners. Chefs tend to be temperamental. Unreliable. This meeting is more a favor to my brother, Logan, than anything else really. A friend of a friend and all that. “Give me thirty minutes and then pull me out of there,” I say, reaching for the door latch when he stops the car, in front of a swanky-looking restaurant.
“You touch that door and I’ll break your hand,” Angus says in a conversational tone. “Sir.”
“Bring it, old man,” I snap back. Old isn’t exactly accurate. I’m not sure how old Angus is but he’s well under fifty which makes him about ten years older than me. “I’m not afraid of you.” But I stall my hand and wait for him to exit the driver’s side door and circle the front of the car. Not out of fear but because if I open my own door it will upset him. Angus takes his job very seriously.
A few moments later, he’s opening my door with a small flourish. “That’s not what you were saying this morning when you were crying for your mama.” We spent forty-five minutes sparring this morning that ended with me on my back and with a shoulder that had to be snapped back into place.
“Fuck off,” I laugh, buttoning my suit jacket. “I let you win.”
“Of, course, sir.” Angus’s British butler mask slides into place. Once that happens, he’s like one of those ridiculous-looking guards at Buckingham Palace. Completely unshakable. He hands me my briefcase. “Shall I park?”
“No. Stay here.” I give the restaurant behind him a long look. They’re not open yet so they’re valet service isn’t running. “And thirty minutes. Don’t leave me in there to rot. I’ve got the plane waiting and I still want to see Logan before I head back to New York. I’ve got that dinner meeting at eight.” Jase and I have been working for nearly a year on an energy deal that, if all goes according to plan, wil
l result in a government contract worth a several billion dollars and tonight’s dinner is the culmination of our efforts.
“Very good, sir.” He bows his head slightly, making an ushering gesture with his hand. His way of telling me he’s had enough of my micro-managing bullshit. “Enjoy your lunch.”
The car door shuts behind me as I make my way into the restaurant. The transfer from light to dark momentarily blinds me and I stop just inside the doorway, allowing my sight time to adjust.
“Mr. Bright?”
I hear my name and turn to find a guy standing a few feet away. Dark hair. Clear green eyes. An inch or two taller than me. A few years younger. The kind of face that looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. Blueprint tube tucked under his arm. I recognize him instantly. Logan’s friend and boss, Patrick Gilroy. The boy scout.
“Call me Tobias,” I say extending my hand and he takes it, shakes it firmly while looking me in the eye. “You must be the architect.” I try to sound interested and not at all like I made up my mind before I boarded my plane this morning that investing in Chef Fiorella’s New York restaurant would be a mistake.
“I am.” He flashes me a dimpled grin while re-claiming his hand “Patrick Gilroy,” he says. “Thank you for meeting with us today.” He makes a gesture with his hand, inviting me to proceed him. “I know that doing so is more of a favor to Logan than anything else, but I hope Davey and I will be able to convince you that investing in his New York property will be worth your while.”
Balls. This guy has balls. Not many people would call direct attention to the fact that the billionaire investor they’re trying to court isn’t really interested in the venture they’re proposing. I like him instantly.
“I appreciate your candor,” I say, looking at him over my shoulder to watch while he pulls a pair of large, leather-bound menus from the hostess station. “I’ve got to be honest, I much rather build the restaurant and install a chef of my choosing. Those actually owned by chefs rarely thrive—in my experience, they don’t have the temperament for running a business.”
The dining room he’s leading me through stands in direct opposition to what I just said. Even in the middle of the day, without its army of formally attired patrons, the place is opulent. Muted, gold wallpaper. Crisp white linens. Crystal chandeliers. Gleaming silver. Fine crystal and china. Either chef Fiorella is turning a hell of a profit or he’s drowning in debt. I make a mental note to find out which.
“Usually, I’d agree with you, but Davey has a secret weapon,” he says with a laugh. “His daughter, Silver, is in charge of the day-to-day operations, which frees him up to do what he does best.”
This is the first time I’m hearing about a daughter. I’m envisioning a spoiled princess who does little more than pick out centerpieces and collect a paycheck. Someone who is less secret weapon and more financial drain.
“Will Mr. Fiorella be joining us?” The least I can do is tell the man no to his face.
“He will,” Patrick says, ushering me toward a choice table in the middle of the lush dining room. “Davey and Silver will be joining us shortly.”
13
Silver
There are very few things I hate in life. I hate it when Noah is sick and I can’t make him feel better. I hate it when the pizza place I order from at 3AM forgets to put jalapeños on my pie and I hate—absolutely hate—when my father’s fishmonger tried to pull a fast one on me.
Jean Luc? Sure. He’s an idiot. But me?
Me?
Oh, hell no.
“I don’t need to get my father,” I say into the receiver, doing my best to keep my tone as professional as possible. “Do you know why?” I catch movement from the corner of my eye and whip my head around to catch the fish delivery guy trying to make a break for it. I snap my fingers and he freezes. “Because I have eyes, Hank. I have eyes and a brain and both of them are telling me that your guy did not deliver me two crates of Langoustine. He delivered me one crate of Langoustine and one crate of crawfish.
