I decide to take Paige’s advice and spend the afternoon shopping at stores whose price tags usually make me hyperventilate. I have to talk myself down from fleeing right back to H&M - if I’m going to be taken seriously as someone who belongs in this world, then I need to look the part. So I grit my teeth, steel myself (and my credit card), and do what needs to be done.
Three hours and a few hundred dollars later, I’m standing in front of my mirror, staring at the reflection of someone who doesn’t look like me. Or is this some alternate version of me: cultured, sophisticated. Dare I say glamorous? It may be the new heels. These strappy things cost enough to buy my groceries for a month, but they’re hot. And high. And I kind of love them.
My new black strapless gown is silky and sexy, and makes me feel like a movie star getting ready for the red carpet. The cost made me wince, but to my relief, it won’t bankrupt me – not anymore. St. Clair paid me a generous retainer, an advance on my first paycheck, I guess, and it’s more than I ever imagined earning all those nights I served spaghetti and meatballs downstairs. More than enough for a new dress and shoes, a cute clutch purse, and a fancy hairstyle from the blow-dry bar down the block.
Now that I look the part, I have to make sure I act it, too. I don’t want to let St. Clair down- or myself. I have the chance of a lifetime here, and I want to savor every moment of it.
I hear raised voices from the restaurant downstairs, the di Fiores in full form. Then I catch a British accent and realize St. Clair must be here. My heart flips. I give myself one last look in the mirror, remind myself again that I can do this, and then head down Giovanni’s.
I follow the commotion and find him literally surrounded by di Fiores—the owners Nona and Giovanni as well as their daughter Carmella and her husband Fred, plus Cousin Eddie, all talking to him at once at a decibel level normal ears would find nearly deafening.
“Guys,” I say, but no one hears me over Fred asking St. Clair for investment advice and Eddie showing off his biceps. “Come on, man, how much can you bench?”
“Hello!” I yell at full volume.
They all turn.
Eddie whistles, Nona claps her hands together in delight, but St. Clair’s is the only reaction I care about. His eyes widen a little, and then they take on a new smoky intensity.
I feel like the only woman in the world.
St. Clair’s still gaze gets the chatty Italian family that has welcomed me into their lives to slowly quiet down and all turn to me.
“Hi,” I say nervously.
Nona beams. “Our little Gracie, all grown up.”
I walk toward them, a little uneasy in these new heels that are higher than I’m used to. St. Clair takes my arm, steadying me with his firm but warm grip. “It was wonderful to meet you all, but we have dinner reservations.”
Giovanni steps in our way. “Dinner where? Nowhere in the city has better food than here. You stay, eat.” He claps twice and a waiter appears to set the prize table at the front of the house, Nona and Giovanni’s throne.
St. Clair looks at me, questioning. I want him all to myself, but I don’t want to be rude to the di Fiores either. And I’m curious to see how Charles will stand up to their strong personalities (and what I know is hands down the best marinara sauce this side of the city).
“Let’s stay,” I decide. “If that’s okay?”
“Of course.” St. Clair smiles at me. “I’d love to get to know everyone.”
He puts his hand on the small of my back as he follows me to the table and a little shiver runs up my spine. I hope I can keep my blushing under control - something tells me that Nona will notice everything.
We take our seats, with Giovanni and Nona joining us at the table. Carmella and Fred head back to work, and Cousin Eddie lingers nearby, glaring at St. Clair.
Giovanni passes a basket of fresh-baked ciabatta rolls around the table. St. Clair takes a bite and his expression freezes. “Oh my God, this is the best bread I’ve ever had.”
Giovanni laughs, “Everyone says that.” He beams proudly.
Nona says, “It’s the biga- a secret starter yeast recipe I brought from my grandmother’s kitchen in Naples, over fifty years ago. That’s the secret of good bread, it’s all in the right ingredients. Like a marriage,” she adds, giving me a look.
St. Clair chews a big mouthful. “It’s delicious,” he says and I smile. He’s figured out the way to their hearts, food of course, and won them over. “So tell me about how you started the restaurant?” St. Clair asks. “This place is an institution, I hear.”
Giovanni launches into the history I’ve heard a hundred times, so I sit back, and try to relax. Still, it’s strange to have everyone around the same table. The di Fiores know me as their waitress and surrogate daughter, but St. Clair’s only seen the face I present to the world: polished and confident— or at least trying to be. I wonder briefly what he makes of them. The restaurant is a far cry from the five-star restaurants he’s used to, with its homey feel and rustic food. But soon Charles is talking enthusiastically about the unusual foods he tried in Italy, and Giovanni and Nona are laughing along.
He fits. Somehow, St. Clair has the ability to walk into any room and put people at ease. It’s not just shallow charm, it’s how he’s genuinely interested in everyone and wants to hear their stories.
Dinner flies by, and once the plates have been cleared, Giovanni raises his glass. “A toast to our Gracie and Charles, and their big night out.”
A chorus of “hear hear”s go around.
St. Clair smiles. “And to the bread!”
I glance down at my watch, mindful that St. Clair is a guest of honor at the benefit tonight. “We’d better get going,” I say, apologetic.
“Thank you so much for a lovely meal,” St. Clair says to the di Fiores, shaking Giovanni’s hand. He kisses Nona on the cheek and gives Eddie a friendly shoulder-grab that I’m pleased to see Eddie return in kind. “I hope to see you all again soon.”
“I’ll just get my wrap,” I tell him, and go to the cloakroom at the back of the restaurant. Nona follows me.
She looks up at me, the wrinkles in her face creased with concern. “You seem very…taken with this young man.”
I blush. “I really like him,” I confess.
“I can see that. But don’t let your heart get so swept up that you cannot see the ground anymore, okay?”
I’m surprised. Where is this coming from? “Nona, I’m fine.” I kiss the top of her head. “Thank you for looking out for me.”
“Just be sure that you don’t let the stars get in your eyes, Gracie, dear.” She squeezes my hand. “All that glitters...”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will,” she smiles gently.
I go to meet St. Clair by the doors, but I can’t help wondering if what Nona said is true. Is all this glitz going to blindside me into making bad decisions? Or even more troubling: has it already?
CHAPTER 3
When we arrive at the gala, I can’t believe the scene: it’s being hosted in the lobby of the new modern wing at the hospital, with a real-life red carpet and photographers lined up outside to snap the society arrivals. Camera lights flash and reporters toss out questions to the guests and I feel like a celebrity, walking up on St. Clair’s arm.
“Mr. St. Clair, over here!”
“Charles, a word!”
“St. Clair!”
He guides me smoothly past, pausing to talk about the great work the fundraisers did, and how many people the new wing will help.
“You’re so natural out there in front of all the press,” I say once we’re past the paparazzi.
His smile slips. “It’s part of the job,” he shrugs. “But to tell you the truth, it’s not my favorite. All the attention comes with the territory, but it’s a performance too.”