The Queen of Minor Disasters (2 page)

I grab a fork and rush back to
the table, just in time. The woman is standing and scanning the restaurant,
looking for God knows what.

“Have a seat.” I gently push
her down into her chair and place the cake in front of her.

She looks at it as if she’s
mentally calculating all the calories, and then looks back up at me in
frustration. Perhaps vodka would have been a better choice.

“Take a bite,” I urge.

Skeptically, she forks a tiny
piece and pops it in her mouth. I see the corners of her lips curl up into a
smile. I
knew
it would work.

“Just eat this and I’ll call
you a cab,” I say. “Where do you live?”

“29
^th
Street.”

Our restaurant is located on
one of the most prestigious islands on the Jersey Shore. About forty miles
south of Atlantic City, our island is the smallest of the cluster off Jersey’s
coast and is only seven miles top to bottom. There are two towns here but
little distinction between them, and most people just call this place “the
Island.”

Lorenzo’s is on 96
^th
Street, the southern part of the Island, and this lady’s house is on the
northern part. Still, a ride will only cost about five bucks, and she looks so
sad and depressed even though she’s eating the cake that I’ll just spring for
the cab.

And the cake.

Oh, what the hell. I’ll spring
for the whole bill, after all her husband stuck her with it. She might not even
have a credit card with her. I think about this for a second then confirm my
decision even though Lorenzo is constantly yelling at me over giving things
away for free. Sometimes it really is the best option though. Plus, what does
he know about service? He’s cooped up in a closed kitchen pumping out
entrées—not in the circus ring with angry lions like me.

The cab arrives about ten minutes
later, and by then, the heartbroken lady has cleaned her plate. I walk over to
the table and give her my arm. She stands, though a bit wobbly.

“Dinner is on me tonight,” I
say as I lead her through the restaurant.

“Thanks!” she gives me a
strange look, and then asks, “What’s your name?”

“Stella.”

“That means star!” she
squeals. She’s right, it does. I smile at her.

“The cab will take you home.
Don’t worry about paying him, I got it covered.”

She throws her arms around me.
“Thanks, Star,” she slurs and stumbles out the door.

I take a deep breath and walk
back towards the hostess stand.

I must say, I’m pretty proud
of the way I handled the situation. I’m quite good at this management stuff.
Too bad I don’t plan on making a career out of it though. Basically, this is my
last summer here. I haven’t told anyone yet; I realized it’s best not to spring
this kind of stuff on the family until you’ve got a solid plan—and my plan
depends on Drew and a little (ok, maybe medium sized) diamond.

I take my place behind the
podium and look around the restaurant. Though I hate to admit it, I’ll miss
this a little. I still remember the exact day, four years ago, when I stepped
foot in the place for the first time. It was a total nightmare. The previous
owners were gothic/animal print enthusiasts (I have no idea how that
combination came about), and the place was clad in dark velvet drapery and a
leopard print carpet. Honestly, it looked more like a seedy lounge than a
restaurant. Lorenzo and my parents had already bought the place, and I remember
thinking that it needed a special touch. That’s where I came in and suggested
the Tuscan theme, which we have now. I basically hand selected these burnt
ochre walls and stone archways. My mom chose the terracotta tiles that line the
floors and hired a painter for the mural of the Tuscan hillside covering the
back wall.  Yes, it’s a tad stereotypical, but people seem to love it.

And for the most part we’re
lucky because in the four years we’ve been in business we’ve acquired so many
regular customers. On any given night I’ll know about ninety percent of the
people who walk in the door, which can be a good and a bad thing.

For example, tonight I’ve
already been asked
three
times
about Drew. Two older women glared at my bare left hand asking me about
marriage. I mean, honestly, why are people so nosey? We’ve only been dating for
three years and we’re taking our time. Besides, we’re both so busy that we
hardly have time to
think
of
marriage, let alone get engaged.

Drew is on his way down from
New York right now, and who knows what might happen tonight.

I’ve got a good feeling about
tonight.

Actually, I’ve had a good
feeling all day. And just in case something
does
happen tonight, I’ve dressed accordingly. I’m wearing a very classic canary
yellow dress with a full skirt and modest neckline. Generally I don’t wear such
pale colors to work because I’ll inevitably spill something on myself in the
midst of the rush, but this is a Marc Jacobs dress and I’ve always imagined
that I’d be wearing Marc when Drew…

Oh never mind. I don’t want to
jinx anything.

Anyway, tonight, Frankie the
bus boy has been on his A game, so I haven’t had to clear one plate off a
table, which means I look as fresh as when I walked in here at three this
afternoon.

The phone rings, bringing me
back to reality.

“Lorenzo’s how may I help
you?”

“Stell, it’s me,” says my best
friend Lucy. Lucy is a teacher at St. Ignatius with my oldest brother Dante. 
She’s been working with us since day one and has become like the sister I never
had. My mother wants her in the family and has been trying to set her up with
Dante for the past four years. She’s not biting though, which is fine by me.

