Once upon a time in the far distant past—or, more specifically, before last week—the Meatpacking District had been one of Carina’s favorite neighborhoods. With Lizzie and Hudson at her side on a Saturday afternoon, she’d hit Martin Meloy, Diane von Furstenberg, and Stella McCartney, and then pop into Pastis for a café au lait and pain au chocolat. Now as she walked through the rain into the triangle of cobblestoned streets, her plastic umbrella threatening to blow apart in the wind at any moment, she felt like those days had been part of someone else’s life. Someone else’s extremely fun, extremely lucky life.
She tried to ignore the store windows as she walked toward Café Luz, but the pull was too great. At Catherine Malandrino, she marched right up to the glass and looked inside. A blond girl about her age was trying on a beautiful, fluttery, purple baby doll dress. Standing in front of the mirror, she turned around and around as the hem of her dress twirled up around her knees and the white price tag swung innocently from its safety pin.
Carina stepped closer, almost pressing her nose to the glass. She could practically feel the silk on her skin and smell that new-clothes scent. She wanted that dress. She needed that dress. It would have looked even prettier on her. Then her eyes drifted over to the display in the window. On one of the silver mannequins was the yellow halter top. Her yellow halter top. It was still beautiful, still in style, still perfect for her in every way…
Get a grip on yourself, she thought as she turned around and stomped back out into the rain. It was just clothes, for God’s sake. Nothing important, and nothing she couldn’t live without. But they were important. Inside her stomach she felt a strange, gnawing void, as if she were denying herself a piece of cake. Maybe she really had liked to buy stuff. Maybe the Jurg had been right about her.
But no, he hadn’t been right about her at all because here she was, on her way to meet with Filippo Mucci, chef extraordinaire, for the Snowflake Ball. When Filippo had heard that she was trying to reach him through the manager at Café Luz, he called her right back and told her that she absolutely had to come down to the restaurant, where he’d meet with her in person. She had a good feeling about this. And with any luck she’d get to eat.
She crossed the street and walked toward Café Luz, a tiny white carriage house from the nineteenth century that had been converted into a den of fabulousnesss. Even in the rain a small crowd of people waited outside for a table. Only Filippo’s latest restaurant would have a line at five thirty in the afternoon.
“Good evening, can I help you?” asked the maître d’ when she walked into the restaurant. He wore a dark suit and tie, and his shaved head shone in the candlelight. Behind him, Carina could make out a tiny, candlelit space with only about a dozen tables, all of which were filled. No wonder those people were waiting outside, she thought. This place was the size of her closet.
“Yes, I’m here to see Filippo. I’m Carina Jurgensen.”
“Please, this way,” he said, beckoning her toward a tiny vacant table for two that she hadn’t noticed. “Filippo will be right out. But while you’re waiting he’d like you to try some sample appetizers first.”
“Wonderful!” she said a little too loudly.
After the maître d’ had shown her to her seat, she took a look around. The gold-painted walls and wooden tables and chairs gave Café Luz a rustic feel, like being in a Tuscan farmhouse, but the small saucers of greenish olive oil and woven silk place mats screamed high-end New York. And the smell of butter and garlic wafting from the kitchen definitely wasn’t cheap, either.
Suddenly a tall waiter in a black T-shirt and jeans arrived with a plate of tiny bacon-wrapped goodies. “The pancetta-wrapped dates,” he said, placing them in front of her.
Quickly she speared one with a fork and popped it in her mouth. The taste was rich and sweet, with an irresistible gooeyness. They had to get these for the party. Before she knew it, she’d eaten all of them.
Like magic, the waiter appeared again. “Tuna tartare on crispy tortilla chips with avocado,” he announced.
Carina looked down at the mounds of raw tuna topped with a dollop of avocado and said a small prayer to the gods of luxury. She cleared the plate in a matter of seconds. Another definite, she thought. People were going to love those.
The waiter returned. “And now,” he said dramatically, “our famous macaroni and cheese.” He put the plate down in front of her with an extra flourish. “White cheddar, Gorgonzola, Gouda, and Parmesan. Topped with shaved black truffles.” He took out a small bowl of what looked like large raisins and sprinkled some on top. “Buon appetito,” he said with dead seriousness, and disappeared.
Carina dug right into the bubbling casserole. As she took her first bite, there was an explosion of cheese and buttery goodness on her tongue. This was possibly the best macaroni and cheese she’d ever had in her life. Ever.
