“It’s the apple cucumber mignonette that makes these special,” Beatrice says. “Well, that and the fact that you’re going to try three east coast oysters, and three west coast oysters. I think you’ll quickly discover which you prefer.”

  I go ahead and slice a scallop in half and pop it in my mouth. Unlike the buttery, seared scallops from the menu, these are light, almost sweet. I’m quite sure I can taste citrus, as well. While I’m chewing, I watch as everyone else tries their appetizers. I’m not the only one sighing with delight.

  “Fine,” Mr. Dressel surprises us all by saying. “Scratch my order for the entree. Surprise me with something you’d choose.”

  Bea nods slowly. “Alright.” When she starts to back out, Mr. Dressel objects.

  “Don’t you need me to answer your questions?”

  “You said you had no allergies,” she says.

  “But what about the others? My favorite and worst meal?”

  Bea’s smile is smug. “I’ve been able to observe you long enough that I think I can do without the answers.”

  A moment later, she slips out, but that doesn’t keep us from talking about her.

  “Not gonna lie,” Mr. Jimenez says. “When you said we were doing our board meeting over lunch, and then you named the place we’d sent you for that failed setup, I thought maybe you had lost your mind. But this food.” He shakes his head. “And having someone choose for you. . .it’s brilliant.”

  “I’ll withhold judgment until I see whether she brings me that ghastly burger,” Mr. Dressel says.

  “That’s what she brought me,” I say, “and it was amazing.”

  But the next twenty minutes are quickly consumed with their ideas for launching a women’s line. By the time I shoot down the third one, I can tell they’re annoyed.

  “Who has heard of the brand Express?” I ask.

  Most of the board members scrunch their noses. At least they know what I’m talking about.

  “That’s not a high fashion company,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “They’re nothing like us.”

  I shake my head. “They were a designer label at one point,” I say. “Perhaps not couture, but designer at least. Back in 2001, they took the first misstep on their journey toward being delisted from the stock market because their stock price fell below a dollar.”

  It’s a horror story in fashion.

  “Do you know what that step was?” I glance around the room.

  They shrug. They share meaningful glances with each other. They look down at their empty plates. A few drain their glasses. None of them look my way.

  But finally, Mr. Jimenez says, “Just tell us.”

  “They had two arms at first. Express was for women. They poured millions upon millions into creating that brand. It sold extremely well. However, their men’s line, Structure, always lagged. Some said it was a misallocation of advertising dollars. Some said the designers they used weren’t as in touch as those who did the women’s side.” I did a whole project in school on the rise and fall of Structure and Express. “The CEO in 2000 was tasked to bring the men’s line up to par with the women’s. Instead of redesigning or refreshing, he decided to take what worked—the Express name—and transition the entire men’s line to become ‘Express for Men.’” I can’t help my cringe. “It was an unmitigated disaster. All the dollars they’d poured into making Express a recognizable name for women made it anathema for men. That, coupled with a few years of safe but disastrously boring clothing, built out the coffin. A lot of people blame the leadership in the past five years, but it was already in a steep nosedive that very few could have pulled out of.”

  “What’s the point?” Mr. Dressel’s never patient. Not ever.

  “I understand your insistence that we launch a women’s brand, but doing it the wrong way would be far worse than having no women’s products at all.” I look around, meeting each person’s eye.

  As if on cue, the doors open behind me, the various aromas of our food slamming me in the face. Beatrice has excellent timing, unsurprisingly. I told her I wanted longer than usual in between each visit so we could conduct our meeting, and she nailed it. It makes me wonder whether she was waiting outside the door listening in.

  “As the best latency spotter in the market right now, we really need your insight into women’s couture so we can figure out what to target,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “But you went on one date and have refused any more.”

  “That’s because,” I say, “I’ve already identified a girl I’d like to date. I need a little time to win her over.” I glance behind me.

  Bea freezes for a beat, and then she sets a plate in front of me. “Lobster risotto,” she whispers. “I had chef swap out the snow peas for asparagus.”

