An hour ago, I would have paid money to see Carol learn I was the one who pranked her yard. Not that I wanted a fight—just a puff of smoke. That perfect moment when you pour vinegar on baking soda and watch the whole thing froth over. A sliver of proof that people here feel something—anything—more than a wistful lust for holiday tablescapes.
Now, though, the insulated protection of our glass-bottom boat feels compromised. Like something is threatening to crack the hull. As I skirt around the crowd toward the kitchen, I feel almost hunted, glancing behind me to make sure no one’s watching.
That’s insane. You’re being insane. It was just a phone call.
I find solace in the hallway. The buzz of the crowd dies away for a beat before I push through the swinging door and into the warm chaos of the back of the house. The low hum of the kitchen hits me instantly—voices mingling with the clatter of dishes and the steady beeps of timers. Bright overhead fluorescent light bounces off stainless steel countertops and commercial appliances. The air is thick with the sizzle of searing meat, the sharp heat of open flames under gas burners, and the rich perfume of oil bubbling in the fryer.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence.” Marcus smiles from the expo station—the narrow alley of the service area where plates are handed off to runners and side work gets done.
“Evening, Marcus.” I wave, already scanning the heat lamps.
“We made you a plate.” He tips his head toward a waiting dish under the far lamp. “Snapper, charred corn, and blistered tomatoes with a citrus beurre blanc.”
“Oh holy fuck, I love you.” I lunge for the plate and a fork. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
I was too busy thinking of how you and Nora belong together. But that seems a little less pressing all of a sudden.
I take a breath and then a bite. Then another. “Oh my God.” I point my fork at him. “This is stupid good. You guys are showing off tonight.”
“I’ll have Gemma bring you another plate in a little while,” Marcus promises.
Tori, a server, is at the drink station, refilling pitchers of water.
“Este!” She smiles. “There’s a drink for you in the fridge.”
Plate in hand, I open the small refrigerator next to the drink station, where a French 75 is chilling.
“Divine.” I take a sip, smiling at the fizz of the bubbles in the back of my throat. Then, I drift back to Marcus. “Who’s running the book tonight?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Marcus glances at the floor and then toward the dining room. “I should go say hello to everyone.” As he pushes through the door, he says over his shoulder, “Don’t spend the entire night back here like last time, Este.”
I look back at Tori, confused. “What does he mean, he doesn’t know about the book? That’s the whole fun of parties like this.”
Big events at Lemon & Fig inspire bets from the service team—who’ll get drunk first, how many dishes will be sent back. Riskier gambles involve total catastrophe, like some marital affair being spectacularly outed.
More than once, I have gotten so wrapped up in the bets and the conversation in the kitchen that I didn’t reemerge for the actual party. I like the way people back here speak plainly and move with purpose. They don’t care about last names or trust funds. As long as I stay out of sight—and steer clear of anykitchen health or safety violations—they look after me. It’s nice to have a place to hide from the drone of party gossip.
Tori is loading up a drink tray, but she waves a clipboard with her free hand. “He doesn’t like us gambling. Gemma’s running the book. She told him it’s good for morale. He says it’s only good forhismorale if he doesn’t know anything about it.”
She hands over the clipboard, displaying names and wagers scrawled across the page in messy ink, and I scan the sheet, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from my clutch and slapping it on the stainless steel expo top. “Thirty bucks says someone lodges a written complaint about the lighting not being aesthetic enough for Instagram. And another twenty says someone tries to get behind the bar to make craft cocktails—claiming to be an expert because they took a class. Thirty on a passive-aggressive argument about whether the floral arrangements were ethically sourced. And the last twenty? Carol Parker wanders outside and falls in the fountain.”
“You always bet on that, and it never happens.”
“It’s called manifesting, Tori.”
“All right. I’ll tell Gemma.” Tori jots down my wagers—they’re all bordering on preposterous. But I don’t bet to win. I wager for the fun of it, and because the extra cash lines the pockets of the people working in the back of the house.
“You should get out there soon,” Tori warns. “Before Marcus comes back here and drags you out.”
I sigh, but I know she’s right. And I want to celebrate Marcus. It’s hard to believe it’s been five years since Beau and I attended Lemon & Fig’s opening night. Back then, I was still a little shell-shocked from the fallout in California.
I take my plate to the dishwashing station, dodging the puddles near the sink so I don’t ruin my designer shoes.
Stepping back into the dining room, still carrying the drink Tori gave me, I spot Nora by the window, in a sundress. Tippy Schaeffer is fawning all over her, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
How quickly things change.
Not long ago, they were at odds, because Nora called Tippy out for a sloppy make-out session with Detective Ardell.
