“I know, Nona. It’s not that. I guess I’m just nervous about the internship.” I glance at my phone again.
“They will call, Gracie. They will.”
I say the thing I’ve been thinking since before I even got dressed this morning. “But what if I’m just not good enough? What if I’ll never be good enough?”
“Oh, honey.” She hugs me.
I hold back tears. “I’ve been trying and trying all year and this is my one and only shot. No one else was even interested.”
“You are strong and talented,” Nona says. “But even more than that, you are determined, just like your mom.” She sits on an overturned wooden crate. “I will never forget the first time I saw your mother, and you. You must have been about two years old, and you were throwing a real fit, screaming and thrashing in your stroller. Your mom came in, desperate, and asked for milk. Giovanni took one look at you and told her we had something better. He brought out a plate of cannoli—sweet cream calmed my Carmella when she was a baby—and you shut right up and stuffed your face.” She laughs her rolling guffaw and I can’t help but join in, even though I’ve heard this story a hundred times. It always makes me feel close to my mom.
“Your mom was so grateful, even though you were covered in sugar and crumbs, because you finally stopped crying. After that, she visited us every time you two came into the city. I learned how strong she was, how hard she worked on her own to give you a good safe home. She did not once give up, and you have that, too.”
Now I can’t help the tears. “I wish she could be here,” I whisper. “I wish—”
Nona reaches up to touch my cheek. “She loved you, Gracie. And love never dies.”
At the end of my shift I give the kitchen staff their share of my tips and leave to another round of “Way to go” and “You’re gonna be a star” and “Don’t forget us when you’re famous” plus a kiss from Nona. “Don’t you worry,” she says as I head home – right up the stairs behind Giovanni’s to the apartment on the top floor.
I live right above the restaurant, which has been my residence for the last year. It smells like Italian food all the time, but the di Fiores offered this place to me at an unbelievably good price when I needed a new place to stay. Just another selfless thing they’ve done for me. Giovanni said it was so I would never have an excuse to be late, but I’ve only ever been late once and I know how much Nona worried every time I had to leave the restaurant past midnight and take the bus home. She really is like an adoptive mother, and I am so fortunate to have been taken in by this loving—if a little interfering and lot boisterous—second family.
I can still hear them laughing below me, a comforting din of voices, and I start getting ready for bed. Nona and Giovanni’s daughter Carmella will have closed up the deli she started next door, joined by her husband Fred and a few other cooks for a late night snack and wine. I have a standing invitation to join them, and when I do, they treat me like one of their own.
I’m lucky. After Mom died, I felt like I had no one. I was so lost and lonely. And then the di Fiores gave me even more than a job, more than a family, they gave me another chance at my dreams. Without the money I made from Giovanni’s, I never could have paid for college—even the community college fancy-pants Lydia scoffed at—and without their support and encouragement, I never would have been able to continue studying and making art.
I brush my teeth and stare at one of my mother’s paintings. A landscape of Oakland’s hills, the rolling green grasses and trees seeming to come alive and move in an invisible breeze. This apartment is small, but it’s homey, just like the apartments I lived in growing up. My dad left when Mom was pregnant with me, so it was just the two of us and her single working mom’s salary, but she never made me feel like we lacked.
I learned tricks from my mom to spread beauty without bucks. I have a few small potted plants near the windows for life, and I used lots of bright colors and fabrics for texture all around the studio. I spit out toothpaste and place the brush back in its holder, which is shaped like an ocean wave. “It’s the little things”—like my mom always said—and it’s something I have taken to heart.
My mom’s love lives on, and I know what Nona said is true, but I miss seeing Mom laugh and her smile, the way she lit up when we visited museums in the city on their free days, how she would stand in front of paintings or sculptures for hours.
“Look at this line, Grace, the way it splits the light into shadow.” She taught me to find the point of energy in the piece, where all the lines seemed to flow from or to. “That’s where the meaning is.”
I slip into my pajamas and admire all the different prints on the walls, pieces I picked up in Chinatown and from street vendors at art fairs. Mom loved art for art’s sake, not because it was famous. She taught me to trust that if I was moved, it was enough.
Most of all, I miss watching my mother work in our living room, an old sheet draped over our thrift store furniture, the look on her face when she painted: concentrated bliss. I like to think that’s the way my face looks, too, when I’m in the zone. It’s been a while since I felt inspired. I haven’t been able to paint since she died, like her leaving stole the joy from my work too.
My phone dings just as I’m getting under the covers. I must have missed a call while I was cleaning up after my shift ended. I grab it off the night stand and peek at the glowing screen.
You have one new message…
I go to my voicemail and press the play button, my heart in my throat as I listen. It’s Lydia’s assistant from the auction house!
“Miss Bennett? Congratulations. Please arrive tomorrow at 9 am to start your new position.”
Yes!
I listen to the message three times in a row, just to be sure I’m not dreaming, smiling so wide my face starts to hurt. I got it! After all the work, all the worry, I finally have my break.
I lay back and let my imagination run riot. First this internship, and then who knows? With this job on my resume, and enough real-life experience, I could become an appraiser or buyer at one of the most prestigious and respected auction houses in the world. No more paycheck to paycheck living. Things are finally looking up for me.
CHAPTER 3
I arrive at the big golden doors of Carringer’s early, at 8:30 sharp. No jerk cab driver, no jogging in heels, no sweat-smeared make-up. This is my chance to show them they made the right decision. My phone pings just as I’m approaching the entrance.
‘Good luck! You’ll knock ‘em dead!’
It’s from my friend Paige, my roommate-turned-partner in crime from Tufts. We stayed close after I left, but these days, she’s working in London and our friendship is conducted via Skype and texts. Still, I’m glad to have the encouragement.
‘Thanks!’ I type back. ‘I’ll need it.’
The salty ocean wind whips through my thin black dress, but I wait a moment outside trying to get my cool back. I look around at the morning rush hour crowds and wonder if I’ll see the body by Michelangelo guy from yesterday. He must work near here, right?
At 8:45 I heave open the doors. The lobby is empty, but there’s a tall, gangly man in a designer suit looking around. He approaches, looking stressed. “Grace?”
“Yes, hi!” I extend my hand. “I’m so excited to be here.”
“Charmed. I’m Stanford, follow me,” he says, opening the door and leading me down a stairwell. “I’m in charge of the newbies.”
I keep up as he heads down into the basement. The stairwell is spooky: bare concrete and metal, nothing like the luxury upstairs.
“Is this where we get our badges?” I ask, nervous.
“What’s that, sweetie?” He leads me down a dark hallway and flips on the lights. I look past him into a storage room filled with buckets, mops, spray bottles and an assortment of rags and sponges. “And voila! You can go ahead and get started right away.”