The Art of Stealing Hearts (2 page)

I’ve
been in the salon—too
luxurious to be called a waiting room—outside
Lydia’s
office for nearly an hour. Art adorns the walls, each piece worth at
least a hundred years of my salary. Worry knots in my stomach as I
hear more and more of the other candidates talk about their family
compounds on Cape Cod, and all their mutual friends from boarding
school and Ivy League colleges.

It’s
like a window onto a completely different world. They even use the
word summer as a verb, as in “Where
did you summer?” which
is how this conversation next to me got started. The only places I’ve
ever “summered”
were on the
patio with my mom, lemon juice in our hair for highlights, with the
occasional trip to the community pool.

“Oh, Chelsea,”
girl number
two says. “Just
because the guy you laid in Florence never called you back doesn’t
mean Italy has been ruined.”

“Please,
Angelica, you’re
only going abroad because your daddy said you couldn’t
laze around his Hamptons house again this year.”

“He forced me
to apply for this internship too,”
Angelica
pouts. “Some
old buddy of his knew someone here, blah, blah.”
Blah blah
is
how this girl refers to connections I would kill to have. She has no
idea how lucky she is. “Daddy
thinks my Yale degree makes me a genius, but I know I failed that
assessment just now.” She
pats her blonde hair-sprayed bun. “I
didn’t
even know what that rod thingy was! It looked like a broken curling
tong to me.”

I try not to think
about how unfair it is. The art world is like this everywhere, all
about who you know and which circles you run in and how rich your
family is. I don’t
have a celebrity neighbor or a trust fund so girls like this will
never take me seriously, but hopefully that won’t
matter in my final interview. I know I aced those test materials.
That
“rod
thingy” was
a 17th century German scepter, not a salon accessory,
I
have to force myself from saying out loud
.

Lydia’s
assistant with the clipboard appears as the Armani asshole from
earlier exits her office. “Grace
Bennett?”

I stand up and enter
the room. My hands are sweaty, my throat tight. I sit down in one of
the chairs across from Lydia’s
glass-topped desk. Unlike the rest of the building, this room is all
high-tech and glossy-looking, with only a pair of antique Chinese
cloisonné vases
as decor.

“Ms. Bennett,”
Lydia says,
leaning back in her white leather chair. Her perfectly coiffed hair
doesn’t
move as she looks me up and down. “It
says here on your resume that you studied at…
Montclair
Community College.” She
drawls the last two words with clear amusement. “I
was unaware that one could receive a fine arts degree from a
community college.”

“Not all of
them offer the program,” I
say, my heart sinking at this immediate obstacle. “I
was lucky to find Montclair Community College after I had to drop out
of Tufts.”

“You got into
Tufts?” She
looks surprised.

“I attended
for a year on a full scholarship before…a
family emergency called me back home.”

Lydia waits for an
explanation, but I don’t
tell her anything more. Mom getting sick, her death, it still hurts
too much to talk about, and soon enough Lydia slides her reading
glasses to the tip of her pointed nose and looks at the next paper in
her folder. “You
did very well on the assessment.”

I let out a breath
I’d
been holding since entering the auction house. “Oh,
that’s
so great to hear.”
I
knew it!
“I
just love art so much—the
Baroque era is my favorite, the movement in the paintings, the energy
and life in such dramatic, vivid detail—but
any true masterpiece hits me, right here, you know?”
I touch my
heart. “It’s
like a real physical response, and I just want to be around the
beauty, the craft, the history of the art you have here.”

Lydia removes her
glasses, almost smiles at me. Maybe this isn’t
such a long shot after all. “Many
of the other applicants also did well,”
she says.
“Tell
me why you deserve this.”

I take another
breath. Where do I even begin? “I
would work so hard if you give me this opportunity, Ms. Forbes,
harder than anyone else. I understand what an opportunity this is,
and I don’t
take that for granted.” Not
like the trust-fund kids outside, I silently add. “Day
or night, whatever Carringer’s
needs. I want this job, and…honestly,
it’s
everything I ever wanted. I know I would be really good at it, and if
you just let me—”

“Thank you,
Miss Bennett,” she
says, cutting me off. She stands abruptly, so I stand, too, my skirt
sticking to the back of my legs. “That
will be all.” She
gestures to the door, where I see her assistant has been standing
still as a statue during the entire interview. My cheeks burn.