I let him try to song and dance me for a few seconds before cutting him off. “You’re right, Hank—crawfish is a fine substitute.” I lower my voice. “But not at three-grand a crate, you shifty little bastard.” His back-pedaling shifts into high gear so I up my volume and talk over him. “I want my Langoustine. I want it now and I want a five-hundred-dollar credit on my account for my trouble and if I have to, I’ll come down there and squeeze both out of your crawfish-loving ass.” In front of me, the delivery guy looks like he’s caught between swallowing his tongue and coughing up a lung. “Are we clear?”
Hank mumbles an apology, something about there being a mix-up on the delivery truck and to tell my father hello for him.
“Of course, Hank,” I say, all sunshine and roses. “Give Beverly my love.””
When I turn to hang up the phone, I find my father standing in the doorway of the kitchen, beaming with pride.
“He sent crawfish again,” I tell him, waving an arm at the crates stacked on the delivery guy’s hand truck. “What the hell are we supposed to do with a hundred pounds of crawfish?”
“You can boil it.”
My father starts laughing while I turn my glare on what has to be the most clueless human being I’ve ever met in my life. “If you ever bring me crawfish again, I will boil it,” I say. “And then I’ll shove it straight up your ass.” He turns as white as a sheet while my father laughs so hard, he sounds like an asthmatic donkey. “How does that sound?”
“I—well—not—” The poor guy can’t pick a word and stick with it, so I decide to have mercy.
“You’re going to take this crap out of my restaurant, right now—I don’t care about your other deliveries,” I say before he can start to feed me excuses. “And you’re going to bring me my Langoustine. One hour.” I hold up my index finger, inches from his face. “You have one hour.”
The delivery guy does his best impression of a bobblehead, nodding so fast and hard, I’m afraid his neck is going to break. “Yes, ma’am.”
Now that my point is sufficiently made, I dial it down a tad. “Please don’t bring me crawfish again.”
He keeps nodding while I watch him heft the crate of Langoustine up onto the prep table so the small army of prep chefs that watched the entire episode with wide-eyed wonder can get to work, prepping for dinner service.
Before I can say a word, they descend on it like a pack of jackals while Hank’s delivery guy hustles off with his unwanted crawfish.
As soon as he’s gone, I pull off my apron and toss it in the bin. “That’s the third time this month,” I say to my father, who is slowly but surely recovering from his fit of laughter.
“And you handle it like a pro,” he tells me, wiping laughter-induced tears from his eyes.
“A pro?” I wash my hands in one of the prep sinks, scrubbing off the fish smell. Working front of the house usually goes better when I don’t smell like a bait shop, as my son would say. “I’m not sure how professional it was of me to tell that poor guy I was going to shove a hundred pounds of boiled shellfish up his ass.”
“Okay,” Dad laughs again, nodding his head. “Maybe pro is the wrong word.” He gives me another face-splitting grin. “You handled it like a Fiorella.”
“That’s more like it,” I say, pulling a towel from the stack to dry my hands. “What are you doing here?” Dinner service doesn’t start for hours, which means he should still be at home, sleeping. Chefs keep the oddest hours.
“Well…” he says, cocking his head at an angle that almost always means trouble for me. “Patrick brought in a potential investor for the New York project.”
The New York project.
A fifty-table fine dining restaurant, in the middle of Manhattan. It will put our current twenty-table New York establishment to shame.
It’s supposed to be my project. Mine to spearhead. Mine to run.
Mine.
I have my own line on investors. People who have deep pockets and
won’t micromanage every decision I make. People who know me and trust my ability to run a restaurant.
“I don’t remember you saying anything about an investor meeting,” I say, smoothing a hand down the front of my slacks. His silence tells me I don’t remember because he never mentioned it to me. “I thought that since we agreed that I’d be taking point on the New York project, you were going to let me meet with investors on my own.”
Because I’m tired of wearing training wheels.
Like he can read my mind, my father gives me the kind of indulgent smile you’d give a favorite child who’s clearly past the point of reason. Which I suppose is exactly how he sees me. “Of course. Then I came in to enjoy lunch with my good friend and my beautiful daughter.”
Instead of pushing the matter, I force myself to smile. “In that case I’m glad you’re here.” I tuck my arm through his and let him lead me from the kitchen.
“Lilah showed up at my place last night,” I say. Near the center of the room I see Patrick and his investor, sitting at a table in the center of the room. “Did you know she was in town?”
“I didn’t.” He pats my hand. “Delilah hasn’t spoken to me in months, not since I told her she needed to stop being foolish and start taking her life seriously.”
“Dad—” I start to tell him that Lilah needs more from him than stern lectures and disapproval, but then Patrick sees me and stands, smoothing his tie with a friendly smile. I asked him out once, just to make my father happy and he very politely, very gently turned me down. I’m glad he did. It would’ve felt like going on a date with one of my brothers.
“Patrick, it’s nice to see you again,” I say, overly formal for the sake of the man slowly rising from his chair in front of me. I can’t see his face but there’s something about him that’s familiar. Reaching Patrick, I put my hand on his arm and squeeze, tilting my face upward so he can kiss my cheek.
“Silver,” he says, pulling back just enough to give me a smile. “I’d like you to meet the CEO of The Bright Group, Tobias Bright.”