“Hey Luce, what’s going on?”

“There’s a major accident on
the expressway,” she sounds frazzled. “I’ve been in stopped traffic for three
hours now.”

My heart begins to race. Drew
could be in that accident. Images of Drew crunched up in his black BMW fill my
head. “Lucy, Drew isn’t here yet, I gotta go.” I hang up without waiting for a
reply.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

I patter through the kitchen
and into the office where I’ve left my cell phone plugged into the wall. I grab
it. Two missed calls from Drew.  My mind reels. He could be in a hospital
somewhere.

The phone rings two times
before he picks it up. “Drew,” I yell. “Are you okay?”

“Hey,” he whispers. “Did you
get my message?”

“Where are you?”

“In the office, there’s a big
project at work and I need to be here. I left you a message.”

“Oh,” I say a bit relieved.
Then it hits me. He’s not coming down. Tonight’s not
the night
. “I left my phone in the office.”

“Sorry. Listen I have to run,”
Drew says in a hushed tone. I imagine that he’s in the middle of an important
meeting and his boss is standing over him so I resist the urge to make him feel
worse. When he took the job at Connective Global Marketing, I knew it would be
hard for us, especially in the summers. Still, sometimes I can’t help but wish
he’d make more time for me. But that’s Drew; he’s dedicated, hardworking, and
honest. How can I be mad?

“It’s fine. I’ll be up on
Monday. I have to go too; we have 9:00 reservations coming in.”

“Ok,” he says.

“I love you,” I add, just to
let him know that he’s not in the dog house.

Silence.

He must not have heard me. “I
love you,” I repeat.

“Ditto,” he replies and hangs
up.

 I shoot Luce a text asking
her to pick up a bottle of wine, then exit the office, and walk through the
kitchen to the front of the restaurant. As I approach the door to the dining
room it swings open at full force. Frankie runs through carrying an armful of
dirty dishes. I try to get out of his way but we collide and some melted ice
cream lands directly on my chest. Lorenzo and Chuck laugh as my face gets red.

“Watch where the hell you’re
going,” Lorenzo yells.

“Sorry,” Frankie says, setting
the plates on a workstation and pulling a napkin out of his back pocket. I grab
it out of his hand and rush through the kitchen into the bathroom to wash off
my dress.

I do my best to scrub the
stain out of my yellow dress but in the process it becomes completely see
through. Cream-colored-lace-bra see through, and there’s
no way
I can walk around the restaurant
like this.

 I quickly tie a clean napkin
around my neck like a bib and twist it to the side. It doesn’t look
that
bad.  It’s sort of fashionable, in a
very Parisian way. Not that I’ve been to Paris. But you know what I’m talking
about.

 Just to add to the effect, I
undo my loose bun and let my long brown hair fall over my shoulders. I just got
layers cut into it, so it cascades nicely down my back. I can pull this off. No
problem. After all, confidence is the key to success.

At least, that’s what it said
in
Restaurant Management for Dummies
.

I mean, I
think
that’s what it said. I didn’t
actually read the
entire
book (as
I mentioned earlier, this is not my life’s ambition, so why waste the energy).
But I did sit in the bookstore and flip through it one day.

Regardless, it seems like good
advice.

Back at the hostess stand
there’s a line at the door. I look at the clock on the phone. 8:51 p.m. People
are so punctual when it comes to eating, like they’re afraid if they show up at
9:01, all the food will be gone.

Luckily, we keep a stocked
fridge. 

 “Hello,” I greet the first
couple in line with a smile. I grab two menus and seat them at a table in the
back corner.

As I walk back towards the
hostess stand I touch my hand to my dress. Still damp. I adjust the napkin.

I look towards the next group
and notice Trisha Motley standing with her friends. I’d roll my eyes but she’d
see me. Trisha and I used to run in the same circle down the shore, but to be
honest, we never
really
liked
each other. Of course, we pretend to.

“Trisha!” I squeal. “It’s
so
good to see you. You look
amazing
,” and really, she does. God, she
must have grown since last summer. I don’t remember her being so tall. Or so
thin.  She probably doesn’t use Food Therapy, or
eat
for that matter.

Already bronzed for the
summer, Trisha is wearing a light green off the shoulder mini-dress and four
inch heels. She towers over my petite frame and bends to give me a hug while
her equally tall Amazonian supermodel friends watch.

“Stella how was your winter?”
she asks. I can only imagine her winter jet-setting to exotic places while I
was stuck working lunches at my parents’ restaurant. I need to think of
something good.

I can tell her I traveled to
India and worked with impoverished children.

Only that’s not as glamorous
as say, spending the winter in Buenos Aires. That’s it. Perfect.

She’s looking at me strangely,
as if waiting for an answer.

“Oh, it was great, I spent so
much time in New York,” I mutter. Shit. I meant Buenos Aires.

“I
love
the city.” She pauses to look at her friends. “I just
moved up there for my job.”