“What?” I ask.
“I just.… I don’t know how you can do this. It must be awful, everyone knowing your business. Have you thought about…” Her eyes point overhead as she tries to think. “… I don’t know … leaving town or something?” A flush rises on Jazz’s cheeks, and I know she feels like a traitor for suggesting it. “I mean, I’d miss you, but … anything would have to be better than this. I don’t know how you can do it, day after day.”
I suspect Jazz is actually wondering how she can do it; keep up the pretense of a friendship with a social pariah without becoming one herself. But I don’t call her on it.
“People aren’t falling over themselves to give Richard Bennett’s widow a job, Jazz,” I say. “Besides, Mother and Dad are around the corner, and I’m going to be relying on them a lot more now that I’m a…” I drift off, strangely unable to say “single mother.” Instead I look at Clem and Legs, who have formed a human rope on the floor, hugging and laughing. “Anyway, how could I break up the BFFs? It’d be the biggest split since Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie!”
Jazz smiles reluctantly. And a few seconds later, I feel her arm around my shoulder. It’s brazen in a classroom full of cold stares. The small gesture sends tears rocketing to my eyes.
“You’re very hard not to love, you know that, Evie?”
She says it gruffly, and I smile, because from Jazz, it’s the sincerest compliment I could have asked for. Also, because I remember Richard saying something very similar to me once.
*
I was making guacamole when I met Richard. As part of our training at the culinary school, we were required to get some practical experience, and I’d managed to land a gig on James Mendoza’s gourmet taco truck—The Mexican—on the corner of Wall and New Street. The taco truck was decent pay, and the upside was that unlike in a restaurant, we were outside, amid the bustle of the city. That day, the sky was a rich cobalt blue, and the air that blew in the serving window was warm and sweet. Full of promise.
“I’ll … um, take a taco,” I heard a man say to Carlos. Carlos was a wonderful chef, but he should never have been allowed in front of customers. If they didn’t know exactly what they wanted, they didn’t get served.
“Uh…,” the man stammered when the silence continued. “Just the taco, please.”
Carlos sighed loudly. He pointed to the board where the menu was listed then nodded at the next person in line. I wiped my hands on my apron. Part of my role, I’d quickly realized, was to smooth things over with Carlos’s disgruntled customers. He needed my help fairly frequently.
“What kind of taco would you like?” I asked. “There’s beer-battered mahimahi, shrimp, lobster, turkey.…”
I looked down at the man, who was our typical Wall Street guy—expensive suit, gold watch, shiny shoes. His hair was thick and black, his eyes chocolate brown. His adorably perplexed expression gave away the fact that he wasn’t a regular at the food truck.
“My favorite is the mahimahi,” I said finally. “We make it with fresh lime and cumin—it’s a bestseller, I think you’ll like it.” I arranged the fish on a flour tortilla and topped it with slaw and a dollop of Mexican crema. Then I rolled it up and handed it to him. “Here you go.”
I’ll never forget the way he looked at me—as though I were the most unexpected treasure, a nearly extinct animal he’d stumbled across in the wild. Beside me, oblivious or uninterested, Carlos grunted at the next person who dared not to know exactly what he wanted.
“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” he asked.
I laughed, surprised. Behind him, someone jostled him and someone else yelled, “Keep it moving, man!” But he didn’t budge.
“I insist,” he said. “A thank-you for this … this wonderful taco. I’m Richard, by the way.”
“Eve,” I said.
It wasn’t the first time a customer had invited me to dinner. It was, however, the first time I’d been tempted to accept. Perhaps it was the fact that, unlike most of the Wall Street stockbrokers we served, he didn’t seem entirely assured of my response? On the contrary, he seemed … nervous. It was endearing.
“Eve, I need guacamole,” Carlos yelled.
“I’ll pick you up,” the man—Richard—said, moving in closer. His face, I noticed, was full of surprises, from his wide-set eyes to his cleft chin. He stood like a rock in a stream while customers flowed on either side of him. “Around seven. Anywhere you want to go.”
Carlos thumped around, making his impatience known. “Guacamole!”
Richard’s gaze pierced me, pinning me in place even as Carlos’s thick arm reached around me for the guacamole. Then Richard closed his eyes, pressed his palms together in faux prayer.
“Yes,” I said, laughing. “Yes, okay. Fine. Tonight.” I gave him my phone number and hurried back to the guacamole.
“Guess he’s pretty convincing,” Carlos muttered when Richard was gone.
I wish I’d known how right Carlos was.