Chapter 2 #2
Tori, a server, is at the drink station, refilling pitchers of water.
“Este!” She smiles. “There’s a drink for you in the fridge.”
Plate in hand, I open the small refrigerator next to the drink station, where a French 75 is chilling.
“Divine.” I take a sip, smiling at the fizz of the bubbles in the back of my throat. Then, I drift back to Marcus. “Who’s running the book tonight?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Marcus glances at the floor and then toward the dining room. “I should go say hello to everyone.” As he pushes through the door, he says over his shoulder, “Don’t spend the entire night back here like last time, Este.”
I look back at Tori, confused. “What does he mean, he doesn’t know about the book? That’s the whole fun of parties like this.”
Big events at Lemon & Fig inspire bets from the service team—who’ll get drunk first, how many dishes will be sent back. Riskier gambles involve total catastrophe, like some marital affair being spectacularly outed.
More than once, I have gotten so wrapped up in the bets and the conversation in the kitchen that I didn’t reemerge for the actual party.
I like the way people back here speak plainly and move with purpose.
They don’t care about last names or trust funds.
As long as I stay out of sight—and steer clear of any kitchen health or safety violations—they look after me.
It’s nice to have a place to hide from the drone of party gossip.
Tori is loading up a drink tray, but she waves a clipboard with her free hand. “He doesn’t like us gambling. Gemma’s running the book. She told him it’s good for morale. He says it’s only good for his morale if he doesn’t know anything about it.”
She hands over the clipboard, displaying names and wagers scrawled across the page in messy ink, and I scan the sheet, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from my clutch and slapping it on the stainless steel expo top.
“Thirty bucks says someone lodges a written complaint about the lighting not being aesthetic enough for Instagram. And another twenty says someone tries to get behind the bar to make craft cocktails—claiming to be an expert because they took a class. Thirty on a passive-aggressive argument about whether the floral arrangements were ethically sourced. And the last twenty? Carol Parker wanders outside and falls in the fountain.”
“You always bet on that, and it never happens.”
“It’s called manifesting, Tori.”
“All right. I’ll tell Gemma.” Tori jots down my wagers—they’re all bordering on preposterous. But I don’t bet to win. I wager for the fun of it, and because the extra cash lines the pockets of the people working in the back of the house.
“You should get out there soon,” Tori warns. “Before Marcus comes back here and drags you out.”
I sigh, but I know she’s right. And I want to celebrate Marcus. It’s hard to believe it’s been five years since Beau and I attended Lemon & Fig’s opening night. Back then, I was still a little shell-shocked from the fallout in California.
I take my plate to the dishwashing station, dodging the puddles near the sink so I don’t ruin my designer shoes.
Stepping back into the dining room, still carrying the drink Tori gave me, I spot Nora by the window, in a sundress. Tippy Schaeffer is fawning all over her, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
How quickly things change.
Not long ago, they were at odds, because Nora called Tippy out for a sloppy make-out session with Detective Ardell.
But Nora went from outcast to urban legend with the slamming of a jail cell door. And now, the country club moms, who were once her harshest critics, practically genuflect when she enters a room. She has everything they admire: youth, beauty, money, and a sensational backstory.
Tippy had to stow her grievances, knowing better than to punch above her weight class.
As if she is keeping her eyes out for me, too, Nora’s gaze sweeps the room, and when she spots me, she pantomimes to Tippy that her champagne flute is empty before maneuvering through the crowd to join me, relieved.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Nora says.
I give her a quick hug and say, “I was in the back placing my bets.”
“You maintain, like, an hourly scheme rate. You know this, right?” Nora snickers.
Before I can respond, someone passes by, flattering us both with compliments. We smile—Nora more earnestly than I—and then turn back to each other.
“I’m trying to see how far I have to go before they realize I don’t want the pedestal they’ve put us on,” I tell her. “I’m very ready to abdicate and return to being an outcast.”
“Oh fuck off.” She smiles. “Isn’t it nice to be off everyone’s hit list for once?”
“I don’t know. It’s a lot of smiling and waving. What if we get carpal tunnel?” I lift her wrist dramatically. “Don’t you need these things to be in working order to paint?”
Nora giggles.
“Speaking of which, how was your thing?” I ask, remembering that the reason I went to yoga alone last night was because Nora attended a visiting artist’s lecture at Rollins.
“It was good. And the twelve texts you sent gossiping about our yoga class were not at all distracting,” she jokes.
“Sorry. But the Stanley cup at the mat next to mine definitely smelled like vodka.”
Nora laughs. “Did you try it to confirm?”
“Ew. Germs. No.” I wince. “But it’s probably for the best that you weren’t there. I definitely would have made you try it.”
“Oh, darn,” she says with a flat intonation that makes it clear she’s not at all sad to learn she missed out on blind taste-testing someone else’s spiked sports drink. “I’m going to grab another glass of champagne. Come with?”
I nod, but I hang back a second longer, watching the way the room seems to shift in response to Nora as she heads toward the bar.
A year ago, her biggest fear was that everyone assumed she was an interloper among them.
Now, she has an air of untouchable confidence, drawing looks of admiration as she floats through the crowd.
I’m on strict orders not to wolf-whistle when she pulls this off, but I’m so proud of her I want to.
As I’m about to catch up to Nora, Carol Parker steps into view.
Her eyes find mine. Her nostrils flare. That puff of smoke I wanted? It’s coming out of her ears.
Oh, Christ. She knows it was me.