Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (15 page)

“At least I don't make the same exact mistakes twice,” Keira said with her trademark big smile. “They're always new ones.”

I hated that I liked her. She was a walking disaster. But she laughed at herself more than any of us ever could. And she was right. She never did make the same dopey mistake twice, only new ones. Yesterday, she'd left her hair loose, a fuck-no in the kitchen, but today she'd come in with the ombré-brown, loose waves in a secure topknot. She headed over to the produce bins to return the parsnips and get Alanna more heads of garlic for the falafel. On her way back, she bumped into Everett McMann, who was the nicest person in the kitchen and didn't yell at her. “Sorry!” she called after him. I watched her attempt to peel a garlic clove. She'd clearly done her homework the past few nights because she made quick work of the skin and separated the head into cloves. Impressive.

“So what's your story?” Alanna asked, pouring a bowl of chickpeas into the food processor, her own hair twisted into a flaming-red braided coil at the back of her neck.

“I have no story is my story,” Keira said. “I graduated from college last year with a degree in communications and no idea what I wanted to do. I've tried temping in all sorts of industries to see if anything interested me, but nothing has. Until now.”

“I hope you don't mean working in a kitchen,” Gunnar said, one eyebrow raised. He held up a zucchini. “I need twenty-five of these sliced medium thin.”

Keira grabbed a basket of zucchini and set it on the chopping block across from Gunnar. “I
do
mean working here—meanie,” she added with a smile. “I've been here less than a
week, but I feel like I belong here. Even if I don't know what the hell I'm doing.” She stared at Gunnar. “Hasn't that ever happened to you?”

“Jesus, Keira, you're about to slice off your finger!” Gunnar yelled, green eyes narrowed at her.

“You don't have to yell,” Keira said back quite calmly.

“Obviously, I do,” he shot back.

“Gunnar, please demonstrate how thinly to slice the zucchini,” I said, and he grumbled, but showed her, and she spent the next fifteen minutes making decent slices for my harvest pizzas.

“Clearly, you don't have a girlfriend,” Keira said to him with a smile.

Everyone sobered fast. Gunnar was prickly about being divorced, about being a single father, and as far as I knew, he didn't date. He didn't talk much about his personal life. He worked, he spent time with his daughter, whom he sometimes brought into the kitchen to show her where he worked and how they made pizza, her favorite. Alanna had been trying to fix him up for months, but Gunnar always said he was too busy for a relationship.

“Oh, thanks,” he grumbled. No death stare, though.

“So let me guess,” Keira said. “Your last girlfriend broke your heart in a million pieces and you've sworn off women forever.”

“Actually, no. I broke up with my last girlfriend. Because I'm in love with someone I can't have.”

Everyone turned to stare at Gunnar, who never said stuff like that.

And Keira had gotten it out of him. She might not know a parsnip from a head of garlic, but she had some skills, and I liked how oddly brash she could be at the right time. She wasn't such a bad egg.

“So who is this unattainable woman?” Keira asked. “Wannabe model? Actress?”

“Doesn't matter,” he said quickly. I couldn't help but notice that Gunnar's usual pale complexion, such a contrast against his blue-black mop of hair, had two reddish circles, as though talking about this caused him serious grief. “I don't have time for a relationship anyway. Any free time I have I want to spend with my daughter.” His expression changed and his voice lowered. “And lately things with Violet have been kind of—”

The waiters came in the kitchen with the evening's first orders, so Gunnar was cut off. Usually the moment a waiter entered, I snapped to attention. But even I stared after Gunnar for a bit, wishing he could have gotten out the rest of what he'd been about to say.

Lately things with his daughter had been kind of
what
? The serious nine-year-old, with her long dark hair and huge green eyes, popped into my mind. The last time she'd been at the restaurant, she'd addressed me very seriously as chef, and Gunnar had smiled at me, clearly proud that she'd remembered what to call the kitchen's big cheese. But the two of them seemed a little . . . formal with each other, not that I
had any clue about how kids acted with parents. I wondered if Gunnar had friends to talk to. He never talked about anyone except his daughter, and only in the most superficial ways. Until tonight's almost-start.

But talk time was over. Chatty chefs were distracted chefs. We had to forget Gunnar's personal life and get the soups bubbling, the harvest pizzas in the oven, and the lasagnas assembled. Still, I couldn't stop thinking about Alanna and Gunnar and Sara, how confusing their relationships seemed.

Add mine in. Lately, even I didn't know for sure where I stood with Zach. He didn't call at all last night. And when I tried his cell, it didn't go straight to voice mail. Which meant his phone was on and he'd ignored my call.

Why?

“Um, chef?” Alanna said, glancing into the saucepan at my station. “You might want to add the almond meal and herbs and get that stirred fast.” I looked down at my pan, chickpea flour for the lasagna's béchamel sauce beginning to burn in the oil.

Bloody hell, as my friend Alexander would say. Now
I
was distracted. Wasn't I supposed to be on hyperfocus, making sure the restaurant ran perfectly?

The stupid mini-devil materialized on my shoulder.
Told you,
he whispered in my ear with a jab of the pitchfork.

B
y the time I walked through the front door of my apartment building, I was exhausted and smelled like a mixture of garlic and one of tonight's special desserts, key lime pie, which had sold even better than I'd expected. The little dog from apartment 1D came bounding over to me on her way out for her late walk, sniffing me like crazy. I wanted to beam myself up the stairs, take a long, hot shower, and crawl under the covers.

And not wonder why Zach hadn't called once today. Not a text. Not a check-in. Nothing.

Was this the old cold feet? Was he just crazed at work? Had he run into the ex-girlfriend he'd proposed to five years ago and fallen madly back in love with her? Had his mother made him see how wrong I was for him?