  “Your chef—David Burke, right?—is brilliant,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “That looks amazing.”

  “David designed this menu,” Bea says, “but one of his up-and-coming sous chefs has been handling lunch. Her name is Julietta, and she’s like a savant with vegetables. She smells them for twenty minutes each morning, tossing the ones that don’t pass muster into a big bin.”

  Mr. Dressel frowns.

  “But for you, sir.” She walks toward Mr. Dressel, taking him his food right after mine. She’s already figured out the pecking order. She places his plate in front of him and steps back. “Native lobster and Crab Imperial.” She tilts her head. “Hasn’t been on the menu since last fall, but a fresh catch of beautiful lobsters came in this morning, and I thought you’d appreciate them.”

  She doesn’t wait for Mr. Dressel to take a bite. She’s already off, serving Mrs. Yaltzinger her seared ginger salmon, and then Mr. Jimenez his bison short ribs.

  A few moments later, and no one’s grilling me about the women’s line. They’re all oohing and aahing about the food—and Bea’s taste. “How do you do it?” Mr. Dressel finally asks, and then he licks his finger off. Clearly she really bowled him over with the lobster and crab thing.

  “You want my secret?” She arches one eyebrow. “This is my job, sir, and you want me to give away my secrets?”

  He sighs. “I suppose not.”

  We haven’t made much progress—maybe about as much as I’ve made with Bea—by the time she returns for the final time. “I know that none of you asked for dessert, and most people don’t want it after lunch. But I could tell that three of you really needed just a bit more.” She sets a wooden board with skewers on it in front of Mrs. Yaltzinger, Mr. Jimenez, and Miss Lundgren. “These are called dessert pops. There’s a champagne-infused berry, a macaron, and the best truffle cake ball you’ve ever had. The dips on there are to die for.”

  “What about me?” I ask.

  “You’re already too sweet.” She flounces out.

  When I go to grab the check, she’s talking to someone. I’m pretty sure she’s not actually waiting for me, but it almost feels like it. “Hey, you did a great job today,” I say. “There’s a reason I asked for you. I knew they’d love the select-their-food-for-them trick.”

  “None of our other waiters do that,” the host says. “A few of them have tried, but it went. . .not as well.”

  “I asked for her secret,” I say. “But she wouldn’t share it.”

  “Sometimes she refuses to do it,” the host says. “But when she’s on? It’s pretty amazing.”

  Now I really want to know how she does it. I pay with the company card—board meeting—and then pull her aside. “Come on,” I say. “Now that no one else is around, surely you’ll share how you do it.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Easton,” Mrs. Yaltzinger catches up to me. “I just talked to Ursula. I know the last date was not a love connection, but she has some ideas, and I think if you give her a chance, you’ll see that she’s great at her job. She learned a lot from your feedback last time, and she has a few strong candidates. You can even take a look.” She holds up her phone. “I really like this lady, who runs a salon on the West side.”

  “He really did meet someone, you know,” Bea says.

  My heart stutters.

  “She’s pretty shy, but he met her on his last date.”

  “Did he?” Mrs. Yaltzinger’s eyes light up. “Tell me more. Is she pretty? Did she look fashionable?”

  Bea shrugs. “She actually looked pretty plain to me. Definitely not a stylista.”

  I snort. “She’s breathtaking.” I can’t help staring. Even in her work uniform, her flawless skin, her waterfall of hair falling from her high ponytail down her back, and her full, pursed lips are just. . .stunning. There’s no other word that fits.

  “She’s small and mousy,” Bea says. “But Easton seemed to really like her.”

  Mrs. Yaltzinger sighs, staring at me without the slightest idea that Bea is talking about herself. “I’ll give you a week. If you’re not dating someone officially by then.” She points. “You’ll let us try again.”

  I nod slowly.

  But when Mrs. Yaltzinger wanders off, I pounce. “How about you open the door a little. I only have a week.”

  “Huh?” The little wrinkle between her eyebrows is adorable.

