Lydia removes her glasses, almost smiles at me. Maybe this isn’t such a long shot after all. “Many of the other applicants also did well,” she says. “Tell me why you deserve this.”
I take another breath. Where do I even begin? “I would work so hard if you give me this opportunity, Ms. Forbes, harder than anyone else. I understand what an opportunity this is, and I don’t take that for granted.” Not like the trust-fund kids outside, I silently add. “Day or night, whatever Carringer’s needs. I want this job, and…honestly, it’s everything I ever wanted. I know I would be really good at it, and if you just let me—”
“Thank you, Miss Bennett,” she says, cutting me off. She stands abruptly, so I stand, too, my skirt sticking to the back of my legs. “That will be all.” She gestures to the door, where I see her assistant has been standing still as a statue during the entire interview. My cheeks burn.
A little flustered, I thank her as I walk across the room. “We’ll be in touch,” Lydia says as I exit and am flung back into the sea of rich kids and their designer duds and college connections, feeling like the biggest fish out of water ever. What just happened?
Chelsea and Angelica still sit in the same place, chatting and laughing. They’re not nervous at all, and I wonder what it must be like to not have to try so hard. To have daddy pull strings for an interview, and have your life served to you on a silver platter. As I walk past, Lydia’s assistant calls a ridiculous name that sounds like “Grandelwile Brandyblerg” and Angelica says, “Oh, he’s supposed to be really good. And his mother is on the Board of Directors here.”
“I’m not worried,” Chelsea says breezily. “You know my dad is one of their biggest clients. My name is already on the paperwork.”
Angelica rolls her eyes. “Why did I even bother?”
Chelsea sees me watching them and smirks. “None of you should have bothered. This whole thing is for appearances.” She looks me up and down and clears her throat loudly. “Speaking of appearances…” Next to her, Angelica giggles.
My heart sinks. Tears begin to burn behind my eyes and I walk away fast, quickening my pace even though my feet are blistered and sore. I have to hope that that spoiled, shiny-haired, smug girl is wrong. That this whole day wasn’t just a formality like she thinks, that I have a chance. Mom, I did my best. I cross my fingers as I head back out into the city streets.
CHAPTER 2
“Order up! Table six!”
The dinner rush at Giovanni’s Restaurant is organized chaos. I was intimidated three years ago when I first started, but now I can maneuver through the twenty-five tables and their red-and-white checkered tablecloths blindfolded and carrying a tray twice as wide as my shoulders. I may still smell like marinara, but I wear a hell of a lot less of it down my shirt now than in those early days.
I grab two steaming plates of Giovanni’s signature dish—classic spaghetti with homemade marinara and meatballs the size of your fist. The head cook Fred’s wide, smiling face appears in the window to the kitchen. “How’d the big interview go today?”
“How do you know about that? I only told Nona.”
“You answered your own question, there, missy,” he says and laughs. “You know her.”
Great. “So everyone knows?”
“Pretty much!”
Lonnie, a line cook, shouts, “You did great for sure, Gracie!” A chorus of encouragement from the kitchen reminds me why I love this place, but also makes me worried about disappointing the people who have become my family.
“It was just an interview,” I say, placing a sprig of parsley on each plate.
“You’re the smartest girl out there, Grace,” Fred says, draining a giant pot of linguine.
“Thanks, but it’s really competitive, and connections matter…”
“You got the best connection there is—to our family here, right?” He puts up a plate of pasta primavera and a meatball sub. “Order up! Table two!” Fred winks at me. “It’s in the bag, kid.”
I deliver our prize meatballs—voted best in the city for the last five years, a recipe Giovanni himself brought from Italy—to a couple obviously on their first date.
“Fresh parmesan?” I grate the cheese as they watch. “Buon Appetito!”
We’re always busy, and normally the fast pace of this restaurant is enough to distract me, but tonight I can’t get away from Carringer’s or my anxiety. Just after I set down a bread basket for the new family at table ten, Nona’s familiar voice calls me over. “Grace, you get over here and give me a hug!”
Nona and Giovanni are the original owners. They’re in their seventies now, and though technically retired, still spend most nights at the center table drinking grappa and holding court over their own private Little Italy in North Beach, San Francisco: greeting customers, talking up the food (Giovanni) and squeezing cheeks and distributing lollipops (Nona). Everyone loves them almost as much as the food.
Nona puts her arm around my waist and hugs me in. “This,” she says to a table full of her friends, “is my Gracie.”
“Hello, Gracie,” the ladies chorus in unison.
Nona beams like a proud grandmother. “You should see this one’s paintings! A real talent, like her mother.” Nona squeezes my cheeks. “She’s going to be famous someday.”
I fake a smile I hope looks real. “Thanks, Nona,” I say, taking a step back.
“She’s shy,” Nona stage-whispers to the table and the women all laugh loudly.
“Nice to meet you all.” I kiss Nona on the top of her head. “Gotta get back to making your guests happy.”
The weight of all the expectations and cautious hope is starting to get to me, so I take my break and head through the back door to the alley outside. If I smoked, I would totally want a cigarette right now. I know it’s stupid, but I check my phone. No calls, of course. “What am I going to do?” I whisper, looking up at the rolling banks of fog turned yellow by the streetlamps.
“Do about what, dollface?”
“Shit!” I jump and turn around to see Cousin Eddie, a fast-talking wannabe charmer ten years older than me and a lot less focused, unless he’s at the gym or talking to a girl. “I thought I was alone, Eddie.”
He emerges from where he was smoking in the shadows. “You can be alone with me anytime, you know that.” The words are genuine and heartfelt despite his flirting, which is just second nature to him. His leather jacket creaks as he leans closer. “What do you need to fix your little problem?”
“Nothing you can help with, unfortunately.”
He spreads his arms as if he were welcoming me into a hug, and I think about the mysterious, and don’t forget utterly gorgeous, British guy/work of art from the run by coffee-ing this morning. I’d gladly step into his open arms. “Come on,” Eddie says. “Tell Cousin Eddie what’s wrong.”
“Thanks, Eddie, really.” I pat his shoulder in an obviously platonic way. “But I’m fine.”
He smooths the tops of his spiky gelled hair and grins in a Joey Tribiani how-you-doin’ kind of way. “In that case, come dancing with me tonight. You’ll feel better than fine—”
“Eddie, is that you?” Nona walks out and pats him on the back. “Good, you are here. Go inside and help carry those wine cases, yes?”
“If you change your mind, dollface,” Eddie winks as he goes into the restaurant.
“Shoo!” Nona says and turns to me, shaking her head. “That kid…” She looks up at me from under her dyed red bangs. “You doing okay, sweetheart? You know Eddie’s harmless.”