Okay, I could scratch that last one. Zach might be trying to rebuild his relationship with his mother, but she was hardly a confidante of his. And no way could he be manipulated. He was just busy. I'd call him in the morning and ask him outright what was going on.

Inside the apartment, Sara sat at the kitchen table, staring—glumly—at one of the bridal magazines.

She realized she couldn't marry Joe because she didn't love him?

“What's up?” I asked.

“I've morphed into a bridezilla. I'm making myself sick. Somehow, I love twenty dresses and want them all. I've dog-eared practically every page of every one of these mags. I love everything. Well, except this hideous thing.” She pointed at a dress on the next page. “Lots of puff and bows.”

“My eyes!” I said, trying to make her smile—and it worked, briefly. “But what's the big whoop about liking so many dresses?”

She slapped the magazine closed. “Turns out Joe wants to elope to Vegas. I used to think that's exactly what I'd want. I used to think big weddings with bands and videographers and five-foot wedding cakes and ten bridesmaids were ridiculous. But suddenly, I don't know. I want a real wedding, the whole thing, you know?”

Okay, I couldn't help but wonder, did she want the wedding more than she wanted the particular groom? If she
was
crazy in
love with Joe, wouldn't she want to elope? If I could jet off to Vegas and marry Zach, I'd do it in a heartbeat, tacky wedding chapel, plastic flowers, and all. Not that I had any idea what a Vegas wedding was really like.

Then again, what did I know about what Sara wanted and why? Sometimes you didn't know what you wanted until it was time to make a decision. Maybe underneath all that good snark was a Sara who wanted a traditional wedding now that she was engaged. Nothing wrong with that.

I went to the fridge and took out the leftover chocolate/peanut-butter pie from last night and the pitcher of iced tea I'd made this morning. “Did you tell Joe that?”

She dug into the pie and nodded. “He said we don't need all that crazy bullshit, that we just need him and me and a justice of the peace, maybe an Elvis impersonator for the kitsch factor. I used to love kitsch. Suddenly I want some traditional wedding I would have made fun of last week?”

“Maybe it took really thinking about what you want to know what you want—or don't want.”

“But Joe is totally against a big wedding. And that's what I want. Shouldn't the bride rule?”

“I hear you. As you know, my own wedding planner is against what I want.”

She smiled. “I'm boring myself. I'm going to eat this pie and forget about anything to do with the ‘w' word for the next two minutes at least.”

“Ditto.” I glanced at the pile of mail on the table, the usual stack of bills—and an oddly shaped, brown-wrapped package. It was addressed to me. “What's this?”

She shrugged. “It was in the mailbox. Who's JJA?”

“No idea.” I looked at the return address. JJA, 2061 Dogwood Drive, Woodland Hills. I ripped open the brown wrapping paper to find a card, the front also imprinted with the initials JJA, and a small velvet jewelry box—much like the one I'd found in Zach's jacket, except this one was a dark red fabric. I opened it—gorgeous diamond stud earrings. At least two carats each. “Someone I don't know just sent me these incredible earrings.”

Sara glanced at the card. “JJA. Who is that?”

I opened the card. Inside was a folded-up piece of white paper. “It's signed Aunt Jocelyn. Remember her? She was at our table at Jolie's wedding—Zach's great-aunt.” Jocelyn Jeffries Ahern. I put the folded paper on the table and read aloud the note written on the card.

My dear Clementine,

At eighty-six-years-old, I don't know how much longer I have. I hope to dance at your wedding, but just in case my number is called before then, I wanted to make sure you had these. Something borrowed. Something old too. My grandmother gave me these earrings for my wedding and they brought me sixty-four years of (mostly) good luck.

I so enjoyed meeting you, Clementine. I think you're wonderful for Zachary. I also adored your friend Sara, who made me hoot with laughter at our table at Jolie's wedding.

I've been going through keepsakes and I found this old list I made right after Frederick proposed to me. All the things I wanted to accomplish and be sure of before I married. I'm embarrassed to say that I never got to check any off. Maybe you'll find the list useful. Nowadays, they call this a bucket list—well, a bucket list for getting married, maybe. I do wish I'd checked off everything on the list. I would have been more sure of myself. Some things got away from me the way things do once your life changes forever.

All my good wishes,

Aunt Jocelyn

“I loved Aunt Jocelyn!” Sara said. “She was so funny at the wedding. Joe kept telling stories about what an ass he is on TV, she didn't bat an eye. Even when he dropped an F-bomb or two. Or three.”

“Ha. I remember. She's awesome.” I took out my own little enamel cupcake earrings and put in the diamond studs. “Are they me?”

“Well, they do match your big honking ring. I wish I had a fairy god-aunt. Maybe Joe does. So what's on the list?”

I folded open the paper, handwritten in black pen on thin white paper, and read aloud.

1. Be sure you love
him
.

2. Close all doors to the past by revisiting (mentally or for real) any former beaus you've never been able to forget. Say good-bye once and for all—if you can.

3. Take a weekend adventure with a girlfriend who'll tell you the truth.

4. Make sure that you are the captain of your own ship—even though you and your husband will be steering together. He'll be captain of his too.

5. Make a list of all the things you love about him and all the things you don't. Figure out how you'll deal with what you don't love. (Don't put this off by waiting to cross the bridge when you come to it.)

6. What do you expect married life to really be like? Does it match his expectations?

7. Ask him why he loves you and then jot the reasons down on paper. Reread when you're arguing.

8. Are you expecting him to change once you're married? If so, return the ring or you'll be sorry.

9. Go on an adventure together. A real adventure.