  “Just let me in a little—you can see what you think.”

  “It’s not that I⁠—”

  “I know your jingle finals are tonight, and I want to go with you.”

  “The thing is, Jake’s already coming to help me,” she says. “He’s—he gets—I don’t think it’s a good idea if⁠—”

  “I’m not scared of your brother,” I say.

  She bites her lip.

  It’s so cute. “Just give me a shot. If I make things hard for you on your big night, you can refuse to talk to me again.”

  “I wouldn’t normally take him with me,” she says. “Jake makes most things harder. I know he hasn’t been that nice to you, either, but he’s really connected, and he’s also painfully talented with music, entertainment, all of it.”

  I’m sure he is. I actually hate that she’s right. “It’ll be fine,” I say. “Tell me I can come.”

  “Fine,” she says.

  “I should also confess that I might have mentioned the details to Emerson.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s fine. He probably would have pried them out of Jake anyway.”

  I’m on my way out the door when something hits me. I have no idea what to wear. “Hey, so what are you planning to⁠—”

  But when I turn around, she’s already gone.

  8

  Bea

  I always panic when any kind of performance looms.

  What was I thinking, telling Easton he could come? It was almost as bad as when I told that woman he works with that he did have a girl he liked. I must have lost my mind.

  She’s breathtaking.

  Is there a chance that he really thinks that? Or is he a lot smoother than Emerson and Elizabeth seem to think he is? Emerson says he’s not a player—quite the opposite. He says Easton has never played at all.

  He says he’s a bench-sitter.

  Just like me.

  Sometimes I believe it. Others, like when he’s commanding the attention and respect of an entire room full of savvy business people, I have no idea how that could possibly be true. He reminds me of Uncle Bentley, but even more focused. Before he realized how he felt about Aunt Barbara, Uncle Bentley was a dating disaster, so it feels like it’s much more likely Easton just doesn’t show his family that side of who he is.

  But to tell him that it was fine if he came tonight?

  Complete idiocy on my part.

  I’m already so nervous that I can barely breathe. The thought of Easton watching me completely embarrass myself is horrifying.

  “I can’t go,” I whisper.

  Jake wraps an arm around me and steers me back into my bedroom. “Not in that, you can’t.”

  “I like these pajamas,” I protest.

  “The little pink cats wearing tiaras are very cute.” Jake shoves me toward my bed and starts rummaging around in my closet. “This selection is appalling, you know. One of these days, you really need to take me up on my offer to buy you some clothes that aren’t outdated and frumpy.”

  “In order to do that, I’d have to go somewhere in public. I avoid⁠—”

  “Don’t I know it.” Jake’s shaking his head. “But sadly, your best option is this.” He chucks a cream and white striped sheath dress at my head. “Put it on.” He walks out the door without even looking at me to see whether I agree.

  That’s how he’s always been. “What about the blue dress with the⁠—”

  “No.” Jake doesn’t even bother raising his voice. “Just put that one on. We’re already cutting it close.”

  With the way he drives, we won’t be close—we’ll be early. I grumble as I drag my pajamas off and pull my dress over my head. When I come out, the dress a little tighter than I like, Jake’s still shaking his head.

  “What now?”

  “You are not wearing those.” He points at my wedges.

  “They’re comfortable,” I say. “And I won’t fall on my face in them, which is an undervalued attribute.”

  “If you aren’t wearing something that’s miserably uncomfortable, you aren’t ready yet.” He sighs as he brushes past me and starts chucking things out of my closet. “This is really, really shameful.” He spins around, thrusting a pair of boring camel heels at me. “Really? Steve Madden? How old are you?”

  “Old enough to remember when you wore Steve Maddens,” I mutter.

  “I never wore Steve Maddens.”

  “You wore Birkenstocks, and that’s worse.”

  Jake laughs. “Put these on, and when you win in spite of your horrible wardrobe, you’re going to let me take you shopping, finally.”

  “I won’t win,” I mutter. “And now I’m going to have blisters on top of it.”

