Luck on the Line (9 page)

He’s calling. His number flashes under a face that hits my stomach like a wrecking ball.

It rings a few times before Felicity chuckles nervously again. I think I’m in shock. I have to be because I’m not moving. I’m paralyzed at the thought of James calling my mother to talk about me. No, he wouldn’t! No matter what last night was, if anything it solidified our secret of drinking at The Star after hours.

When it’s clear I’m just not moving, Felicity carefully extracts it from my hand. Felicity has too much patience. “Hi! Chef James. We’re still on schedule for the tasting menu selections. Lucky and I will be at The Star around noon. We’re going to look at some textiles for the designer first—Oh, uhm, well, Stella won’t be available for the next couple of days.”

I chew on my thumbnail and watch Felicity’s facial expressions. She’s nodding sympathetically as James’s deep voice goes up a few octaves. I can make out, “What the hell? When did this happen?”

“It was really last minute and she’s so, so sorry. But there’s still lots to do so we’ll just have to carry on in her temporary absence.”

I decide that the reason my mom’s life is so functional is because of Felicity. She slouches and her clothes make her look thirty-five, but she really does care. I wonder what drove her to this kind of business, where people can be terrible.

When James’s tirade on the phone is done, she says, “Okay! See you soon.”

She slides the phone off and then hands it back to me.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, edging the shopping bag on the counter towards me. “But I thought perhaps you’d like to wear this when we run errands today.”

Translation: I know you’re not going to listen to me, so please, please, please, put on something that won’t offend investor types. I reach in skeptically.

“I’m getting all kinds of presents today,” I say, examining the structured black blazer before sliding it on. It fits well. Really well. “And it isn’t even my birthday.”

The phone in my hand rings once again. The number is a Boston area code, but there’s no name attached. A wave of panic crashes over me. It’s like I forgot how to pick up a fucking phone. Wait, what’s my name again? I’m irrationally angry at my mother, but I wish she was here at the same time. I don’t think I’m the right person for this.

“That’s probably the guy with the fabric,” Felicity says, urging me to pick up.

“Hello? This is Lucky Pierce.”

For four hours, Felicity and I look at textiles. Four hours of different thread counts, of patterns that make me dizzy. Four hours I’ll never get back.

“I’ve worked at bars covered in graffiti, old bras, and every license plate in the USA tacked on to the wall. Explain to me why we need to buy fabric that’s $100 a yard.”

“Stella wants the best.” Felicity flips through a book of fabric that is meant to go on the wall that is currently charred. She stops at a pretty one with a white on white embroidery. “Ohhh, I like this one.”

“You know, this one time,” I take the booklet and thumb through the rest of the brocade fabrics, “my mom bought a painting for
five
thousand dollars. It’s not that she thought it was pretty because who wants to look at a painting of splatters on newspaper clippings and the artist’s actual crystallized tears? I mean, it was hideous. But she bought it because it was expensive.”

“Oh…”

I shrug, wishing she would loosen up a little bit. “Which would you pick?”

She looks at me as if this is the first time she’s been asked this question.

“I like clean, modern looks,” she says assertively. “But at the same time, I think a location should look warm, whether it’s a living room, a bathroom, a restaurant, or my closet.”

I stare at her curiously. “Did you decorate my mom’s place?”

Felicity nods, pride flushing her face. “That’s how I ended up working for Stella. One minute I was picking out the right couch out of a 20-couch line up, the next thing she decides to hire me as her assistant. The interior design company I was working for at the time had just laid me off and my rent went up. I don’t know what I would have done if Stella hadn’t taken me in.”

That’s my mom, a regular bleeding heart.

“So you should have this in the bag,” I say.

“For the last year I’ve been handling bills, phone calls, and hiring. Besides, Stella’s changed her direction for The Star about
ten
times. I think that’s the hardest part of this project. It’s so big and she wants to do
everything
—I think she forgot the reason she wanted to have the restaurant in the first place.”

I make a face. “My mom only wants the camera pointed at her. I’m sure this restaurant will add another 15 minutes to her reel of fame.”

“Oh…I don’t know if that’s it.” Felicity turns back to our task.

If I thought I would find some sort of solidarity in Stella-complaining, then Felicity is the wrong person.

