Luck on the Line (3 page)

“Mom—” I grab her trembling hand. It makes her jump. “Relax.”

Then she flips on me, her gray eyes like tiny thunderstorms. “Relax?”

“You—”

“
Relax
? Do you know how hard I’ve worked for this? Look at what’s happening!”

Now we have an audience. There were times after Dad was gone that Mom wouldn’t sleep for days. Her eyes would get extra bulgy. She’d pick fights over my haircut, my clothes, my homework, until we were screaming and throwing things at each other.

Eventually she’d fall asleep, like she’d exorcised whatever demon was inside her. I wonder who’s been that person for her since I moved out. I wonder why whenever I’m with her, I feel like I’m the one who’s more put together. So I’ve got that going for me.

“Look,” I say, taking her by the hand and pull her past the staff and construction workers. Smoke lingers around the room. I hold her wrist. “How many people are coming to this pre-tasting thing?”

She thinks for a bit, then says, “Thirty five. Wait, Thirty six.”

“How many people does the restaurant sit?”

“Two hundred.”

“So you don’t need the whole place to be open, just a small section, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

I walk through the tables and point to a section closer to the front, facing the bar. “You can dim the lights over on that wall so no one can see the damage while they fix it.”

“But I’ll see it.”

“But
they
won’t.” I laugh and she looks incredulous. “Remember when I was in junior high and I had a zit as big as Texas on my forehead and I wouldn’t go on stage and you said—”

“No one notices it but you.” She’s trying hard not to smile, to remain stoic.

“This is the
same thing
.”

We stare at each other. Her hand starts to tremble in mine and she presses it against her stomach to make it stop. Our relationship isn’t ideal, but she’s still my mom. It’s like no matter what, I feel the need to take care of her.

Then she smiles, really smiles. She pinches my cheek and says, “See? I told you you’d rub off.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

“I mean it, Lucky,” she says, pressing her hair back with a shaking hand. “Hey, I have a nutty idea. Why don’t you stay on and see this through?”

I shake my head, holding onto my camera for support. “I can’t, Mom. I’m only in town for—” I don’t finish it. I’m only in town for Dad.

She breathes in, and then Stella, of “Evenings in Stella’s Kitchen,” is back. “I see. Well, in the mean time, there’s work to do. You need a paycheck, don’t you?”

She sidesteps me and goes back to her team. She calls for Carlos, and the mustached man steps forward and starts taking measurements on the broken wall. Mom is giving people jobs. Felicity is talking so fast on the phone I tune her out for fear I’ll become dizzy.

So this is my mom’s life in the past year—building a restaurant while I was trying to become a photographer in New York and getting doors slammed in my face. Technically, after I leave Boston, I don’t have a next step. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a nice place to stay and a job while I try to figure things out. And my mom really could use the help…

I feel the warmth of someone standing directly behind me. The scent of beach and leather. Hands clap slowly.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

“Impressive.”

I whip around at the sound of his voice. My stomach drops like an elevator that’s been snapped from its harness, plummeting down, down, down. My heart races at the sight of his sea-green eyes. Done clapping, he crosses his arms over his chest and somehow seems taller than this morning at the coffee shop. He cocks an eyebrow and stares down at me. Mr. Tall Latte. Sprinkle-some-cinnamon-on-top Jay. How did he find me?

“Way to save the day,
Lucy
.”

“You.”

Out of all the things I can possibly say, I go with “you.”

Jay circles me. His name is clear in my head, black letters drawn beside a heart and a number that’s blurry. His eyes, so bright in the whiteness of the restaurant, trace the lines of my face, my dirty hair, my zombie shirt. I smell—I must, after a sleepless, drunken night and then walking all around the city. But he still stares. The green of his eyes is so luminous, impossible, and totally unfair. Why do mean people get to be so—breathtaking?

His presence, his face, his smell, it’s like a punch in the gut. I tell myself to breathe. I’m sure if I did I’d need a mint, but I can’t think of anything to say other than, “You?” Again. Question mark.

His lips curl into a smile that makes the broken elevator of my stomach plummet some more.

