Luck on the Line Read online

  “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.”

  Chapter 5

  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.

  “Lucky, let me be serious for a second.”

  “Second’s over.”

  “Don’t be like that.” He takes my hand in his, something we’ve done so often over the years, when he consoled me during my dad’s memorials, when we sat in his room listening to his parents fight. When I had a pregnancy scare senior year of high school and my “boyfriend” wanted nothing to do with me.

  But after last night—I don’t know what it means. I mean, we didn’t actually kiss. His lips grazed mine, soft and wet with liquor. I could feel the breeze between them. My brain was just one big “DO NOT PASS GO” sign so I pulled back. If it wasn’t for someone’s car alarm going off that second, then his phone to distract him, the awkward silence could have been worse.

  Bradley doesn’t need my messy life. I won’t let my crazy break what he has with Sky. Even if he says things aren’t the same between them, I know I should take this tickle in my chest and bury it deep down with the rest of my broken hearts. That has to be the right thing to do.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sitting here,” I motion to the living room, “and waiting for you to be serious while drinking my mom’s 18-year bourbon.”

  “I mean, what are you doing here? After the memorial and your yearly hug with your mom. I see you twice a year, barely, and it’s like nothing changes. Do you realize you don’t even come home for Christmas anymore?”

  His judgment bugs me. He sounds like my mother.

  “I get that she was tough to live with. I was there. Remember? But you can’t keep running from place to place. You’re no closer to graduating college than you are to getting mar
ried.”

  “Where did that come from?” I pull my hand away from his and replace it with a punch.

  “That sounded way better in my head,” he says, rubbing the spot on his arm where my fist landed.

  “I get it, Brad. I’m unaccomplished and you’re on your way to being Doctor Superman, with Mega-Nurse Sky as your partner in world saving.”

  His hand finds my face. “It’s not a contest. But I do think there’s something to this. Your mom—she’s a strong woman. Don’t scoff, because you have a lot of that strength. But lately she’s been off. Even without the clusterfuck that happened today, the restaurant gets further behind every day. She needs you, and I know you don’t want to admit it but you need her too.”

  “She needs my expert bartending skills?”

  “Your excellent tongue.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “For arguing, that is.”

  My excellent tongue is tongue-tied.

  “You have more restaurant experience than anyone in your mother’s staff. Granted that’s because you keep dropping out of college, but still. You love food. You’ve always loved food. Remember freshman Home Ec.? You were the only one who could make a roux that wasn’t lumpy. You were the only one whose cakes didn’t sink in at the center. It was the only class that you got an A in all through high school. You know that you get that from your dad. He always wanted a place of his own, and I think that’s the real reason your mom’s in this. Even if the place is a bit of a lemon, you can make lemon-vodka.”

  I let his words sink in. My mom didn’t mention dad when she brought up The Star. There’s nothing of him in that shiny upscale restaurant—not that it’s so shiny right now. But somewhere in the back of my head I remember him talking about his own restaurant. He’d serve dessert first, and then work backwards. He’d serve every kind of food so that his customers could always have something new to try.

  “I’ll have you know I’m pretty good with a camera.”

  “What about when you get bored?” His eyes are x-raying me again. “Because you will.”

  “Why are you saying these things to me?”

  “You need to hear it.” He kisses the top of my head. “Just think about it. Not too long though, because knowing you, you’ll be off on a bus to Guadalajara in the morning.”

  I suck in my cheeks to keep myself from smiling. He always has a way of putting things in perspective. I hate it. “Thanks, Bradley.”

  He takes the glass from me and finishes it off. “If you do choose to work for your mother just don’t do the bar top dancing thing. Although, you were only there for two seconds and you just couldn’t help yourself.”

  “I was putting out a fire!” I smack his shoulder. “And I worked at that place two years ago and you’ll never let me live it down.”

  “Nope.” He smacks his lips together and checks his phone, which is going crazy with text messages. Then he stands at the door leading to the hallway and then out. “We’re okay, right?”

  “Perfect.” I reassure him. “We’re perfect.”

  He steps out, then stops. Turns around. He stares at me with those big blue eyes. God, Lucky, what are you doing?

  “See you, Luck.”

  I stay on the chaise. The sun is lazily sinking behind the row of houses. By the time the sky is so dark I can’t see outside because of the glare from the lamplights, my mom walks in. I didn’t realize I’d spaced that long.

  She takes Bradley’s glass and refills it.

  “I’m sorry about before,” I tell her. “I’m tired. I haven’t slept.”

  “It’s alright, darling.” She drinks. “I simply thought we’d make a good team.”

  Her lips hug the glass like a long lost friend. Something in the back of my mind is tugging at this, telling me to take the drink away. But I don’t.

  “’Til the opening,” I say. This will be good for us. Dad would approve. “I’m reapplying to art school for the next semester.”

  It’s a lie, but I need a way out.

  “Right, the photography. I knew Bradley could talk some sense into you.”

  She takes her drink with her to bed, spouting out the things she wants me to get done. Oh my—what did I get myself into? “We have to be at the restaurant at 9 AM tomorrow for a walkthrough to make sure we can go through with our plan.”

  “Our plan?”

  “For the tasting next week.” She’s already down the hall when she shouts, “Bright and early.”

  Then I realize—the black bag Bradley brought over. It’s got his college logo. When I open it, I find six bright lemons.