“Which ones did Stella want originally?”

“She didn’t say.” Felicity’s big brown eyes get bigger. “She wanted white and gold to be the main colors of the restaurant.”

I roll my eyes. “I hate eating at places that look like I can’t get the napkins dirty. What’s the point of delicious food?”

“Well, the menu is a little more tailored to high end small plates.”

I make a face. “Sounds yummy.”

“What if she hates the fabric we choose?” Felicity grips the piece of cloth in her hand. The sales associate that brought us all the samples stands nearby, but at the sound of Felicity’s shrill panic, he decides to wait on approaching us again. “What if she likes the color, but hates the pattern? Stella changes her mind so quickly. Maybe we should send her photos before we pick?”

I grab her by the shoulders. “Get a grip. This is our decision making time.”

Felicity nods rapidly and breathes heavily. “I just don’t know—”

“Felicity,” I say, sounding more like a mother hen than I’d like. I used to have this roommate that would have daily panic attacks. The most random things would set off a domino effect in her brain. The dishes wouldn’t be clean, and the next thing she knew she thought we were getting a cockroach infestation. I saved the paper bags from the deli to give her something to blow into.

“Look, if Stella didn’t trust us, she wouldn’t have left us alone.” Even as I say this, the lie makes my tongue feel like lead.

I hold a swatch that’s a deep sea-green and my mind flashes to a memory of James’s eyes. The way his lips brushed against my lips.

“Right. Yes. Okay. Good.” She spreads out the samples back on the table. She looks up at me, then back down to the mess on the table. “So…”

I set my finger on a dark gold fabric. “This one.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I was going to play Eenie-meenie-miney-moe…”

Felicity smirks. She turns to the sales associate who looks eager for us to make up our minds. The whole thing costs more than all of my rent from the past year. The sales guy kisses our hands on the way out.

I cross this chore off the list, but still I have this sinking feeling. It’s like that nightmare where you’re walking to a location, an object, a person, but no matter how far you walk, no matter how close you think you’re getting, the road just keeps getting longer and longer.

When we step outside, I’m affronted by the sight of James and my mother. They’re seven feet tall and my mother has a mustache scribbled on her upper lip. Someone drew a tiny penis over James’s white chef outfit. The bus brakes at a red light so I can get a good look at the ad.
Evenings in Stella’s Kitchen
Presents: The Star, A Unique Dining Experience. I don’t know if I want to vomit or lick James’s face. It’s a universal rule that awareness makes you see things you otherwise wouldn’t. Like when you get dumped, you start noticing all the PDA couples all around you. Or when you’re trying to quit carbs and every shop you walk past has pastries in the windows. The light turns green and James’s face continues its campaign down Essex St.

Felicity tries to snap a photo of the ad but it comes out blurry. “This is the first time I’ve seen it. Those ads cost more than I make in a year.”

My new borrowed lady-boss phone buzzes. James’s name sends a shock though my core. Dear Body, why are you betraying me? Starting anything with James would lead to no good. Perhaps that’s why I’m attracted to him. Or maybe it isn’t him. Maybe I’m just attracted to heartbreak.

James: You’re late.

Me: Not for another 10 minutes. On our way.

James: Really on your way, or just leaving your location on your way? ;)

Me: Why? Is your PETIT rabbit salad getting cold?

James: You’re hilarious.

Me: Your face is hilarious. I saw it on a bus.

James: Don’t remind me.

I smack my forehead.

Felicity looks over my shoulder and I slide the phone in my pocket. “Oh! I didn’t realize what time it was. James is cranky when people are late.”

“Our Lord of Perpetual Crankiness?”

Her full lips are pretty and wide. “His food is orgasmic.”

“I bet that’s not the only thing about him that’s orgasmic.” I nudge her playfully.

Felicity’s brown skin turns scarlet. “You’re terrible.”

I get in the passenger seat of her car. “I never claimed to be anything else.”

When I take a deep breath in The Star, I’m happy to say it no longer smells like shit. As much as I want to hate Ben the plumber for being a sexist pig, he got the work done.

The tables and chairs have plastic sheets over them. A thin layer of sawdust and sheetrock dust covers every surface. Carlos and his team are busy measuring the wall and ceiling that needs patching up. They stop what they’re doing to greet us, which feels funny.

