Chapter 2
Carmello
Now
It’s been three days since I received a scheduled email from my dead mother.
There was a one-line note inside that said: For Carmello, this isn’t a draft.
Underneath was a pdf file of her last will and testament, signed with two witnesses, dated five months before her death, declaring a quarter of the restaurant go to Olivia Jones.
But Celia was also known as a woman that liked to play tricks.
Once she called to tell me the building had been broken into, then was mad at me for being mad at her for “a joke.” Her favorite holiday was Halloween.
She’d dress as Michael Myers at the restaurant and scare children.
She would be the person to type up a will, make it look official, and leave it somewhere for me to find in order to get a good laugh in the afterlife.
But the will is legit. None of this is a joke.
Olivia Jones, who used to be my Olivia, a woman who became someone I don’t want to know, owns a piece of a place that should only belong to me.
I’m zoning out about things I’ve tried to forget, and don’t notice that I’m burning the ground beef in the pan until Paula walks into the kitchen at Celia’s and says, “Carmello, you’re burning the beef.”
“Shit,” I hiss, and make quick work to save the meat with a spatula.
Paula leans her hip against the stove. If anyone can tell I’ve hardly slept in forty-eight hours, it’s her. She looks paler than she usually does too. “Debra told me that table nine wants to know what’s taking so long,” she says, “and the fridge started leaking again in the back room.”
“Their order is almost ready, and I’ll put some towels down on the floor in front of the fridge for now,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. A complaining customer I can deal with, but one more malfunction or surprise this week might send me over the edge.
Paula’s worked at this restaurant as a baker and even the occasional waitress for twenty years, and she’s got the tone to prove it. I can tell she wants to talk shit about my temporary solution, but she bites her tongue. “Have you spoken to Olivia about signing her shares over?”
“I did,” I say, and my brain decides to relive the conversation from yesterday again. Olivia’s voice. Low and breathy, a bit huskier than when we were younger. Hearing her say my name that first time. And…that bullshit apology she tried to give me.
A short laugh slips from my mouth now as I’m reminded that my mother left a piece of her biggest accomplishment to someone who didn’t even attend her funeral.
I pull a fresh batch of lumpia from the pot, trying to keep my hands from trembling.
“What did she say?” Paula asks.
“She said she wouldn’t sign anything over to me. When I asked why the hell not, she said she was at a strip club and she’d call me back. Then, she never did.”
It’s Paula’s turn to laugh. “Well…isn’t that something.”
She only sounds a little surprised, and I’m sure it’s because she’s thinking what I’m thinking. Olivia Jones might have gotten older, but that doesn’t mean she has grown up.
I check my watch and blow out a breath. “I need to leave to get Teddy before my meeting. Most of the food is prepped. You sure you can handle everything while I’m gone?”
The longest lag time during a day at the restaurant is between lunch and dinner, which usually works out perfectly for me to pick my son up from school.
But our line cook quit last week, and it’s made it harder on my sous-chef Steven.
Paula’s usually done baking for the day by noon, so she offered to be an extra set of hands in the kitchen until I hire someone.
But I worry about her being back here. With hot things.
She’s more accident-prone than my six-year-old.
She takes the tongs from me and jumps to avoid the popping oil after adding more egg rolls to the frying pot. I flinch by proxy. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “Bring Teddy to see me after the appointment? I miss his little face. And don’t worry. Steven’s here to help me, if anything.”
When Steven grimaces and mutters something in Tagalog, I pray they don’t bump heads like they did last week.
He’s plating pancit bihon, and the glistening noodles studded with brightly colored vegetables remind me that I haven’t had a chance to eat in hours.
Not that I’ve had much of an appetite since that phone call with Olivia anyway.
While I wash my hands, I try not to watch Paula at the stove, but she’s standing so close to it and memories make my chest tighten.
She’s had random incidents involving fire while baking in the other kitchens.
“Can you at least roll down your sleeves?” I ask when the oil pops at her again.
“I never sued your mother for any accidents on the job, and I’ll never sue you either.”
“That inspires confidence,” I say, and she waves me away.
***
When I open the back seat door, Teddy smiles and my chest warms at the sight of his missing middle teeth, pointy canines cradling a gummy gap.
“Come on, Sharp Tooth,” I say, smiling back.
I wish I were bringing him to do something fun after school, but instead I’ll have to watch my energy in this meeting so it doesn’t make him anxious.
He grabs his iPad off the seat beside him and jumps out of the car, sticking the landing.
My son’s not a man of many words. While other kids at his school are shoving one another off the playground slide and screaming at the top of their lungs, Teddy’s sitting on a swing playing games on his tablet.
At four years old, he could count to one hundred but would only do it at home.
At five, a therapist told me and his mother that his selective mutism is another indicator of early anxiety.
