Luck on the Line (26 page)

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.

Fine, I’m lying to myself. I care. I care more than I should. But as I pour the healthy helpings of gold vodka and whiskey cream, I’m not going to let him see how much I care. It’s too hard to care about someone. It’s too hard to realize that they’re not the person they claim to be. Who are you, James Hughes? James Murphy. Whatever your name is. When he told me there were parts of him that wouldn’t like, maybe he was right. Maybe I should be thanking him.

I pour the first three glasses, and Belle her first three. Only 54 to go, but it’s something to concentrate on besides James’s sea-green stare.

“Is it just me,” Belle whispers. Between the restaurant chatter, the low mood music, the thunder, and the rattling of ice cubes, I can barely hear her. James isn’t close enough to hear us. He just stands there, watching me. “Or are you and Chef James having a lover’s quarrel?”

“Don’t call it that.”

My muscles are tense and already aching, but it’s a good kind of ache. This is what I love. Mixing is my art. The right drink can make an entire night better. The wrong drink…well…

“What else should I call it?”

“We’re not having a quarrel. We’re just realizing who the other one truly is.”

Felicity joins James. Her face is flushed and happy and she taps her fingers together in a little clap. More people get out of their seats. Curiosity wins over the delicious laziness that comes with a full stomach. Some of the older crowd cocks stiff eyebrows, too dignified to appreciate a little bartending tricks.

“Did he realize that you’re a little bit irresponsible with a tendency to show up late to dinner?”

When she puts it that way, I call her a bitch. “Catch.”

I shake my shaker three times, twist the lock and throw it across the bar to her. She reaches out and catches it, shaking both over her head and smiling at the splatter of applause. She pours the next six drinks. I take my shaker back, rinse, and pour the liquor again. We alternate throwing shakers at each other. I turn around and throw it over my shoulder. There’s a near miss when she throws it under her arm and my hand is damp, but I hold on. The clapping gets louder and louder. My mom appears in the crowd, Bradley gives me a thumbs up as he supports her. Her grey eyes are far off, and there’s a radiant smile on her face.

I look from her to James, and I try not to think about them running this place on their own. It’s not that I think I’m irreplaceable. I’m sure there are managers with way more experience than me. My resume is full of dives, strip clubs, and sports bars. Sure, I’ve worked at nice diners, snazzy restaurants, but at the end of the day, that’s not where I feel at home. Give me a sticky floor, loud patrons, and fifty beers on tap any day of the week. Give me people who have stories to tell, who want to get their hands dirty on a juicy cheeseburger. Give me the real love of food and drink.

When all the drinks are laid out prettily in front of us, Belle and I bow like Southern Belles.

“Does anyone have a lighter?” I ask.

Andrés comes forward, and hands Belle his. Then before anyone else can, James gives me his. I’ve never seen him smoke, and his apartment doesn’t smell like cigarettes. Neither does his clothes, his hair, his skin…

He holds it in his fist. I hold my hand out and he releases it.

“Lucky.” He says.

It’s heavy. Solid sterling silver. I lift the cap. Belle counts to three. The hiss of the lighter spark is followed by a generous cheer. Every one of the drinks lights on fire. We both blow on either end to make the fire spread the other glasses, like a blazing star traveling across a boozy sky.

After a few seconds, the fire extinguishes. I breathe in the rich cinnamon in the air and take another tiny bow. I search for James in the audience to give him the lighter back, but he’s already walking back towards the kitchen.

Hands grab for the drinks and blow on them lightly, to make sure they won’t burn their lips.

McKenna leads her staff out of the kitchen with tiny, delicious concoctions. I beg Felicity to save me some frozen hot chocolate puffs, but no promises are made.

I need some air. So I go outside. Under the awning to The Star, I watch the rain and thunder. I weigh the lighter in my hands and flip it over. On one side is a golden crown. On the other…My heart gives a little squeeze when I see the script letters—Murphy.

Sometimes, I wish my life was a fairytale.

When I start wishing that I realize I’ve hit a new low because I hate fairytales. I hate that the girls have to be so perfect and the villains are so one-sided. That the prince only comes in at the very end. That no one cares about how the villain became the villain. The thing that I wish I did have from fairytales are the helpful magical objects. For instance, a magic mirror.

Instead, I have Google. When I search “James Murphy” I come up blank. Actually, I come up with 500,000 results. I try to narrow my search by adding “Boston” to the end, but that leaves me with a 300,000 results. I try to image search, but his sea-green eyes don’t pop up anywhere.

It’s been four days since the tasting. A few reviews went up overnight, calling James’s food Boston Comfort Food
.
There are some that note that the restaurant looks very much unfinished and is missing a key element, with a sweet and sour reminder that the grand opening is in a week.

After everyone left, James and I didn’t have a single second to ourselves. Stella needed to be taken home and I did my part as the dutiful daughter. I locked up the restaurant and left the kitchen to James. For the rest of the evening he stayed behind those double doors. It might seem antisocial, when most chefs are ready to stand in front of you and take in the praise and adoration, but James isn’t like that.

As a non-authority on what James is like, or who he is, I can say that.

I crumble another piece of paper with a design on it and throw it into the fireplace. The crushed white paper jumps in the fireplace and in seconds is reduced to ashes.

