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CHAPTER THREE
MELANIE
“So how does Mama look?” I asked, spinning around in a circle.
Luke and Lando sat on the bed and blinked.
“Thank you for your enthusiasm,” I said, patting each of them on their feline heads. Lando immediately started purring and trying to rub his orange body closer, but I had to brush him off because I didn’t want to arrive at my first day of work with cat hair all over my blazer.
I had gotten ready too early, like I usually did, so I wandered around my apartment and wound up picking up a framed photo from the end table. It was my favorite image of my parents. My sister, Lucy, had hung a poster-sized wedding day picture of them in her apartment, but I preferred this one.
Not a glossy professional shot, it had been taken on a weekend camping trip with friends somewhere up north around Prescott. My handsome, black-haired father had his right arm draped protectively around my petite mother as they beamed at the camera. They were so young here, so obviously in love. Years later my mother would tell me that less than twenty-four hours before they’d posed beside their small tent, they had received the news that they were expecting their first child, me.
“Wish me luck today, Mom and Dad,” I whispered to the smiling faces behind the glass before I set the picture back on the table. My heart ached for a moment, as it always did when I thought about how I’d lost them far too soon. We’d been such a happy family. I was young and devastated beyond words after their death; I wound up stumbling into a hasty, unhappy marriage in search of some sort of sense of belonging. I didn’t find it then. And despite the fact that I’d learned to cope, I didn’t have it now.
I took one final look in the mirror—confidence and class stared back. After being fired from my job, I hadn’t given myself the luxury of a few days to lick my wounds and moon over the unfairness of it all. No, what was done was done. I’d busted out of the unemployment gate swinging, scouring every job listing in the valley, utilizing every personal and professional contact, and firing off resumes for any position I was even vaguely qualified for. I followed up with phone calls and emails to get the message across that I was highly motivated.
To my supreme horror, nothing happened.
I remained stubbornly cheerful the first few weeks, but gradually my self-esteem plummeted. Would I ever find another job? Even though some interviews seemed to go well, I’d get the inevitable “We’re pursuing another candidate” phone call or email, and that was that.
Maybe I was reaching too high.
Maybe I was bending too low.
Maybe for the rest of my life my name would be tied to the Kaylie Tidewater wedding debacle.
Maybe I should just forget about doing anything in an office ever again and return to school to learn how to be a plumber or something. No one would care if you’d been fired for ruining the wedding of a semifamous person as long as you knew how to fix a toilet.
One hundred and thirty-two resumes sent. I think. I stopped counting quite so carefully once I hit triple digits.
Fourteen interviews. All polite and professional.
And yet ... nothing.
I hadn’t felt so much self-doubt since right after my marriage to James ended. My ex-husband and I had met in college. We started dating because it seemed like we should. We stayed together because it was less trouble than breaking up. And we got married because he was trying to be noble while I was searching for a way to ease my grief following the sudden death of my parents.
But James and I were in trouble from the beginning. It turned out that being polite grew thin after a while and eventually the fighting started. From there it was only a matter of time before the end came. The sad thing was he wasn’t a bad guy. He just wasn’t the right guy. Only Lucy ever knew how much I cried over my disastrous marriage, although I wasn’t pining over James. No, I cried because I’d failed. I cried because I’d wasted so much time on something that had never been right and I didn’t know if I’d ever find what I was searching for, what my parents had. Maybe not everyone got that.
So there I was, newly fired, filled with insecurity and haplessly throwing resumes into the world like confetti when I received a Facebook message from a girl I’d gone to high school with. I almost missed seeing the message from Tara Lindell, who was now Tara Esposito, because lately I’d been trying to keep social media at arm’s length. Apparently word of the wedding from hell had gotten around alumni circles at my old Tucson high school. People I hadn’t communicated with in nearly a decade started reaching out in search of sordid details. For the most part I ignored them.
Tara and I had vaguely known each other in high school. At the time, if someone had said to me, “You know Tara Lindell?” I would have been able to summon the image of a tall, lively girl with the lightest blonde hair I’d ever seen. She was a cheerleader and part of the perky crowd that was responsible for things like hanging streamers for homecoming and sponsoring brownie bake sales. I, on the other hand, had yet to discover my perky side. I was busy writing ghastly poetry, performing a minor role in our high school’s production of Sweeney Todd, and molding my leather-clad Gothic look. Regrettably, my fashion sense wouldn’t catch up for a few more years.
After Tara’s family moved away from Tucson right before junior year, I didn’t think about her again until I read that cheerful message saying that she was in Phoenix, married, with a baby girl, and she wanted to have lunch. I thought about it for a few minutes and decided there was no harm in answering. Tara hadn’t even mentioned my unfortunate brush with tabloid fame. Plus I was rather lacking in friendly connections at the moment. My sister was in another state, and most of my other friends were loyal to my ex.
My afternoons were wide open, so we met for lunch two days later, and while we were catching up, she suggested that I apply for a job at her husband’s restaurant. Evidently their manager had just quit with no notice, and they were avidly hunting for a replacement since a second restaurant was going to be opening soon. It didn’t really sound ideal, but it was a job, and I needed one, so I told her I’d send a resume.
“Awesome! I’ll put in a good word for you,” she said with a wink.
Giovanni Esposito was Tara’s husband, and he owned Esposito’s, a pizzeria, along with his brother. During the interview he’d asked me point-blank why I was applying for a position that seemed beneath my qualifications. Instead of offering some bullshit answer about wanting to work hard for a small company, I looked the man right in the eye and told him the truth. I told him about the wedding. I told him I’d been fired. I told him I was a quick learner and eager to prove myself to any employer who would give me a chance.
His polite words and civil handshake told me little, though; and I figured I’d never hear from him again. After all, he’d probably just granted me an interview as a favor to his wife. The job of bookkeeper and assistant manager of two pizzerias was a far cry from director of finance at an upscale resort, so perhaps it was just as well.
When I received the offer call, I was eating chocolate icing out of the container with a wooden spoon. All of a sudden there was no place I’d rather work than Esposito’s Pizzeria. I celebrated by opening cans of tuna for Luke and Lando; and two days later, I was on my way to my first day of work.
“Hey there, Melanie.” My new boss waved from behind the counter when I walked into Esposito’s.
The interior looked the way a pizzeria ought to; cozy and laid-back, with menus written in chalk above the counter, and a dozen round tables with red-and-white checkered tablecloths. We were within a stone’s throw of the enormous state university, and the food here was semilegendary, although I’d never been inside. The new restaurant was located miles away in downtown Phoenix, but the grand opening wouldn’t happen for another month.