“Me.” His arms are still crossed over his broad chest. I think of his tattoo again. I wonder where it leads, what the rest looks like. Wonder if his stomach is a tight as his arms. Wonder if he has a happy trail. Clearly, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex. Wonder—“What the hell are you doing here?”

Jay takes a step closer and I take a step back.

“I came for my latte,” he murmurs in his baritone voice.

“Hate to break it to you,” I say. “I chucked it. It tasted like ass.”

Whatever he thought I was going to say, it wasn’t that. His face scrunches up, like he’s gathering his thoughts. Then he says, “Have much experience in that area, do you?”

I grind my teeth. I walked into that one, fine.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

“What the hell are
you
doing here?” He returns.

What
am
I doing here?

My mother’s voice rings out in a sing-song way, “
Jaaa-mes
—”

She clip-clops to where we’re standing. “James, there you are.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “Can you believe this mess?”

“I was back in the office,” he says, “when I heard the noise.”

Her hand moves across his back, like she’s presenting a showpiece. Please, please don’t let this be her new boyfriend.

“Lucky, meet James. My executive chef.”

He smiles smugly. Stupid Mr. Smug.

“Are you sleeping together?” I ask.

“Lucky!”

My face is red. James-Jay-Girly-Latte’s green eyes widen.

“What?” I shrug. “He’s just a little young to be an executive chef is all.”

Chef James licks his canine and studies me some more but he doesn’t say
No
. He looks behind us to make sure that no one has overheard, and when he’s satisfied that I haven’t polluted the waters, he turns his attention back to us. “I’m twenty-six. And I’m more than qualified.” Then while my mother’s face is turned, waving at Felicity, he mutters so only I can hear him, “Which is more than I can say for whatever you’re doing here.”

I really hate Chef James.

“Lucky, don’t be ridiculous. Forgive my daughter.”

I hold my hand up. “Don’t worry, I’ll live without your forgiveness.”

“She hasn’t slept much. Just got back from New York.”

James cocks an eyebrow. “Go Yankees.”

“But now she’s here for—” She catches herself, about to say, for her father’s anniversary. Of his accident. The accident that was my fault. “To visit her mother.”

“How
lucky
for us,” James says, then he and my mom fall into fit of laughter. They should both sizzle in culinary hell, which is probably a Red Lobster, or a Denny’s.

“James won his episode of Sliced Champion, Luck,” mom says. “He’s come highly recommended by my colleagues and he understands what I’m trying to do here.”

“What was your winning dish, hot dog quesadilla?”

“That’s disgusting.” He barks a laugh. “Clearly the apple fell far from the tree. You’re not allowed in my kitchen.”

“
Your
kitchen?”

Mom nods. “I’m not the chef, darling. I’m the proprietor. My name with his finesse, it’s a match made in food-heaven.”

“I might just prefer hell,” I mutter.

“James, Lucky started out in culinary school before moving on to—well, whatever is the flavor of this semester. Writing? Sewing? I can’t keep track these days.”

“What happened?” James looks mildly amused, miming a knife across a cutting board. “Get stuck at ‘C is for chiffonade’?”

That does it. “Okay. So I’m going to get going. Mom, good luck with the pre-taste stuff. James—well…”

Before I can make it to the exit, her red nails come at me and grip my hands. “Wait. Where are you going?”

I would lie, but it’s useless. We both know the truth.

“Really, Lucky, why don’t you stay? You’re already here.”

I turn my back to James and try to whisper. “You know why I’m home.”

“Lucky, I’ve watched you bounce from city to city to backwater town. Each time you drop out and come back home.”

Her words fill my chest with the unhappy question I ask myself every day: What am I going to do now?

“I came home for Dad.”

James looks down at the sparkly white tiles, not sure if he should run back to his kitchen or stay and wait for Stella. He digs into his jean pockets and scratches the back of his neck, but avoids getting involved. Smart man.

My mom lets go of my hand, like my words smacked her. “You came home because you have nowhere else to go.”

I loop my thumbs on my jeans and make a beeline for the exit. “Thanks for the reminder.”

I let the shower run and fill the bathtub half way. I dump in the whole contents of my mom’s overpriced, real French, lavender bubblebath. The bubbles are massive, foam rising up to the top. It’s my favorite smell in the world.