  Chapter 6

  Compared to my last apartment, my room is Buckingham Palace. The guest bedroom has a down-soft bed. The sheets are the perfect temperature and the blinds let a soft morning glow peek through.

  Then I realize there’s a girl standing in my room.

  I jump up in the bed, flapping around, and knocking over my glass of water. It rolls on the carpet but doesn’t shatter. “What the hell?”

  Her watermelon slice smile vanishes. “Oh! Sorry. I heard you rising.”

  “Were you stationed outside my room?” I picture her pacing back and forth deciding on when to knock.

  “Your mom asked me to check in on you when you were awake.”

  Translation: Your mom said to wake you the fuck up.

  “What time did you have to get up to be here?” I look at the clock. It’s 8:45 AM.

  “Oh, I live here,” Felicity says. “Didn’t your mom mention it?”

  I take my shirt off and throw it on the bed, hoping that makes her leave. Then I figure, she lives with my mom. Who knows what she has to see.

  “She must have forgotten,” I mutter. I dig through my duffle until I find a clean t-shirt. It says GO HEART YOUR OWN CITY.

  I gather my long hair into a ponytail, and then pause. “Did she, like, ask you to watch me brush my teeth?”

  “Oh, sorry!” She retreats, waving in apology. I suspect she’s used to her sweet sorority girls and I’m an alien creature she’s not sure what to make of. “We’ll be in the kitchen.”

  It’s amazing what real sleep in a real bed will do to a girl. Bradley’s couch is humane if you’re one of his drunken friends sleeping off the night—but it also smells like all of his drunken friends. Boys just don’t know how to make a place cozy. No wonder Sky makes him stay over at her place instead. I’m sure it’s covered in pink and lace and trophies.

  My mom on the other hand—I see her touches in this room. The lavender sprig in a slender rose vase. A silver hand mirror and a vanity powdering kit that looks worn, like it came from a vintage shop instead of the home section of Bloomies.

  I roll some balm on my lips, a quick pat of sheer blush, and I’m a whole new girl with a clean face, minus the coffee stains.

  I almost resemble a girl with a plan.

  Ok. Not exactly a plan, but something more than yesterday.

  When I get down to the kitchen, I see the remnants of breakfast. I feel a pang in my chest—bitterness rising up—because my mom can make breakfast for Felicity but she never made breakfast for me. Felicity, with her corkscrew curls and Bambi eyes, is ready for the day with a tablet, a smart phone, and a folder as thick as my Archaeology 101 textbook in my first semester, back when I wanted to be Indiana Jones. Before I realized the things I wanted to discover were mythical, like Atlantis, a comfortable bra, or true love.

  “Lucky,” my mom says. She’s wearing red suit pants and a white tank top that shows off the rack Husband #2 bought her during a “family vacay” to South Beach. He offered to get one for me, too, but I was only fifteen.

  “I thought you were getting ready.”

  I slip on my moccasins. “I am ready. I’m wearing makeup.”

  Felicity’s big eyes look to my mom, then to me.

  My mom deflates a little bit. “Tell me you’re not wearing that.”

  “It’s all I’ve got.”

  “You can borrow some of my clothes,” my mother offers.r />
  Felicity looks back and forth again.

  “I’m sure all of your tops are stretched out by now. And my hips are bigger than yours.”

  If she could make a face despite the Botox, she would. “Blame your father’s Italian side for that.”

  “She could borrow some of my clothes,” Felicity offers.

  Really, I shouldn’t be such a bitch. Felicity is—nice. Really nice. She’s probably been taking care of my mother, because in any relationship, my mother always needs to be taken care of.

  “Thanks,” I say, as genuinely as possible. One look at Felicity’s wide frame, her brown and gray color palette that says don’t look at me, and I decide she’s not a good fit either. “But—I’ll be working in the kitchen and stuff so I wouldn’t want to get dirty. Not after what I saw yesterday. This is more sensible.”

  “Oh, you’re right,” Felicity says.

  “Fine.” Mom takes her tablet and slings her purse around her arm. “Lets go.”

  “Coffee?”

  “You should have woken up earlier.” She leaves Felicity and me in a cloud of perfume.

  Once we’re in the restaurant, I run to the office and make myself a cup. If I’m going to be dealing with Executive Chef James, I need to have my caffeine arsenal. I see him walking back and forth between his office and the kitchen, mumbling on his cell phone. While mom takes calls, Felicity tries to give me her tablet, but I like writing things down. I find a notebook and start a checklist. I start off by talking to Carlos. “Do you have a time estimate?”

  He goes into the specific kind of wood my mother wanted for the ceiling. Of course, she does. That between how busy the summer is and delivery time, it won’t be here for another two weeks.

  “But you can definitely clean up the frame?”

  “Yes, Miss Carter.”

  “It’s Pierce,” I say. “But just call me Lucky.”

  He smiles politely. “The wall will be finished by Monday.”

  “What about replacing the tables and chairs?”

  “You have to talk to Felicity for that.”

  I add that to my list. So far, this is easy. I can do this. I can order chairs and glasses. I’ve done it before. I go to assess the damage in the bathroom, but as I walk in, someone is already there: a fat guy in a dirty white shirt and even dirtier jeans. He’s packing his tools back into a case.