A little flustered,
I thank her as I walk across the room. “We’ll
be in touch,” Lydia
says as I exit and am flung back into the sea of rich kids and their
designer duds and college connections, feeling like the biggest fish
out of water ever. What just happened?

Chelsea and Angelica
still sit in the same place, chatting and laughing. They’re
not nervous at all, and I wonder what it must be like to not have to
try so hard. To have daddy pull strings for an interview, and have
your life served to you on a silver platter. As I walk past, Lydia’s
assistant calls a ridiculous name that sounds like “Grandelwile
Brandyblerg” and
Angelica says, “Oh,
he’s
supposed to be really good. And his mother is on the Board of
Directors here.”

“I’m
not worried,” Chelsea
says breezily. “You
know my dad is one of their biggest clients. My name is already on
the paperwork.”

Angelica rolls her
eyes. “Why
did I even bother?”

Chelsea sees me
watching them and smirks. “None
of you should have bothered. This whole thing is for appearances.”
She looks me
up and down and clears her throat loudly. “Speaking
of appearances…” Next
to her, Angelica giggles.

My heart sinks.
Tears begin to burn behind my eyes and I walk away fast, quickening
my pace even though my feet are blistered and sore. I have to hope
that that spoiled, shiny-haired, smug girl is wrong. That this whole
day wasn’t
just a formality like she thinks, that I have a chance.
Mom,
I did my best.
I
cross my fingers as I head back out into the city streets.

“Order up!
Table six!”

The dinner rush at
Giovanni’s
Restaurant is organized chaos. I was intimidated three years ago when
I first started, but now I can maneuver through the twenty-five
tables and their red-and-white checkered tablecloths blindfolded and
carrying a tray twice as wide as my shoulders. I may still smell like
marinara, but I wear a hell of a lot less of it down my shirt now
than in those early days.

I grab two steaming
plates of Giovanni’s
signature dish—classic
spaghetti with homemade marinara and meatballs the size of your fist.
The head cook Fred’s
wide, smiling face appears in the window to the kitchen. “How’d
the big interview go today?”

“How do you
know about that? I only told Nona.”

“You answered
your own question, there, missy,” he
says and laughs. “You
know her.”

Great. “So
everyone knows?”

“Pretty much!”

Lonnie, a line cook,
shouts, “You
did great for sure, Gracie!” A
chorus of encouragement from the kitchen reminds me why I love this
place, but also makes me worried about disappointing the people who
have become my family.

“It was just
an interview,” I
say, placing a sprig of parsley on each plate.

“You’re
the smartest girl out there, Grace,”
Fred says,
draining a giant pot of linguine.

“Thanks, but
it’s
really competitive, and connections matter…”

“You got the
best connection there is—to
our family here, right?” He
puts up a plate of pasta primavera and a meatball sub. “Order
up! Table two!” Fred
winks at me. “It’s
in the bag, kid.”

I deliver our prize
meatballs—voted
best in the city for the last five years, a recipe Giovanni himself
brought from Italy—to
a couple obviously on their first date.

“Fresh
parmesan?” I
grate the cheese as they watch. “Buon
Appetito!”

We’re
always busy, and normally the fast pace of this restaurant is enough
to distract me, but tonight I can’t
get away from Carringer’s
or my anxiety. Just after I set down a bread basket for the new
family at table ten, Nona’s
familiar voice calls me over. “Grace,
you get over here and give me a hug!”

Nona and Giovanni
are the original owners. They’re
in their seventies now, and though technically retired, still spend
most nights at the center table drinking grappa and holding court
over their own private Little Italy in North Beach, San Francisco:
greeting customers, talking up the food (Giovanni) and squeezing
cheeks and distributing lollipops (Nona). Everyone loves them almost
as much as the food.

Nona puts her arm
around my waist and hugs me in. “This,”
she says to a
table full of her friends, “is
my Gracie.”

“Hello,
Gracie,” the
ladies chorus in unison.