I sink in and brace against the hot water. My skin prickles in all the good ways. Fuck Food Heaven, this is the real deal.

I try to clear my head. For too long it’s been full of all the wrong things—majors, bad romances, rent checks, and always the thought: what am I going to do now?

How can she say those things to me? For years I’ve waited for her—she dumped me in that private school and went away with her husbands. We’re not that different, are we? I bounce around colleges and she bounces around marriages.

And to top it off—Chef James? Who does he think he is?

Still, I close my eyes and think of his sea-green eyes, like crystal clear water. If I’d met him anywhere else, I would have killed to take his picture. The jerk has a body that would put Henry Cavill’s to shame. In a city where most men are buried under Ivy League hoodies, James stands out. I wish he didn’t. Out of every guy I’ve ever yelled at, why does this one have to be my mother’s executive chef?

I raise my hands out of the tub and let the water trickle down. I gather a handful of foam and pretend they’re my memories of James and blow them away until they dissolve.

Then there’s a knock on the bathroom door and I jump out of my skin, sloshing water all over the place.

I wrap a towel around myself, dripping from head to toe. My mom isn’t supposed to be home ‘til way later. I twist the lock. “Who is it?”

Chuckle. “Relax, Luck. It’s only me.”

“Bradley, what the hell?” I press a hand on my chest feeling the
thump, thump, thump
of my heart. “How did you get in here?”

“You left a bag at my place.”

What? I was sure I got everything. “I’ll be right out.”

“Meet me in the study.”

I hear him chuckle again. Can picture his blond head shaking from side to side, smiling.

My moment of Zen gone, I throw clothes on. They cling to my damp skin. I run some leave-in conditioner through my long hair and look at myself in the mirror. I’m no longer streaked with dirt and my face is less puffy. My skin is red from the hot water, but I’ve looked worse.

It takes me a lap around the place to find the study. There’s a long chaise the color of Caribbean skies, a glass fireplace and wall-to-wall books. My heart seizes when I realize this is my dad’s original library. He read for hours, for days, possessed by the classics, mysteries, even Harry Potter.

Bradley looks up from the beaten leather armchair, very much the king of the castle. In his hand is a crystal tumbler with two fingers of liquid amber.

“Make yourself at home,” I say, sitting on the day bed facing him.

When we were in high school Bradley was the tallest boy in our grade. Thin as wire, the football dicks made fun of him relentlessly. Now, his arms are muscular and lean. He plays tennis and swims every night after his classes. Renaissance artists could have painted his face. His golden hair is almost long enough to tie in a ponytail, the only sign of rebellion against his blue-blood family.

“Your mom has nicer bourbon than my dad.”

“Where’s my stuff?” I notice the black bag at his feet and reach for it.

He holds his foot across the bag like a barricade. “Don’t be mean. Pay attention to me.”

“Yes, Bradley. I haven’t seen you in 24 hours. What’s new?”

He smiles as he sips his drink.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re all wet.”

My stomach flutters. I suck my teeth and roll my eyes. Really, truly, very mature. I twist my hair and let the water drip on the carpet. “Don’t be weird.”

He leans forward with the glass in his hands. “What happened today?”

I look at the clock above the fireplace. It’s five minutes to five, so why not. I take the drink from him. The woodsy notes tickle my nose. The liquid is warm on my tongue and sparks a fire in my belly.

“Sorry I left without waking you,” I say. I want to stick my head in the sand, ostrich-style. I can’t believe I almost crossed the line with my oldest friend.

“No, dumbass,” he says, and I’m a little relieved we’re back to normal. “Stella called me and asked me to check on you. What happened at the restaurant?”

“Oh.” I take another drink, and he listens to me talk about The Star. The shit show, literally, in the bathrooms. The falling beam. The small fire. Chef James and his attitude.

Bradley takes the glass back and refills it. “That guy sounds like an asstard.”

“Thank you! He’s a total asstard.”

“Completely.”

“For real.”

“You like him, though. I can tell.”

“What?” I throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily and throws it back at me. My reflexes are sluggish and it hits me square in the face.