I shut my laptop and leave it on the carpet. I lie on the chaise with the lighter in my hands. The detail is beautiful and intricate. It looks expensive even though the metal is tarnished. History has weight to it. This is a calling card. James gave it to me in front of every single person in the restaurant. It’s a peace offering. I should take it, but there’s this nagging feeling inside of me that reminds me I’m not here for much longer. That despite the feelings that James fills me with, it doesn’t matter because I don’t know him and at the end of the day, the best thing for me to do is leave.

“What’s that?” Felicity asks.

I jump and drop the lighter on my chest. Thankfully she’s looking at the other designs strewn about on the floor.

“Just some doodles.”

“I like this one,” Felicity says. It’s a series of stars in different sizes.

“Yeah,” I say, “but it’s too simple don’t you think?”

Felicity shrugs. In her off day, she’s still in her pajamas. Her hair is tied up in a bun. With a book in hand, she’s getting ready to call it a day before happy hour even starts. “Where are you guys going to dinner?”

My scalp still hurts from the tight ponytail I had last night. I rub my fingers and massage the soreness. No matter what I wear, Stella is going to complain.

“Some place that just opened downtown. I should pay more attention to these things.”

“Ohhh, Jet Set Lounge? I heard they have different rooms to look like a different part of the world. You know, jet setting.”

“Clever.” I’m pretty sure I’ve already seen that done in New York.

On the day of our yearly dinner, my mom chooses a loud lounge to have dinner. I scowl at the ceiling, but then what do I expect? So instead of moping, I decide to do something crazy.

“You should come tonight,” I tell Felicity.

She sets her book down. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, we deserve a night off. It’s been a crazy few days. I’d say that after the other night, we earned it.”

When Felicity and I stand ready to go in the living room, Stella looks confused. But, having mastered the art of not showing surprise, she rolls with it. The car drive is awkward. The driver plays 80s freestyle and sings along without a care in the world. It makes Felicity and me giggle, but my mom’s eyes roll.

The Jet Set Lounge has a line around the block. It’s been open for a week, according to Stella, and one of her friends is part owner. We walk to the front of the line and get in right away, which makes me feel like an asshole.

There is nothing
lounge
about Jet Set Lounge. The strobe lights are aggressive and it takes my eyes a minute to adjust. Bodies bump and grind on autopilot to a song that reminds me of spaceships having sex. I follow my mom to greet a young guy wearing a suit. He’s short and thin, and looking around as if he can’t believe that these people are actually here in his club. The girl draped around him drinks from a champagne flute, pinky up like it’s high fucking tea.

My mom kisses both his cheeks. I hear her tell him how great the place looks, which is a lie. I can see where the paint isn’t evenly distributed in patches when the white light hits it. There are paintings on the walls that are Warhol knock-offs. I really hate when people use art they don’t understand. It’s like they see a picture of a famous person, put some processed color over it, and call it art. It has no personality, no life.

I’m sure if I keep looking around I’ll find something else to complain about so instead I shake the young guy’s hand and go get us a round. The bartender is rude and gives me three cocktails that look like alien piss when all I said was three glasses of champagne. I want to smack him in the name of bartenders everywhere. Hey, we all have shit days, but at least get the order right.

Felicity and my mom take their drinks. We’re in a closed off section that is shaped like a harem. Are we supposed to be in Dubai? There are velvet pillows and silky drapes that we can close for privacy. These are actually very pretty. It’s like there were two people with two different tastes building simultaneously. Fear snakes into my chest when I realize that this is what Andrés was talking about. The Star is Stella’s baby, but here I came in and started putting
me
into it. I wonder if that’s a good or bad thing.

“What do you think?” Stella asks.

There she is, Stella Carter, in all her glory, haloed by a soft blue light. Felicity bounces carefree to the music, people watching. What do I think? Out of nowhere I get angry. This is why I came back to see my mother? No matter where we are, once a year, we get together on
this
day. Anger takes a hold of me. It’s like a poison spreading through my veins, paralyzing my ability to think.

“I feel like I’m halfway across the globe already.” I drink the too sweet cocktail. A waitress comes in with a magnum bottle of champagne. It’s a vintage PJ rosé that costs over a grand. Stella’s favorite. A second waitress holds sparklers and champagne glasses. People rubberneck in our little alcove to see what’s the big deal.

My mother puts her hand on her chest. There’s something in her mannerism that seems flustered. It’s the way she looks at the waitress, as if she shouldn’t be there. Then her television smile comes back and she takes the glass of champagne held out for her.

“We didn’t order this,” I say.

The bottle girl smiles and winks at me. “Your friend has a very sweet secret admirer.”

“You’re not going to tell me who?”

She shakes her head, getting annoyed with me. “I really can’t say. Big customer and all.”

I take the glass from her and shrug. I’ve been there.

Felicity looks so excited. I think out of the three of us, she’s the happiest to be here. So I decide to make the best of it. Fuck it, someone should be happy. That’s the new motto of the day. The three of us cheers our complimentary champagne. Then, a couple stumbles into our little alcove. I stand, ready to tell them to move it along, but then upon closer inspection I recognize Bradley and Sky.

“What are you guys doing here?”

Sky gives me a pained smile, then kisses my cheeks. “Everyone from the hospital is here,” she says. “One of our nurses is getting married. Bradley said he saw you guys walk in, so we wanted to say hi!”