The Queen of Minor Disasters (21 page)

 The music is so loud that I
don’t hear the knocking on the back door, or the swing of the spring as it
opens. I’m singing along at full volume when I hear someone yell, “Hello?”

I jump back, a little
startled. And then I see him. Roberto Lancetti is standing in the kitchen
holding two brown bags full of dinner rolls. Oh God.

“Hi,” I say coolly. “You can
put the bags over there.” I point to an empty work table and then turn back to
my batter, which has totally thickened.

“I didn’t expect to see you
here,” he smiles. He sets down the bags and moves towards me.

I try to give him the cold
shoulder but he can’t take a hint.

“You like Ligabue?” he asks
and points to the iPod.

“Yep.” I’m trying to hear the
dough sizzle against the sides of the saucepot, but it’s not happening.

“Do you understand the
lyrics?”

“You’re not the only person in
America who understands Italian,” I snap.

“Whoa. Sorry.” He turns to
leave and instantly, I remember the flowers. That was pretty sweet of him, even
if they were out of pity. And let’s be honest, Drew never sent me flowers and
we dated for three years.

“Hey wait,” I shout. He stops
and turns toward me. “Thanks for the flowers.”

He shoots me a puzzled look.
“What?”

“I said thanks for the flowers
that you sent. They were nice.”

“I didn’t send you any flowers,”
he says and walks out.

Well then who the hell did?

Wednesday nights are strange.
Since it’s high season at the beach, every night feels like a Saturday. People
are on vacation; they don’t mind eating late. But for some reason, Wednesdays
tend to be a little slower. You’d think people would want to go out in the
middle of the week, but I guess there’s no need to break up the monotony of a
vacation.

By 8:45 p.m. all the
reservations are seated, but I still have no clue who the hell sent me the
flowers. I leave the hostess stand for a minute to go into the kitchen. I’m
craving pasta tonight; I think the carbs will help me solve the mystery. The
carbs and a quick call to my mother.

“Can you make me pasta with
marinara?” I ask in the kitchen.

Lorenzo nods and drops some spaghetti
in his boiling water. “Just wait for it,” he says. The great thing about
restaurants is all the prep work the kitchen does ahead of time. Each
afternoon, right before we open for the night, Lorenzo cooks off some pasta. He
leaves it slightly under cooked, so that it can finish off when he adds it back
to the boiling pot he keeps on the stove. This reduces the cooking time from
ten minutes to about two.

As I wait for the pasta, I
call my mom.

“How was business tonight?”
she asks before even saying hello. She and my father are on the Island so she
probably can’t figure out why I’m calling since I’ll see her back at the house.

“Good. Steady.” I shift the
phone to my other ear. “Hey Mom, who sent me those flowers?”

“Roberto. Wasn’t that nice of
him?”

“He said he didn’t send them.”
I wait a few seconds for her to respond.

“He’s probably just lying,”
she says with a little laugh, which is a telltale sign that she’s lying.

“Who sent them, Mom?”

 Lorenzo pours the steaming
pasta into a bowl and tops it with a ladle of marinara sauce and hands it to me
under the heat lamp.

I douse it with hot pepper
flakes, just like my father, and cover the top with a layer of cheese. My mom
doesn’t answer.

“Mom?”

“Alright, fine, I’ll tell you.
Anna sent them. We both thought of it.”

“What?”

“We saw you and Roberto
talking at the barbeque so we thought we’d just set things in motion a bit.”
She sounds so casual and flippant that instantly, I want to scream.

“How could you do that?”

“Stella, it’s no big deal.”

“No big deal? It’s
humiliating, Mom. Now not only does Roberto think I’m crazy, but my own
mother
thinks I’m pathetic.”

She starts to speak but I hang
up the phone. There’s nothing she can say to right this situation.

I carry the bowl out to the
front of the restaurant, where I can sit at a corner table and brood. On the
way, Brittany rushes by me with a stack of plates and bumps my hand. Some of
the pasta slashes out onto my shirt.

“Oh no.  I’m so sorry.” She
reaches into her apron and grabs a cloth napkin.

“It’s fine,” I snap taking the
napkin. After all, I’m the biggest loser on the Island, I may as well have a
big stain on my shirt. I place the pasta down and rub the sauce off my chest
with a napkin. As I’m trying to remove the stain, my cell phone rings.

 “Leave me alone, Mom,” I bark
into the phone.

“Stella?” I hear Julie on the
other end.           

“Hey Jules,” I perk up and
take a seat, placing the pasta bowl in front of me. “You won’t believe what my
mom did. She—”

“Stell, I need to tell you
something,” Julie interrupts. She doesn’t sound good. Since I’ve known Julie,
there’s been a major crisis at least once a year, but somehow I’m always able
to help her through it. Today, she seems to need me more than ever. I shift
positions in my chair.