I’m a little surprised to see Chef James standing at the bar instead of the kitchen. I’m even more surprised that he’s wearing flip-flops. It’s okay because the next thing I notice is how his chef’s jacket is buttoned all the way, hugging every curve of his massive arms. His black waves look extra glossy under the white bar lights.

He uses a towel to turn a dish so it’s facing the empty seat across from it, then tucks the towel in his pocket. My nose perks up at the mixture of aromas wafting from the spread of carefully plated dishes. Standing next to James is a young guy with bushy dark eyebrows and a long, severe face. He turns the plate the other way. Instantly, I know this has to be his sous-chef.

When James sees me, he looks to Felicity immediately. He wipes his hand on the breast of his chef’s coat and clears his throat. A slight flush colors his neck. He won’t look at me, and I know he has to be thinking about last night. I know I am. But I can’t show it, so I take those feelings and shove them neatly in my back pocket, like a receipt I’ll forget about until after I do laundry.

“Hey guys,” James says. “Have a seat.”

“Hey,” I say, pulling on the edges of my blazer. I extend my hand to Chef #2. “I’m—”

“Lucy Pierce,” Chef #2 says. “Stella’s daughter. You have her beautiful eyes and perfectly regal nose. I have a thing for noses. I dabble in painting on the side. My name is Nunzio Moretti.”

James holds his fist to his lips to stop from laughing.
Lucy.

“It’s Lucky, actually.” I correct the chef.

His long face seems to get longer. His dark eyes find James’s face. His hand turns into a fist. Then, realizing he can’t hit the Executive Chef with witnesses, smiles apologetically. He takes my hand once again and this time, kisses it. “My total bad.”

“You’re fine.” I pull out of his slobbering kisses and fight the urge to wipe my hand on my jeans. I look at James through squinted eyes. “Apparently it’s a common mistake.”

Before Nunzio and his five-o’clock shadow can shower me with more apologies, I take another deep breath and smell something that makes me forget that my name is Lucy. I mean, Lucky.

Nunzio uncorks a bottle of sauvignon blanc from New Zealand and pours two glasses for Felicity and me.

“New Zealand sauvignon blancs are my favorite,” I tell him. It’s not
his
fault James gave him false information. “They smell like fresh grassy fields, which is kind of weird, but tastes so good.”

Nunzio nods. “I know, right? Everyone’s always likes to try this French shit, but New Zealand is where it’s at.”

James clears his throat. “Here’s a revised version of my original menu.”

Nunzio rubs his shaved head. “This man got here at the
ass
crack of dawn. He was like, hey boyo I need you here ASAP. The boss’s daughter—”

James reaches out and lightly backhands Nunzio in the gut.

I try to stare at the plates with a poker face. Only, Bradley tells me I should never play poker because my feelings are always on my face. The first plate is a mixture of all the great things in life—bacon, crisp and sizzling, wrapped tightly around a plump white baby scallop. It’s nestled in a brush of a creamy white sauce. I want to reach out and dip my finger in it. My tongue aches with hunger. I take one of the scallops and plop it right in my mouth.

“Dig right in,” James says dryly.

His sea-green eyes watch me carefully as I bite down on one of the best things I’ve ever had in my mouth. The first bite is heaven. It’s salt and sea and fatty spice melting on my tongue. Nunzio’s smile is like a big orange slice on his face.

Me? I’m about to climax on my favorite combination of surf and turf. The second bite is sweet. He caramelized the bacon, and the seared edges of the scallop take away that usually fishy taste. The last bite is a creamy finish full of herbs.

James’s beautiful cheekbones flush slightly as he awaits my critique. He flips his towel over his shoulder and makes a face. I say nothing. I take a sip of my wine.

“Well?” James says. His whole body is jittery. His broad shoulders tense under his chef’s jacket. A bead of sweat trickles down from his temple for a second before his hand wipes it away.

“It’s good,” I lie. It’s not good. It’s amazing. It’s five stars and a half. It’s worth its price tag. It’s—it’s making me want to lick his face. “Felicity, have the other.”

She looks stunned to be addressed. She looks to James. “Are you sure?”