Nona beams like a
proud grandmother. “You
should see this one’s
paintings! A real talent, like her mother.”
Nona squeezes
my cheeks. “She’s
going to be famous someday.”

I fake a smile I
hope looks real. “Thanks,
Nona,” I
say, taking a step back.

“She’s
shy,” Nona
stage-whispers to the table and the women all laugh loudly.

“Nice to meet
you all.” I
kiss Nona on the top of her head. “Gotta
get back to making your guests happy.”

The weight of all
the expectations and cautious hope is starting to get to me, so I
take my break and head through the back door to the alley outside. If
I smoked, I would totally want a cigarette right now. I know it’s
stupid, but I check my phone. No calls, of course. “What
am I going to do?” I
whisper, looking up at the rolling banks of fog turned yellow by the
streetlamps.

“Do about
what, dollface?”

“Shit!”
I jump and
turn around to see Cousin Eddie, a fast-talking wannabe charmer ten
years older than me and a lot less focused, unless he’s
at the gym or talking to a girl. “I
thought I was alone, Eddie.”

He emerges from
where he was smoking in the shadows. “You
can be alone with me anytime, you know that.”
The words are
genuine and heartfelt despite his flirting, which is just second
nature to him. His leather jacket creaks as he leans closer. “What
do you need to fix your little problem?”

“Nothing you
can help with, unfortunately.”

He spreads his arms
as if he were welcoming me into a hug, and I think about the
mysterious, and don’t
forget utterly gorgeous, British guy/work of art from the run by
coffee-ing this morning. I’d
gladly step into his open arms. “Come
on,” Eddie
says. “Tell
Cousin Eddie what’s
wrong.”

“Thanks,
Eddie, really.” I
pat his shoulder in an obviously platonic way. “But
I’m
fine.”

He smooths the tops
of his spiky gelled hair and grins in a Joey Tribiani how-you-doin’
kind of way.
“In
that case, come dancing with me tonight. You’ll
feel better than fine—”

“Eddie, is
that you?” Nona
walks out and pats him on the back. “Good,
you are here. Go inside and help carry those wine cases, yes?”

“If you change
your mind, dollface,” Eddie
winks as he goes into the restaurant.

“Shoo!”
Nona says and
turns to me, shaking her head. “That
kid…” She
looks up at me from under her dyed red bangs. “You
doing okay, sweetheart? You know Eddie’s
harmless.”

“I know, Nona.
It’s
not that. I guess I’m
just nervous about the internship.”
I glance at
my phone again.

“They will
call, Gracie. They will.”

I say the thing I’ve
been thinking since before I even got dressed this morning. “But
what if I’m
just not good enough? What if I’ll
never be good enough?”

“Oh, honey.”
She hugs me.

I hold back tears.
“I’ve
been trying and trying all year and this is my one and only shot. No
one else was even interested.”

“You are
strong and talented,” Nona
says. “But
even more than that, you are determined, just like your mom.”
She sits on
an overturned wooden crate. “I
will never forget the first time I saw your mother, and you. You must
have been about two years old, and you were throwing a real fit,
screaming and thrashing in your stroller. Your mom came in,
desperate, and asked for milk. Giovanni took one look at you and told
her we had something better. He brought out a plate of cannoli—sweet
cream calmed my Carmella when she was a baby—and
you shut right up and stuffed your face.”
She laughs
her rolling guffaw and I can’t
help but join in, even though I’ve
heard this story a hundred times. It always makes me feel close to my
mom.

“Your mom was
so grateful, even though you were covered in sugar and crumbs,
because you finally stopped crying. After that, she visited us every
time you two came into the city. I learned how strong she was, how
hard she worked on her own to give you a good safe home. She did not
once give up, and you have that, too.”

Now I can’t
help the tears. “I
wish she could be here,” I
whisper. “I
wish—”

Nona reaches up to
touch my cheek. “She
loved you, Gracie. And love never dies.”

At
the end of my shift I give the kitchen staff their share of my tips
and leave to another round of “Way
to go” and
“You’re
gonna be a star” and
“Don’t
forget us when you’re
famous” plus
a kiss from Nona. “Don’t
you worry,” she
says as I head home – right
up the stairs behind Giovanni’s
to the apartment on the top floor.