Chef Art regularly entertained here. I’d only been in the house one other time. I was happy to be back again.
Cole dropped us off out front in the circular drive. The place was buzzing with activity—a lot more than there should’ve been for two food truck teams and some producers.
Chef Art greeted us at the door, as befitted a host of the old South. He was wearing his famous white linen suit, as always. “Good to see you. I’m glad you could make it.”
“What’s going on?” There were hundreds of strangers walking around inside.
“I thought I’d ask a few friends over for dinner. It seemed like such a small party with just you all and the other team. We won’t count the race officials and sponsors. It was short notice, or I’m sure there’d be a lot more people. Go on. Introduce yourself, Zoe. Make yourself known. That’s how you get rich and famous.”
I did as he suggested. I recognized some of the people from national TV food shows that I watched regularly. I loved most of them, and had spent hours planning to be one of them. It wasn’t happening yet, but there was plenty of time.
Ollie and Delia found a quiet place in a corner and didn’t bother introducing themselves to anyone. That was fine, and what I’d expected.
I found Uncle Saul at the canapé table. He hugged me. “You have to try these okra treats. You won’t believe how they taste.”
I tried one—not really an okra fan, but he was right. “What is that stuffed with?”
“I think it’s sausage and some kind of filler.”
I tasted it again. “Quinoa? I think that’s what it is.”
“Whatever it is, I like it.” He grabbed another one and looked over my shoulder at the same time. “Are you here alone? Where is everyone?”
“Well, Delia and Ollie are finding each other.” I nodded toward their corner. “Miguel was busy. I’ve taken up a lot of his time. I’m glad he could be there for the other parts of the race.”
He smiled and put his arm around me. “Zoe, you sound like the people who don’t win the Academy Award. ‘It was just an honor to be nominated.’ Come on. Cheer up. You’ll see him tomorrow.”
He was wearing a bright blue and pink checkered jacket over a matching vest. His dress pants were a shade close to the pink in the jacket. Uncle Saul could be a snappy dresser when he chose.
“Excuse me.” A young woman wearing a small black fascinator on her blond hair joined us. “I’m Tiffany Bryant. I represent the committee putting on carnival next year. I was wondering if you’d be interested in bringing your food truck to the festivities? We’re interested in having the best food Mobile has to offer.”
I was certainly interested in being called the best food Mobile had to offer. I knew getting into the two weeks leading up to Mardi Gras was hard. There were thousands of people there every year for the events.
“Yes. I’d love to be there. Thank you for asking.”
She handed me her card. “Just give me a call or text me. I’ll send you an invitation. The food truck race has been so exciting, especially having someone at the head of the pack from Mobile. Good job, Zoe!”
“Thanks. It’s been a lot of fun.”
“Except, of course for the deaths and the other problems,” she said. “What a bother those were.”
Bother wasn’t the word I would’ve used, but I wasn’t going to argue with someone recruiting for carnival. I didn’t agree, either, but our quick conversation was over. She had moved on to someone else.
I saw my mother’s face on dozens of campaign buttons before I saw her coming toward me. No button or poster could do justice to her perfect blond hair or dazzling, intense blue eyes. She was determined to be a judge, and I knew what that meant—look out other people running for that position!
I knew she’d be here. Anabelle Chase was at all the important social functions around the city even before she began running for office. I knew because I was always with her, until I’d turned eighteen and had refused to go. That wasn’t my kind of life at all.
“Zoe!” She air-kissed my cheek. “It’s so good to see you home and in one piece.”
“Thanks, Mom. How’s the campaign going?”
“I think I’ll be a judge by this fall.” She walked up close to me. “That dress is a little short for you, don’t you think?”
I looked at my hemline, which seemed reasonable to me. “No. I think it looks fine.”
She tried a shrimp canapé. “You might want to toss that old thing out and reinvest in something nice if you’re going to big parties like this one. I’ll be glad to take you shopping if you’re low on cash.”
“Thanks.” I loved how she always said these things in ways that were meant to undermine my confidence. Sometimes they still rankled. I knew she couldn’t help it. My mother was competitive with everyone.
Not that I was going to let what she said bother me tonight. This was my night, my success. Oddly enough, the success she was so sure I would never achieve when I started my food truck.
“So the race ends tomorrow?” Her expressive eyes swept across the room to see who was there. “You’ve done very well. I hope you win, honey.”
Like she even knows what that means. “Thanks, Mom.”
Sam, her discreet assistant, came up close to us. He had a small camera—nothing too obvious. He was a nice man, as had been the other thirty or so personal assistants I could recall. There was a certain type my mother liked to work with.
“Hi, Zoe. Congratulations on doing so well in the race!”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“Maybe you two could move in closer and hold your glasses up, like you’re toasting something,” he suggested in a quiet tone.
“Of course.” My mother was almost jolly in her quest for a judgeship. “Zoe, honey?”
I moved in close, as Sam had suggested, and we even put our arms around each other.
He took several carefully considered shots and then stood back. “Maybe you should eat something, Anabelle. I could take pictures of you eating with your daughter.”
My mother moved her arm away and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t want pictures of me eating food in the media. Let’s find Chef Art. I need some pictures with him.”
“See you later.” I waved as she walked away.
“Bye, Zoe,” Sam said as she dragged him with her. “Good luck tomorrow!”
I thanked him but he was already gone. I took a deep breath, knowing my father would be around here, too.
He wasn’t running for public office, but he liked to be seen with popular people. He was the president of the Bank of Mobile, a position that had been passed down through his family.
It would’ve been hard to find two brothers—him and Uncle Saul—that were more different.
I looked down at my phone when it buzzed. It was finally a text from Miguel.
I read it eagerly, but the news wasn’t good. Miguel said he’d decided that he wanted to be with Tina and that he wasn’t going to finish the race. He was sorry, but there was no point in letting me think he cared about me when he didn’t.
What?
I read it again, thinking I may have mistaken his meaning.
That was it. And he’d texted me to say it. Not even a phone call.
THIRTY
I walked around like a zombie in the crowded rooms until I reached the front door again. I was exhausted, on the verge of tears, and ready to leave.
“Where are you going, Zoe?” Chef Art stopped me before I could walk outside.
“Home.”
“Not yet. What about dinner? You won’t even know what you’re supposed to do tomorrow. I promise, it’s gonna be amazing.”