  “A lot of whether you win with something like this comes down to your attitude.” Jake grabs my shoulders and lifts me up an inch and a half. He stares me right in the eyes. “You will look right at those judges, and you will keep your chin up. Like this.” He keeps staring.

  “That’s creepy,” I say.

  He laughs. “Be creepy, then, and smile.” He releases me and lifts his hands past his face, his smile lifting at the same time.

  “That’s even scarier.”

  “This is a million-dollar smile,” he says. “And yours has got to be worth⁠—”

  “At least half that?”

  He snorts. “I was gonna say twenty bucks, but yeah. Let’s go with a half-mil.”

  I punch his shoulder. “You said you’d sing while I play.”

  “I said if you choke up, and if they allow it, I’d sing it for you.”

  “The rules don’t say you can’t have someone else sing it,” I say. “It just says it has to be performed on stage.”

  “But if I go up there, we’d have to share the credit,” Jake says. “It did say that, and do you really think they want a movie star to win their prize?”

  “Your agent would lose his mind.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jake says, “if that’s what you need.” He drops his voice. “But this is supposed to be your time to shine, not mine.”

  “I hate spotlights,” I say.

  “Oh, I remember.” But he stops grumbling and ordering and he walks quietly alongside me to his ridiculous car. At least his car gets me there early, and if I’m queasy from the speed, well, we aren’t late.

  As we’re walking in, I notice Emerson and Easton, standing shoulder to shoulder just inside the double doors of the auditorium. “Bea,” Emerson says. “You look great!”

  “Don’t say that.” Jake groans. “She’ll insist she doesn’t need any new clothes if you compliment her.”

  Emerson smiles. “Plebians like Bea and I don’t need new outfits every time we leave the house.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “New clothes aren’t always a bad idea,” Easton says. “Sometimes they help you feel ready for whatever you’re facing.”

  “I don’t want to agree with you,” Jake says. “If you could do me a favor and not say anything smart like that, it would be great.”

  “Not all of us can be uniformly stupid,” Emerson says. He turns toward Easton. “Jake’s never been accused of saying smart things.”

  “Not without a team of writers to script his lines, at least,” I say.

  Jake rolls his eyes, but when we walk into the main auditorium, I’m surrounded by three handsome men who all want to see me succeed. It’s more than a lot of people can claim, I’m sure. “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  A moment later, I have to leave the audience area and take my place on the stage. Jake jogs along with me until I reach the stairs. “What’ll it be, Hornet?”

  “You’re right,” I whisper. “If you come, I’ll never know whether I won, or if Jake Priest did.”

  He beams. “Go sting ’em, Bea. You got this.”

  Only, when I reach the stage, I realize I totally do not have this. No one else looks even half as nervous as me. Actually, they all look like pros.

  There’s a very good looking, probably very gay man next to me. His eyebrows are perfectly shaped, his nails are buffed and polished a dark, navy blue, and there’s a thin, tasteful kohl line above and beneath each of his large eyes.

  Makeup.

  The man next to me has better makeup game than I do.

  I can’t believe I did nothing to touch up my makeup after work. I probably look like a preteen girl.

  But then the lights click on, and it’s go time. The woman who stands up and approaches the podium has a large cascade of absolutely gorgeous, rich mahogany curls that are pinned up on one side and flow freely on the other. That’s the reason I don’t notice her face until she turns outward and starts talking.

  She’s been badly burned on her left side, from her forehead all the way down to below her nose. Her hair covers some of it, but there’s plenty that’s still visible. It looks like ripples of wax are running down her face and then it swoops out and down her neck, disappearing into the top of her asymmetrical gown.

  Perhaps the most distracting part of her burns is the stunning beauty of her face on the non-burned side. It’s like an artist painted a masterpiece of epic proportions, then upended a bottle of turpentine over one corner. It actually makes me sad, looking at the perfection of her features on the right side, compared to the left. I can’t help thinking that, although on the outside my life looked just fine, I might understand her better than most.

 

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