“Tell me everything.”

I can hear her lighting a
cigarette and inhaling deeply. “Ok, I was at this party last night,” she begins
and then stops. “I really don’t know how to tell you this.”

My heart races. This seems
really bad. “Just say it. It’ll be okay.”

She takes a deep breath. “Drew
was there.”

           
“What party?”

“It was this thing for this
new Vodka company. It was at the rooftop bar at the Hudson. They invited the
press.”

“How did Drew get in?”

“I guess Connective reps the
company or something.” She inhales again. “Anyway, he was sort of with
someone.”

My heart stops and my mind
flashes back to July third. The bimbo that I heard on the phone is Drew’s new
girlfriend? This can’t be happening.

“What did she look like?”

Julie doesn’t respond, which
only makes me think Drew’s new girlfriend is a freaking supermodel or
something.

“Jules, what did she look
like?”

“It’s someone you know
actually.”

My heart races. This is the
exact moment where everything is going to fall apart. I brace myself.

“It’s Trisha Motley.”

For a minute, I’m stunned. Drew
is dating Trisha Motley. Trisha Motley who has a beautiful house on 100
^th
Street and comes into the restaurant all the time. I mean, I don’t think Drew
would actually come into the restaurant with her, but still, I’m sure they’ll
be on the Island together. Which means that I might actually bump into them.
Together.

I try to catch my breath, but
I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me.

“Stell, there’s more,” Julie
says exhaling another puff of smoke. She takes a deep breath. “They’re getting
married.”

Instantly I feel like I’m
going to pass out. “How do you know?” I mumble.

“I saw the ring.”

Images start flashing in my
mind. Trisha asked me if Drew and I were getting engaged. He had a Tiffany’s
catalogue in his apartment. That’s my ring. The bitch stole my ring.

Ok, Calm down and think about
this rationally. There must be some explanation for Drew and Trisha getting
engaged.

Engaged.

How the hell did this happen?

I know Trisha and Drew have
known each other for years but I didn’t think they still talked. Or that they’d
start dating for God’s sake. I bet she tricked him into the engagement. I mean,
how else could this be possible? 

Or maybe she’s pregnant. It’s
probably not even his child, but she knew that Drew was kind hearted enough to
marry her, so she lied and said it was his. Nine months from now he’ll be in
for a big surprise.

Serves him right. The bastard.

But maybe I can save him
before it’s too late. If I can only expose Trisha for the fraudulent slut that
she is, then maybe Drew will see how much better I am. Of course, he’ll have to
buy me a new ring. I don’t want sloppy seconds on an engagement ring, even if
it does come from Tiffany’s.

 I hang up with Julie and I
run into the kitchen to ask Mario to cover for me. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask
questions, and doesn’t try to follow me when I run out of the back door. As
soon as I get to the street I start to cry.

It’s only 10:30 so the streets
are still full and as I walk towards the beach I’m praying that I don’t see
anyone I know.

“Stella?” I hear a familiar
voice. Obviously God wasn’t listening to my prayers. I put my head down and
ignore it. I try to pick up my pace.

“Stella?”

The voice seems closer to me
now, so I stop and turn around. “What? What do you want?” I blurt out.

Roberto looks at me with what
can only be described as pity. “Are you okay?”

“Do I fucking look okay?” I
scream. I just stand there in the middle of the street, tears running down my
face. “No, I look pathetic don’t I?”

“What happened?” He moves
closer to me and I step back.

“My ex-boyfriend is engaged to
some else. Engaged. And we broke up a month ago.”

He looks down but doesn’t say
anything.

“What’s wrong with me?” I yell
the question I’ve been avoiding since Drew broke up with me. “Why am I so
un-loveable?”

“Are you kidding?” He moves
closer and tries to hug me. “You’re so beautiful.”

I back away. “Please. That’s
why your mom is sending me flowers and pushing you to date me?” I turn around
and start walking.

“What are you talking about?”

“Just leave me alone Roberto.
I don’t need your pity or anyone else’s.”

I pick up my pace and,
thankfully, he doesn’t follow me.

***

I’ve been sitting on the beach
at 101
^st
Street for a while now, just thinking about the mess of my
life. But I don’t really feel like sitting here anymore, so I get up and start
walking. I look at my watch. It’s 4:30 a.m. I know I should just go home but I
really don’t feel like talking to anyone.

I need to make soufflés for
tomorrow night, and there’s no time like the present. Besides, baking will do
me good, at least it will take my mind off this mess.

As soon as I start walking towards
the restaurant, I feel a huge blister on the back of my heel. Sand has gotten
into it and it really burns. For some reason, this makes me cry even harder. I
take my shoes off and start walking barefoot down Third Avenue, mascara running
down my face.