He speaks to me a lot, but the best way to tell how he’s feeling is still by reading his expressions.
The look on his face tells me he missed me, and it doesn’t matter where we go as long as we’re together.
I reach for his small hand and realize how much I needed to see him today.
How easily he calms my own racing heart when he gives my hand a little squeeze.
My watch lights up with a text from Rachael, a girl I’ve gone on a couple dates with, and I make a mental note to text her back when I can think straight.
As soon as we enter the lawyer’s office, Teddy lets go of my hand and runs over to his grandpa.
My father is sitting in a chair with a straight back and an even straighter face, and I watch his frustration melt away when he stands to pick up his grandson.
My throat thickens at the sight of them.
Even though my parents separated when I was three years old, they stayed friends, so I never really felt like I was missing anything.
It didn’t work out between me and Teddy’s mother, Daniela, but I had a good example of what healthy co-parenting can look like.
I can tell my father feels my mother’s absence when he kisses the top of Teddy’s head the way she used to.
It’s a different story once we’re in the meeting. Carlos Sanchez might be soft with his grandson, Teddy, but when his lawyer leads the conversation of options to “get rid of Olivia” with liquidating the restaurant, he can’t contain himself.
“Don’t play us with that bullshit, Greggor. My son has put blood, sweat, and tears into this restaurant. He’s already a partner. That girl worked there when she was a kid for three years. Tell me what the hell you’re going to do to make this whole thing go away.”
Greg adjusts the tie at his neck nervously and folds his hands together.
My father was born in the Dominican Republic, and he worked hard in America for years until he officially became a citizen.
Before he retired, he did something in big tech for corporate that I never could quite wrap my brain around, but I think it involved drilling into people to get what he wanted.
When he insisted he come to this meeting, I didn’t fight him on it.
I knew I needed someone like him in my corner, but I don’t think it’s making a difference today.
“Pa,” I say, nodding my head toward Teddy, whose headphones are turned all the way up, but he’s glancing from his game to my father with worry in his eyes.
My father mumbles an apology, then sits back in his chair, letting me lead the conversation. “If Olivia refuses to sign her shares to me,” I say, “can’t I contest the will?”
“You could,” Greg says. “But the only thing that might work in this case is proving that your mother wasn’t of sound mind. Because she updated it only months before she died, you could argue lack of capacity in court. But it could take years. It’ll be a grueling battle.”
“Celia was still sharp as a razor,” my father says, and I can hear the fondness in his voice. The admiration. He might be willing to fight this with me, but he wouldn’t want to dishonor my mother’s name like that. And neither do I.
“What else do you suggest?” I ask Greg.
“Buy Ms. Jones out.” He shrugs like it’s simple.
“Olivia only has 25 percent of the shares. You have 75 percent. You’re already the majority shareholder.
It will be a huge hit up front, but likely less than the legal fees for a battle in court you’d probably lose. It’s the best option, in my opinion.”
Two years ago, my mother made me an equal partner, giving me half of Celia’s Place.
She did it in an elaborate way, surprising me with a party at the restaurant when I thought we were just meeting to go over the books.
All of our family was there, our friends; Teddy was wearing a T-shirt with a photo of us from the very first time I brought him to the restaurant.
She said she was proud to call me her son.
My father exhales sharply, and I know his pulse is racing as fast as mine hearing this. The restaurant is doing well, but not well enough that I can buy Olivia out and avoid going into debt.
Greg’s secretary comes into the room and tells him there’s someone important on the phone. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he says, then leaves us alone.
My father finally meets my eyes across the table, leaning forward on his elbows. “Email her and set up a meeting to buy her out. I’ll help with whatever I can. Let’s get this over with.”
“I’m not sure she’d want the money,” I say, speaking from my gut. “She wasn’t like that.”
“You don’t have a clue who that girl is anymore,” he says.
Teddy taps my arm, shows me he won his race against Bowser.
He’s been losing this specific race for the past week; the level is tough even for me to beat.
I tell him he did a good job and ruffle his hair, and my father watches us for a moment before speaking again.
“And Olivia doesn’t know who you are anymore either,” he says.
“But I do. You’re your mother’s son. A fighter.
She didn’t give up when she couldn’t get out of bed anymore; she used that last amount of fuel to put trust in you that you’d keep her legacy going.
She told me that herself.” My chest swells.
I swallow and meet his gaze. “We might never know why she did this. But I refuse to believe it was because she didn’t believe in you.
Do whatever it takes to clean up this mess. ”
The words hit on something sensitive. Why Olivia, I don’t know. But I have been wondering if my mom thought I wasn’t strong enough to carry it all myself.
Good enough to keep the customers coming back.
I nod, the backs of my eyes burning. “I’ll set up the meeting.”