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Mom is already at the venue, in full Joan Cohen bossy control, and soon has me busy helping with the room decorations.
The day flies by.
Mom and I manage to have only eleven disagreements.
I’m taking that as success because it means I kept my mouth shut at least twenty times.
Everything is going well until the caterers cause mass stress at DEFCON 1 level.
At five p.m.
One hour before the gala starts.
One. Freaking. Hour.
“Charlize,” Mom says sharply when she finds me hiding in a corner. Well, I wasn’t actually hiding, but if I’d thought of doing that, I would have. “Please tell me you’ve got this under control.”
“Yes,” I squawk. I really do sound like a bird right now. I can’t even deny it.
Mom’s eyes almost hit her eyebrows. “Why don’t I believe you?”
Deep breaths.
In. Out.
In. Out.
I can do this.
Just because the catering manager quit and stormed out fifteen minutes ago, taking ten of his staff with him, including his Michelin-trained chefs, doesn’t mean this night can’t still be a success.
We may just need to redefinesuccess.
Composing myself, I stand tall and fake a whole lot of confidence I’m not currently feeling. “Please believe me, Mom. I’m finding people to replace the staff that left. They will be here as soon as possible, and the dinner will go ahead as planned. You go and do your thing and leave this with me.”
I must sound convincing because she exhales a breath and says, “Thank you, Charlize. Please keep me updated.”
With that, she leaves me to get back to redefining success.
I’m five minutes into that when Jack and Jessica arrive. The committee member who greets them directs them to me because I’ve been their point of contact all along.
“Why do you look so pale?” Jessica frowns.
“Because my mother insisted on bringing in our own catering team rather than using the team here, and our catering manager just quit and took ten of his staff with him. Trying to find replacement staff at this late notice is proving difficult.” I suck air in. “I’m not sure why I ever thought it was a good idea to become a gala girl.”
Jessica laughs. “A gala girl?”
“It’s what I’ve always called my mother and her girls who run these galas. To be honest, it came from a mean place. I thought they were just trying to climb the social ladder. I’ve learned there’s so much more to being a gala girl.”
“Right, so gala girls are good?”
I smile. Just talking with her has helped take my mind off my stress for a few moments, and sometimes that’s what my anxiety needs. A moment of reprieve. “Yes.”
“Okay,” she says, and suddenly she sounds all boss babe. “Let’s get to work.”
I frown while Jack grins. Glancing between them, I say, “Get to work?”
“My wife just put her bossy pants on,” Jack says. “I haven’t let her wear them today, so she’s itching to get them out. I’ll leave you girls to it.”
