Luck on the Line (24 page)

“Felicity,” I say. She’s nearly purple from talking in a single breath. “Breathe.”

“
You
breathe,” she snaps, but together we make a good Lamaze couple.

I leave her to change. I press my hands on the bathroom door and go to face my guests. I dial my mother, and her phone goes to voicemail. That’s just what I need—the owner and star of The Star to be a no-show at her own party.

I dim the lights in the section where the infamous wall is, and brighten the lights behind the bar. Belle doesn’t let me down for a second. She lines up her bar with champagne flutes and expertly mixes cocktails from her special menu. This one is called Super Nova. It’s like the first drink she made for me but with a splash of rose-infused water. I knew if I left the drinks to her, she’d kill it.

I gave myself the task of placing handmade tags on each table. When it comes to Clarissa Adams, I sit her down with Bradley and Sky, my table. It’s a last minute change, but I want to look her in the eye and face her. The nametags don’t look terrible. I took thin discarded pieces of wood from the construction bin outside and wrote everyone’s first name and initial.

An older woman in a black structured dress appraises me behind slim glasses that are probably worth more than my entire outfit. She takes the wood in her hand and makes a face. “Are you going for boho fabulous, my dear?”

I laugh, then swallow my laugh when I see her name. Adrienne Renault, editor-in-chief of New England Foodie Magazine, which is owned by Foodie TV. Her gray hair is in a perfect chignon, which I don’t know how she can manage considering how humid it is outside.

“Sort of,” I say. “Recycled panic is more like it.”

Her smile tells me she’s pleased, and then she holds out her hand. “Adrienne Renault.”

“Lucky Pierce. I’m Stella Carter’s daughter.”

She seems surprised. Most people are. “Ah, I see it in the eyes. Where is dear Stella and this mysterious Chef James I keep hearing about?”

“Fashionably late for my mother. Chef James is getting his hands dirty in the kitchen.”

“Not too dirty,” she quips, and I decide I like this lady. “You look as if you’re ready for battle.”

“You’re not wrong about that. Can I get you a drink?” I lead her to the bar and have Belle hook her up, giving her a wink that says
this person is important
.

Then again, who isn’t important here? As much as I want to hate critics, anyone who does any kind of creative enterprise has to deal with them. My dad used to say critics suck at the devil’s teat. I find myself wanting them to like me, to approve of all of the work everyone here has done.

I cross my fingers and hope that everything else goes smoothly. As more and more people walk in, knocking back drinks and snatching food off serving trays, I give a massive sigh of relief when Stella walks in. She’s radiant—as if a full night of sleep regenerated her. Her gray eyes are bright and done up in a smoky eye. Her hair is in a high bun. She wears a white cocktail dress with a delicate golden thread and sparkling heels. She’s a blonde, white, and gold version of Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. A photographer trails her, capturing her at every angle.

It’s funny, but in the last couple of days I’ve completely forgotten about my own camera collecting dust on my dresser. I’ve been so busy in this world that I didn’t realize I didn’t miss the other. The photographer turns his camera to me and I block him with a hand.

People swarm my mother instantly. I move over to the now-abandoned bar and watch her. She’s a queen greeting her subjects. Old and young men take her gloved hand and kiss it. Women kiss her twice like we’re in Paris. I spot Bradley and Sky making a quiet entrance. From their stiff shoulders and scowls, I can tell they were fighting on the way over here. Bradley wears a tailored black suit that would be better suited for a Hollywood premier. With his hair slicked back from his face, his blue eyes twinkle like stars. His gold watch catches the light above him and something about him is so different that it bothers me beneath the skin. Sky is beautiful in a forest green cocktail dress that compliments her tan skin. She gives me a tiny wave, then finds their seats.

My mom walks over to me and kisses my cheek. “Are we going to slay a dragon today, darling?”

I grit my teeth into a smile. “I know you’re not complaining after showing up late.”

The photographer lifts his hand and calls for our attention. We put on fake smiles, hugging each other as the flash blinds me. Then we let go. Her movement is loose, carefree, happy. Too happy.

God, Mom. Get a grip.

She takes a drink from Belle and gives all of her attention to an older couple in their Sunday best.

Felicity, almost unrecognizable in her satin dress, waves me over frantically.

I guess the way we’re all talking today is between smiling teeth so as to not let anyone suspect anything is wrong.

“What? Spit it out!”

Pained smile. Shifty eyes. Oh, god. Do I even want to know?

“There’s a few more people here than expected.”

I make a whimpering sound. At first I thought I felt claustrophobic because I was nervous. As I see all six tables fill up with guests, and another thirty or so still standing about drinking, I can feel my heart fall out of my ass.

“Fuck.” I breathe. Count to ten. “Get Junior to help you set up more tables around. I’m going to talk to James.”

The kitchen is in a flux.

James is shouting out orders to his line cooks, and together they hum and whistle a tune that reminds me of the dwarves working song from Snow White. Nunzio looks up at me and stops cutting the fat off from the duck. My heels are sharp clicks that announce my entrance.

“Daaaaaam, girl.”

“Not now,” I say, though a blush still blooms on my already rouged cheeks.

The line cooks nudge shoulders and whistle at me. I can’t threaten any of them because we need all hands on deck. James wipes his hands on a rag, his face sweaty from all the burners in the kitchen. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am—about the table where McKenna is preparing the pastries. About how we were both naked and baking right here a few days ago. If he is, he doesn’t say so.

He steps closer to me. “What’s wrong?”

