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“Yeah, for sure,” I said, adjusting my hat, which had been knocked askew during our awkward clutch. “I’ll set something up.”
“No, I will. I’ll figure something out in the next couple weeks.”
“Okay,” I said, almost as a question. Julius initiating a parenting meeting? Wow.
“It’s good to see you outside of your usual comfort zone, Solange.”
You have no idea, Jules, I wanted to reply. No idea.
CASSIE
Staff had been hired, invitations sent, and most people were responding with a resounding “yes.” It had been a while since a brand-new restaurant opened on Frenchmen Street. Establishments often changed names, but Cassie’s was a whole new space and place. People were curious.
I no longer choked on the name, now that I was an equal partner. Also, as an equal partner I had fifty percent say in whom we hired, and when it came to hiring a chef, I felt there really was no other choice but Dell.
Will balked.
“She doesn’t have the training.”
“Pfft, training. She tested every recipe. She practically designed the menu.”
“We’d be fools to lose her at the Café.”
“Her waitressing skills are replaceable. Her cooking isn’t. In fact, her cooking brings people in. It’s her waitressing that chases them away.”
“Good point.”
It took a day for Will to relent, on the condition we hire an assistant chef to help with the more delicate dishes.
“No problem,” I said. “You know how amenable Dell is to advice in the kitchen. Especially when it comes from young know-it-alls right out of cooking school.”
Dell nearly broke down in tears when I offered her the chef hat and more than doubled her pay, but she didn’t thank me. One of the things I admired the most about Dell was her knowledge that she was doing us a bigger favor by saying yes than we were by offering her the job.
“I have so many ideas!” she said, placing the hat on her head and admiring herself in the mirror. “So many.”
My investment also meant Cassie’s was opening with zero debt, a rarity for a restaurant. And I had some money left over for a splurge at Saks, because, like a lot of women, I still believe that deep superstition that the right dress can make or break a night. In my case, a lot of pressure was placed on a short little crimson cocktail number with long sheer sleeves.
Fifteen minutes before we opened the doors, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the staff washroom taking in my transformation. Almost two years ago I was a shy, depressed waitress, resigned to a life of routine smallness. Today I was a confident entrepreneur, a vivacious single woman who had a lover and a business partner, who was wearing a sexy little red dress on New Year’s Eve for the opening of a restaurant named after her. And yet, despite my accomplishments, I had to admit the heels, the makeup, the matching lipstick, my hair a tumble of dark curls—all of it still felt like a layer on top of me, not quite a part of me.
Passing through the kitchen on my way up the service stairs to the new restaurant, I heard a long, slow whistle that stopped me in my tracks.
“Look at you, boss lady,” said Dell, beaming—at me. It almost brought me to tears. “What happened to that little mousy waitress?”
S.E.C.R.E.T. did this, I wanted to say, my hand clutching my noisy charm bracelet. I rarely wore it to work, not wanting to answer questions about it, but tonight the gold shimmer set off the outfit perfectly.
“Thanks,” I said, tugging at the dress. “You don’t think it’s too much?”
“Too much what?”
“I don’t know. I feel like the dress is wearing me.”
Dell blinked in sheer incomprehension. Even if she understood my insecurity, she was refusing to address it, a policy I would do well to mirror.
“I said a prayer for good business,” she said, turning back around to stir something that smelled incredible.
I could have kissed her. She may not consider me a friend, but I hoped she’d come to respect me.
Just then Claire and Maureen came bounding into the kitchen from the Café, dropping dirty dishes on the conveyor belt.