She opened the menu that she’d put aside and scanned it for the macaroni and cheese. It was fifty-five dollars. She almost stopped chewing in shock.
“Buona sera, Carina.” The round, Santa-bellied Filippo Mucci stood next to her table and held out his arms for a hug. He was the size of a small bear, but his thin brown hair tied back in a punkish ponytail and his constantly twinkling brown eyes put her at ease.
“So you like?” he asked, pointing a meaty hand at her quickly disappearing plate of mac and cheese.
“This is incredible,” she gushed. “We’re going to definitely want this.”
“Bene,” he said, clapping his hands. “So. How many people are we talking about?”
“About two hundred,” she said.
Filippo squinted his eyes and cocked his head for a moment. “Okay!” he cried. “Let’s do it!”
She grabbed his hand with relief. “Oh, you’ve saved my life, you have no idea.”
“Don’t worry about anything, my Carina, we do this and make it benissimo,” he said grandly, spreading his arms wide.
“Except you know this is a benefit,” she said carefully, “and the food would have to be, um, donated—”
Filippo shook his head. “Please, please, I know. That is no problem. But my Carina,” he said, holding on to her hand, “do you think you can do me a favor?”
“Sure,” she said. “What?”
Filippo’s gentle brown eyes began to look pained. “The last time I cook for your father… last spring… for his birthday, ricordi?”
“Yes, I remember,” she said, uncertain what this was all about.
“There was a problem with the bill,” he said in a lower voice. “My business partner, he overcharged your father—by mistake!—and now…” Filippo hung his head. “I invited him to the opening here but he didn’t respond. I’m afraid he’ll no longer use me. Ever again.”
She hadn’t heard about this, but she believed it. The Jurg did not like to be overcharged. “I’m sorry, Filippo, but I really don’t know anything about it—”
“If I do this party for you, do you think your father will use me again?” he asked, grabbing her hand. His eyes were as large and imploring as a baby deer’s.
Carina looked back at him, unsure what to say. If she said yes, he would do the food, Ava would be happy, and Carina could at least check one thing off her interminable to-do list. But she couldn’t do that. Her father wasn’t the type to change his mind about someone, especially if he thought they’d tried to cheat him.
“I’m so sorry, Filippo,” she said, pulling her hand away. “But I can’t say for sure that he will.”
Filippo’s eyes filled with disappointment. “I will do it anyway,” he said with a stoic nod. “It is my pleasure!”
“No, Filippo, that’s okay,” she said, pushing her chair back and standing up. “And I’d say that I’d put in a good word for you, but my opinion doesn’t mean a whole lot right now with my dad.”
She could barely look at his crestfallen face. It was killing her to turn him down, but she knew that she was doing the right thing.
Filippo looked up at her with astonishment. “But you’re leaving?” he asked. “No, please, you must stay! Do you like zabaglione?”
“I can’t. But thank you. The food was amazing. I enjoyed it more than you know.”
With both hands on the table, Filippo helped himself to his feet with some difficulty. “Please tell your father he’s always welcome here,” he said sadly. “I’ll even close the restaurant for him.”
“I will,” she said, even though she knew that her father didn’t deserve such an extravagant favor. Then she picked up her umbrella and headed for the door.
So Lizzie had been right, she thought as she slipped past the maître d’s podium. She should never have tried to score favors using her dad’s name. No wonder Filippo had given her a meeting right away: he just wanted to rectify things with her dad. And Matty had just wanted another six-figure gig. These people didn’t care about her. They didn’t really even care about her dad. They cared about his money. For some reason, she’d never figured that out until now. From now on, she was going to have to plan this party on her own.
She stepped outside. The pattering rain had become a storm. As she tried to open her flimsy umbrella, a gust of wind turned it inside out and cold rain splattered her face.
“Ugh!” she said out loud. This whole trip downtown had been for nothing, and all she wanted to do right now was go home, take a nice hot shower, and then meet up with Carter.
But she still needed a DJ. She dug into her bag and pulled out Alex’s wrinkled flyer. She still had no clue where East Broadway was, but right now, DJ Alexx was her only chance.
The wind suddenly snapped her umbrella back into place. Hudson would have said that was a sign. Maybe this time, she thought as she made her way back down to the cobblestones, it was.