“You have to double the plates.” Oh, good. I managed to say that without shrieking.

“What do you mean double the plates?”

“I mean there are about thirty more people here than there should be. So either make some pigs in a fucking blanket to give them
something
to eat, or double the damn plates.”

I shouldn’t yell at the head chef on his turf. It’s a big no-no. I fully expect him to yell at me back.

When he doesn’t, no one is more surprised than I am. Instead, he shouts new instructions at his boys and at Nunzio.

“Hey, boyo,” Nunzio says to James. “How bout we add those pizzettes from that time in Florence.”

Felicity pops her head in through the double doors. Junior and Izzy run out with trays of toasted figs wrapped in caramelized bacon, and pastry puffs full of spinach and the richest feta.

“We need more appetizers.”

James throws his rag on the table. “Oh, you do, do you? You need your plates doubled, and you need more appetizers? It’s not the kitchen’s fault that you can’t control the guest list. Why don’t one of you two get on the fucking line and then you can keep shouting out orders.”

So I do. I take an apron from the hook and wrap it around my waist. I take my hair, already in a ponytail, and twist it into a bun to keep it out of the food. It’s been a while, but I know I can at least do
prep
. With Felicity and Stella manning front of house, I can certainly do this.

James takes a step back. Nunzio chuckles and says, “That’s fucking hot.”

I stand with my hands at my hips, steely eyes daring James to put his money where his mouth is. And I say, “Yes, chef?”

Maybe I was overestimating my confidence when I stepped up to James in his own kitchen.

Still, something had to be done. That’s the ongoing theme of the evening: someone do
something
.

Because of my experience level, I’m the lowliest line cook of the line cooks. I cut the cabbage into beautiful thin strips.

“Pick up the pace,
Lucy
,” James shouts, eliciting snorts and giggles from the others.

Okay, so I did this to myself. If James is going to put his money where his mouth his, then so should I. McKenna gives me a pitying look as she pulls a tray of jalapeño corn bread from the oven. It smells so delicious that I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

I give the cabbage a second wash, then hand it off to Chang.

There are towers and towers of plates all over the kitchen. Every time the doors open or the oven shuts, they rattle along with my sanity.

I start peeling avocados for the tuna crudo. James wants perfectly sized pieces, and he repeats that as he stands over me. He starts plating the roasted vegetables when Felicity comes in. All she wants is a thumbs up that we’re ready. “All of the appetizers have been demolished.”

We’re in a pretty decent shape. I’ve sweat off most of my makeup so I look like one of those watercolor Japanese paintings, my hands are covered in nicks and cuts from chopping, my eyes are red from accidentally rubbing cayenne powder into them…but yeah, pretty decent shape.

The torture devices on my feet kill me the most. I wish I’d thought to bring sandals or something, but I didn’t foresee myself being back here. The salty smell of roasting lamb makes my stomach growl. A wave of dizziness makes me wobble.

James puts his hand on my elbow. The other guys look up from their assembly line, but then look back at their work. James has them trained to perfection.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers in my ear.

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“You look green. I can’t have you puking on the prep.” He guides me away from his station where he keeps plating roasted vegetables. The goal is to have the first two dishes plated, give a speech, then come back and keep cooking.

“Did you eat today?” he sounds more like my mother than a guy I’ve seen naked.

“It’s been a long day,
chef
.”

He takes the dish he just plated, then goes to the grill where the duck is dripping with delicious fat. He cuts off a chunk and sets the plate into my hands. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say please. He can’t in front of everyone. But I can hear the concern in his voice, and that make me ache more than anything.

“Go to the office and eat.”

I stare at my food. I could be stubborn, but when the hunger spreads to my aching temples, I realize there’s no sense in punishing myself to spite some guy.

And I do. I sit in my mom’s office and scarf down five star cuisine. The duck melts on my tongue like butter. The vegetables are sweet and crisp. I eat everything in two seconds. The spices tickle every one of my taste buds. I haven’t appreciated James’s food when he hasn’t been watching me. Alone, I shut my eyes and savor it all. In a single bite, you can taste the love in his food. He’s not in it for the celebrity that some chefs want. He just wants a restaurant. I believe it when he said that. I can taste it. And if I concentrate, I can still taste him.

Outside I can hear a small cheer and my mom’s voice calling for attention.

I leave the plate on his table, let my ponytail free from its bun, and run back to the dining room just as James is walking out of the kitchen.

Everyone in the room has turned to look at him. I can feel him recoil inwardly. It’s not like he’s shy, but when over 120 eyes are honed in on every move you make, yeah, you get shy.

I place my hand on his back and guide him towards where my mom stands at the bar. Everyone is standing in a semicircle, holding champagne flutes full of a raspberry concoction.

Wrists jingle with bracelets, and feet shuffle in place. I realize James swapped his chef’s jacket for a clean navy blue one. My mother’s vision for this restaurant was something classy to cater to her followers. But that’s not what I’ve given her. My staff is covered in tattoos and piercings. They’re a mix of old school glam and rock and roll. They’ve lived life outside of the norm, and they know exactly what they want when it comes to food and drink.

Like James, they’re rough around the edges. James can never look as preened as Bradley, even if he tried. There’s too much experience, too much hurt in his eyes. James is just
too much
of everything. I feel a smile tug at my lips because despite all of the hiccups, I did this. These people are here to eat. They’re here to meet James. They’re here to judge and see and drink.
I’m
here and I didn’t run away.

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.”