Chapter 27 #2
Mo dreaded media events in general. She wanted to be the kind of person important enough to be invited; instead, she cleaned up spills.
Mo had worked more than a few book launches and a gala for a major literary foundation, and every time it felt like having to watch a Broadway show from the lobby.
Once, a journalist from CNN sabered a bottle of champagne in the middle of the room and Mo had to pick up shards of glass and clean up the spilled champagne, all for the sake of what became a viral Instagram.
Glancing out the kitchen, Maureen appraised the room for any familiar faces.
She didn’t immediately see any famous or famous-adjacent people, until she noticed someone in the farthest corner of the room.
Ulla.
Ulla wouldn’t recognize Mo in her catering uniform, right?
After all, they had met only twice. Sure, in the meantime, Mo had been bonking her son, making grilled cheese with him, and storming out of his living room.
Despite her anger at Wes, Maureen worried how Ulla was managing the divorce.
Though Ulla was always svelte, she looked gaunt in her tiered black gown.
Before that moment, Mo wouldn’t have been able to explain the delineation between a dress and a gown.
It was something in its vibe, and this dress said gown.
It also, in the way it hung off Ulla, said Help me .
The party was obviously for an elderly man with a bow tie, who was glad-handing around the room.
Amy’s intel was that the man had been a photographer for publications all over the city, and Mo overheard conversations about his shoots in Papua New Guinea, Appalachia, Kathmandu, and Queens as she circled with appetizers.
Mo handed out caprese salad kabobs, and the guests talked about European politics.
She came by with an empty tray to collect used toothpicks and napkins, and guests talked about a blown glass artist in Rio.
Mo noticed on a later pass a local weather anchor in her purple silk jumpsuit, her helmet of hair sprayed curls perfectly in place, just like on TV.
There were plenty of people who gave off the impression of importance without her knowing what that importance was.
She was grateful, suddenly, that Wes had been unpretentious. At least most of the time.
Thoughts of Wes kept intruding in her thoughts, the way she used to worry loose teeth constantly when she was a kid.
Distracting, achy. Suspicious, magical-thinking Mo considered that even thinking of him might radiate through the air to his mom and cause Ulla to look at Mo more carefully. She didn’t want to be noticed.
After clearing the appetizer dishes, Amy and Mo reconvened in the kitchen to plan for dinner service. Noticing where Ulla would be seated, Mo asked to take the other half of the tables. Amy agreed.
Mo trayed the salad plates and carried them into the dining area.
She served the first few tables without incident, but at a table near the center of her area, a man at the six-spot rubbed Mo’s arm as she put the plate in front of him.
He was in his midsixties, with thinning brown hair and too-confident hands.
A horrified shiver ran through her. “Thanks, doll,” he murmured.
As she turned toward the kitchen, she felt a tug on her apron strings, which she’d double-knotted behind her back. The man jerked the strings back toward him and said, “I need more butter over here.”
Mo’s face flamed. He let go of the apron, and she felt like a dog unleashed.
She was not the kind of server to spit in someone’s food, but she was almost willing to make an exception.
Swallowing her anger, Mo put on her best impression of a Midwest-nice smile and brought him an extra two pats of butter.
He didn’t even thank her for it, his mouth still full of bread.
Asshole. Asshole.
When she turned to face the rest of the room, she nearly dropped the empty glass she carried.
Wes was there, next to his mom at the table across the room.
Mo ran back to the kitchen, not caring who noticed her lack of cool.
None of these people would remember her anyway—not her face, not her name, and not even her ass, which six-spot jerk had palmed after she dropped off his prime rib.
If Wes didn’t see Mo, it would be okay.
If Wes didn’t see Mo, she could get on the plane tonight and distract herself with everything that wasn’t her book, wasn’t his body, wasn’t this mess of a city that she suddenly felt trapped in.
The swinging kitchen door closed behind her, and she leaned against the wall of the walk-in freezer, breathing hard. Mo hated this.
Amy came in behind, running a hand through her curls. By the middle of service, both of them were usually sweaty, and today was no exception. Amy ran her thumbs under her eyes to clean up smudges of mascara gone askew. She looked at Mo’s expression. “Oh no, what happened?”
“I’m okay. Just heartburn. Worse.”
Amy grimaced. “Listen, you need to tell me what’s up. Is it that guy at table four?”
“I can handle that asshole. It’s okay. But I recently ended something with someone, and he’s out there.”
She wheeled around as if Wes were standing at the door. “Out there? Tonight?” Mo nodded, and Amy went to the peek-through window of the chef’s door. “Which one?”
Mo wished she hadn’t memorized every detail about him even in the short glance she’d had. “The one with the blue shirt and wavy hair. He’s at table eight—”
Amy whistled and turned back. “He’s kind of thick! And his cute little facial hair. Nice! I didn’t know you were into that. Aaron was such a bald-face string bean. No ass at all.”
“Yeah, well.” Mo didn’t want to talk about Wes’s ass, which was prefect and could fill out a pair of pants.
His weight as he pushed into her, the strength of his thighs and hips …
if she started thinking about this now, she would have to leave or risk doing something dumb like pulling him into the supply room for some hate sex.
“We’re not talking right now. It’s really complicated, but his mom is Ulla. That woman with him?”
Amy glanced again through the window. “Really? She looks different without her apron and the cameras. I love that cooking show she did for PBS.”
“I’m sure there are reporters here, even if we don’t see them.
” Maybe even the man at six-spot. Mo turned to the cooler she had been leaning on, opening it.
Inside were the tall metal racks that kept the salads cool in one zone and, farther back, the plated chocolate mousses even colder.
She willed the cold air to make her feel better, more in control. “Is the coffee fresh?”
Amy knew without even checking. “Turned the percolators on about ten minutes ago. We should be good to go for the end-of-dinner service.”
Mo sighed. It wasn’t impossible to get out of this night unscathed. They could do it, and they would. She would stay on her side of the room and in what felt like her secret disguise: service worker. You could go undetected unless someone had something to complain about.
Until she went out to check on her tables and Wes was standing on the other side of the door.