“Hey, David,” someone called out, “are you and Lauren coming to the beach?”
“We’ll be there,” David said, waving back. His eyes were narrowed; he kept glancing away from the lights, toward the field. The parking lot. Finally, he said, “Did you see them?”
Before Lauren could answer, she heard his mother’s voice. “David. Lauren. There you are.”
Mrs. Haynes crossed the courtyard and came up to them. She hugged David fiercely, and then smiled up at him. Lauren wondered if David saw the way that smile shook. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” David looked behind her.
“Your dad had a business meeting tonight,” she said slowly. “He’s sorry.”
David’s face seemed to crumble. “Whatever.”
“I’ll take you guys out for pizza, if you’d like—”
“No, thanks. There’s a party at Clayborne Beach. But thanks.” David grabbed Lauren’s hand and pulled her away.
Mrs. Haynes fell into step beside them. In silence, the three of them walked to the parking lot. David opened the car door for Lauren.
She paused for a moment, looked at his mother. “Thanks for the invitation, Mrs. Haynes,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” she answered quietly. “Have fun.” Then she looked at David. “Be home by midnight.”
He walked around to his side of the car. “Sure.”
Later that night, as they were huddled around the fire, sitting amid a circle of kids who were talking about the traditional grad night party, Lauren leaned against him, whispered, “I’m sure he wanted to be there.”
David sighed. “Yeah. He’ll be there next Friday,” he said, but when he looked at her, his eyes were bright. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she said, slipping her hand into his.
Finally, he smiled.
In the past few days, Angie had worked ceaselessly. Every morning, she was up before dawn and seated at the kitchen table, with notes and menus and paperwork spread out before her. In these, the quiet, pale pink hours, she put together the coat campaign and created a series of advertisements and promotions. By seven-thirty, she was at the restaurant, meeting with Mama to learn the behind-the-scenes routine.
First, they visited the suppliers. Angie watched her mother move through the boxes of fresh vegetables, choosing the same things day after day: tomatoes, green peppers, eggplants, iceberg lettuce, yellow onions, and carrots. Mama never paused to inspect the portobello or porcini mushrooms, the brightly colored array of peppers, the baby pea pods, the butter lettuce, or the rich, dark truffles.
It was the same routine at the fish and meat markets. Mama bought tiny, shell pink shrimp for cocktails and nothing else. From Alpac Brothers, she chose extra lean ground sirloin, ground pork and veal, and dozens of boneless chicken breasts. By the end of the fourth day, Angie had begun to see the missed opportunities. Finally, she hung back, told Mama to “go on home”; that Angie would be along soon. As soon as Mama left, Angie turned to the produce supervisor. “Okay,” she said, “let’s pretend that DeSaria’s is a brand-new restaurant.”
For the next few hours, he tossed information at her like a circus performer. She caught every word and wrote it down, then did the same thing at the fish and meat markets.
She must have asked a hundred questions.
What does it mean if the fish was flash frozen?
What are the best kinds of clams? Oysters?
Why would we want to buy squid ink?
How do you pick a good cantaloupe?
Why is Dungeness crab better than snow or king?
The vendors answered each question patiently, and by the end of the week, Angie was beginning to understand how they could improve the menu. She compulsively collected recipes and menus from some of the most famous restaurants in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York. All of them, she noticed, used the freshest local ingredients for seasonal dishes. In addition, she read all her father’s notes and records and interrogated her sisters until they begged for mercy.
For the first time in her life, she was becoming a part of the restaurant instead of a satellite in its orbit. To Angie’s—and everyone’s—surprise, she loved it.
On Saturday night, in between helping Lauren waitress, she read over the accounts payable, paid bills, and jotted down some notes on what supplies were running low. The day passed in a blur of activity, and by the time the last guests left, she was exhausted.
It felt great.
She said good night to Mama and Mira, then got two bowls of gelato and sat down at a table by the fireplace. She loved this time of night, in the quiet of the closed restaurant. It relaxed her, and sometimes, in the crackle of the fire or the tap of rain on the roof, she felt her father’s presence.
“I’m going home now, Angie,” Lauren said, walking through the dining room.