occasionally wished she were an artist. The hideous behavior of artists was so often excused because of their occupation. Financial planners, on the other hand, weren’t given much leeway in throwing fits and living irresponsibly.
She had brought up the thought of retirement because she could see that, at the rate Nataly was going, she would be impoverished at sixty. Because she could predict that if he wasn’t stopped, her father would permanently destroy her mother’s credit and all her dreams of security. Because she knew Sylvia was on a sinking ship, with two little girls.
Two little girls. What was that like? What could that have been like?
Nataly had already trampled her heart with all the force and skill of a flamenco dancer. Celeste retreated, exiling herself even further from her family, beyond her own borders. Would Sylvia ever dare to ask Jack about the money? Cada loca con su tema. Every crazy has her thing. Celeste’s craziness was that every word and every deed reverberated into the future.
She sipped the last of the wine. That had been a decent bottle of wine, Celeste thought, glancing up at the clock. Just 9:30. Where had she picked it up, anyway?
Tuesday afternoon. As Nataly ironed the white shirt until the collar and cuffs were crisp, she recalled visiting her father’s restaurant when she was eleven, trailing Sylvia and Celeste, a few steps behind their mother. Nataly watched as the waiters inspected her sisters out of the corners of their eyes. Nataly was somehow invisible. So she improvised with a cartwheel. And it would have been just fine, except that her sneaker collided with a tray table full of salads.
Nataly slipped into the black polyester pants she hated—except that they hugged her just right—and headed to work. She supported her artistic ambitions and addictions by working in a swank restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. Rimsky’s was proud of its vodka selections and Californian-Continental cuisine. It was occasionally featured in national magazines and catered to a glamorous clientele. She had once waited on Brad Pitt, who had left her a fabulous tip. (But she hadn’t wanted his tip, had she really? She wanted her work on his walls. She wanted him to see her as the artist she was, not the server she was forced to play).
Nataly had refined her serving skills as she put herself through Otis, then CalArts. She started out at a coffee shop, then worked at a steak house, where she grew familiar with complicated drinks and menus. She got her current job through her friend Yesenia. Nataly vowed that when she made it, when her stuff was selling, she would have Rimsky’s cater the event. She pictured the enormous specialty vodkas encased in blocks of ice, decorated with leaves or flowers or twigs. A few nervous and frighteningly thin young women would circulate with the blinis, crème fraiche and salmon caviar. They would carry trays of vegetable pirozhkis. The guests at her gallery opening would mirror precisely the glamorous clientele she waited on here.
She’d show them. In the meantime, there didn’t seem to be a particularly high demand for the intricate, labor-intensive textile work that Nataly loved to create. At Rimsky’s, Nataly appreciated the delightful allure of the place, especially during a quiet moment. The bar was sleek, shiny and intoxicating in its promise, the dining area quietly opulent with its floral accents and towering wine glasses. The table linens were crisp, gleaming and luscious to the touch. Everything was there to satisfy the whim of its clients. It was the product of the hidden work of undocumented busboys and immigrant cooks. There was a connection to her textile work, Nataly knew, a connection between invisible labor and exquisite presentation.
Eric, the manager, kept asking her out. She had made the mistake of accepting once during a lonely dry spell and sleeping with him. She had felt absolutely nothing. Pleasant looking fellow, tall, black hair tied back into a short, neat ponytail. He had five different pairs of glasses and was a few years older than her—thirty-four or thirty-five. But completely ordinary. Boring. That was the worst thing Nataly could think to say about anyone or anything. The ordinary life was not worth living. No, worse was trying to pass as ordinary. Look at her sisters, Celeste. Sylvia. Look at her mother. Shit. Look at herself.
But, besides that, Eric would never mix with her friends. He could make the effort, but her friends wouldn’t let him in. She had tried one night at Yesenia’s, and it was a disaster. A few of the men and women from Otis kept asking him what he did outside of his day job, and he kept insisting managing restaurants was what he wanted to do. Eric had mortified Nataly by revealing to her crowd that his ambition in life was to own a restaurant with an A-list clientele.
Nataly pulled her Altima onto the road. What kind of dream was that? It rankled her.
She knew the restaurant business from years of watching her father manage his C-list clientele. And what was her name? Jeannie? Jolene? Earlene?—that nasal-voiced, beady-eyed waitress bitch who was always calling their house and pretending it was a wrong number. Even now, she burned a hateful smoky orange at the memory of those phone calls.
Nataly could apply for a grant. Lots of paperwork, lots of photographs, lots of networking with the people in charge of nominating, choosing and disbursing. The thought of begging for financial support on paper made her skin crawl, as if she were disrobing in front of them to gawk. She’d rather wait tables. There the contract was clear. Besides, when you were a server, you were an aesthetic object all by yourself.
Nataly arrived at work. She dropped her keys in her bag, tucked her purse safely away, said hello to the busboys. By her reckoning, it had been six months. Maybe another six months, max, and she could strike out living on her art alone. Maybe book that tentative New York showing with Yesenia. October in New York City. What would they wear?
“Vodka gimlet, Belvedere vodka, please,” said the natty-looking gentleman. Late 30s, early 40s, hair cropped close but stylish to disguise the fact that his hairline was receding. His rugged face hinted at interesting experiences and immediately appealed to her. For a moment, she wondered how that face would feel alongside her own. For just a moment.
She was thinking how cool and low his voice was when she brought him the drink, misjudged and spilled the whole thing on his lap. This was her job. This was her rent! This was the trip to the New York galleries with Yesenia. Her entire future lay in a glass of spilled ice and alcohol.
The customer shook his head. “I’d like to speak to the manager,” he said, dabbing with his cloth napkin.
This only intensified her personal misery. She gave her friend Eric a pleading look, then sent him over to table 12. Nataly hid in the kitchen.
Eric came back, his face impassive. “The client at 12 wants to speak with you.”
I will go out with a swagger, Nataly thought. She walked tall and straight and smiled sincerely, apologetically.
“It was all my fault,” the gentleman said looking up at her, staring intently into her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“You’re very kind,” she said, with much less swagger, looking away. There was something very intense in his face. Something challenging, very masculine and slightly mocking, very attractive. Good grief, now they were conspirators. They had an understanding. This could be the start of something.
Then she noticed the wedding band. And all she could do was to repeat herself, “Very kind. May I take your order?”
Chapter 4
It was the end of a bright sparkling March day. Celeste sat at her favorite Italian restaurant in San Jose having a glass of wine with Victor Resnick. “Thank you, Victor, once again, for the referrals. It’s been a very lucrative year.”
Victor waved his hand and sipped at his wine. “It embarrasses me that you feel you need to bring me here and thank me. You do both me and your clients a service. Who else am I going to send them to?”
He said that with his familiar lopsided grin. When most men his age seemed to be losing their hair, his kept sprouting out into impossibly militant curls. How many times had Celeste thought her life would be so much simpler if only she could conjure the necessary erotic feelings