“Sorry, Ben!” I flashed an apologetic smile to the pastry chef.
“Cutting it close, huh?” he asked as he pushed the cart safely past me.
“I think we both are,” I pointed out. Most of the Green Room should already be ready for the reception.
Ben shook his head, his wide mouth curving into a grin. “I know better than to leave chocolate unguarded for too long around you people.”
“That’s fair,” I agreed with him. Nearly anyone who worked in the events business long enough had perfected the skill of pilfering off catering trays and artfully rearranging them to hide the evidence. No chocolate tart was safe around this crew.
Most of the people here worked for the catering company connected to the San Francisco War Memorial and Performing Arts Center. The complex hosted the city’s ballet, symphony, and opera, as well as a veteran’s memorial. With some of the largest and most beautiful buildings in the Bay Area, more social events happened here than performances. These days, weddings and galas did more to shore up the center’s expenses than productions of Swan Lake or symphony orchestras. That’s why I was here. Not because I worked in catering, but because the string quartet needed a cellist.
I continued to the kitchen instead of the dressing room. The only thing I needed more than an extra five minutes was a cup of coffee. It was the only way I was going to keep myself from nodding off midway through the gig. I propped my case outside the kitchen and sneaked inside, doing my best to stay out of the way. I only got as far as the coffee maker before I got caught.
“Don’t even think about it.” A kitchen towel smacked the counter near my hand. “I’m cutting you off.”
I froze, my hand still poised to grab the pot, as Molly, the head chef–director of catering and keeper of coffee–stepped between me and my fix. I blinked innocently as if she hadn’t caught me stealing coffee in a bustling kitchen.
“I didn’t have any coffee today,” I lied.
“Try again.” Molly crossed her arms and glared. Her corkscrew curls were pulled into tight pigtails with a handkerchief tied over them to keep her hair out of the food. She always wore it that way, along with her chef’s jacket and checked pants. The handkerchief was the only thing that ever changed. Today’s was crimson paisley. “You’re practically vibrating. How much caffeine have you had?”
“Okay, I had a latte on the BART.” I paused, hoping she would move away from the machine. She didn’t budge. “And a cup before I left my apartment.” The two I had after my shift at the diner didn’t count. That had technically been last night.
“Two, huh?” She swept one more suspicious look over me as if she was checking some invisible meter on my forehead. “You have more caffeine than water in your bloodstream. I’ll brew some decaf.”
“No! Death before decaf! Have mercy,” I begged. “I got stuck with a double last night.”
Molly sighed heavily before moving out of my way. She talked a good game, but she hadn’t won on this topic yet. I didn’t waste a second swiping the pot and pouring a mug. Breathing in its rich aroma, I felt my energy level instantly boost.
“You need to quit that waitressing job,” Molly said, turning to nitpick a platter. She rearranged the garnish and nodded her approval. The server disappeared in the direction of the event space.
“And retire with my trust fund on my yacht?” I asked with a laugh. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Molly’s mouth compressed into a line–the way it did when she was about to deliver a real truth bomb–the kind that usually consisted of practical advice backed up by facts and logic. We both knew that making a living as a musician was a long shot. I didn’t know how to get her to see that I loved music like she loved food. It wasn’t my fault that cellists weren’t nearly as in demand as award-winning chefs. “You can’t keep going at this pace, Thea.”
“I just have to keep paying my dues,” I reminded her. It was something I told her–and myself–a lot.
“Well, make sure you get a receipt for those dues.” Molly rolled her eyes and began arranging oysters on a silver platter of ice.
Between last night’s double, two hours of sleep, classes, and not enough coffee, I’d failed to even look at the text I’d gotten about this evening’s event.
“Is this some corporate party?” I guessed, hoping it wouldn’t be a quiet affair that ended in me falling asleep with my cello between my legs.
“I guess. Derek is being ridiculously vague. You should have seen the menu requests I got.”
“Gluten-free?” I guessed. Molly hated having restrictions placed on her art–as she put it–and distrusted people with dietary restrictions.
She shook her head with a grimace.
I braced myself. “Vegans?”
“Worse,” she said in a lowered voice, and I stilled. I couldn’t imagine what diet could place more restrictions on her than vegans unless they were some unfortunate mixture of gluten-free vegans with allergies. “They wanted to forego the catering altogether.”
Given the high demand for events, the center charged a hefty rental fee and required a catering order minimum. But I knew this wasn’t about money. Not for Molly. “Don’t they know you are a genius?”
“Derek told them.” She seemed relieved I felt the same, but then she shook her head. “In the end, they wanted caviar, oysters, foie gras, steak tartare, and a bunch of pastries even Ben had never heard of.”
“What uncivilized animals,” I teased as I sipped coffee. “What’s wrong with those things?”
“There’s hardly any cooking for me. Sure, Ben gets to bake, but what am I supposed to do with a practically raw food menu. I mean, if that’s what they want, why not just open a bag of chips and throw it in a bowl?”
“Clearly, they have no taste.”
“It was just weird. Who wants to have a cocktail party without appetizers?” She huffed. “At least, they have expensive taste. They went from no catering bill to like six figures in ten minutes. Anyway, I’d brace for a very high-maintenance crowd.”
“They rarely demand much of the cellist,” I reassured her. Molly nodded, distracted by a passing tray of toasted baguette slices topped with black caviar. Meanwhile, I seized the opportunity to top off my mug before checking my watch. “I better go get ready.”
“You better hurry,” she said absently, adding, “and switch to decaf. You’re going to stunt your growth!”
I laughed as I picked up my cello case, watching her turn to fuss over another tray. Molly loved to tell me that, but I doubted I had any more growth left in me at twenty-two. I was precisely a third of an inch past five feet, coffee or not. Most of the time, people thought I was a kid. Even people who knew me seemed to struggle to remember that I was an adult in her final semester at Lassiter University. It was annoying but well-intentioned. Plus, my height meant I could wear any shoes I pleased and never be taller than my date. Not that I had any time to date between my job at the diner, gigs, and practice. The only action I got was in my dreams. At least, when I found time to sleep.
I walked carefully out of the kitchen, afraid to knock over any catering carts in her presence. Stepping through the large oak doors that separated the workers from the party, I turned the corner and ducked into a cramped room. The support area served as a place for us hired event musicians to prep for the event. The mismatched furniture had been shoved to one corner to give the four of us enough room to move. Usually this space was reserved for brides and filled with flowers and tulle and lace. Right now, it looked like someone had shoved a bunch of adults into a closet.
I took one last swallow and braced myself for a long night.
“I’m here!” I checked my watch to see that we weren’t due to set up in the ballroom for another five minutes. I got blank nods from Sam and Jason, who were more focused on their violins than on my arrival. Sam had retired from the symphony years ago and played for fun. Like me, Jason was hoping a spot opened for a full-time seat with the orchestra soon. Since we didn’t play the same instrument, we’d avoided becoming rivals. Mostly. I couldn’t say the same for the fourth member of our ensemble. She saw every musician, regardless of their instrument, as competition.
Our fourth, Carmen D’Alba, had staked a claim on the small dressing table and mirror, more focused on checking her appearance than her viola. She strained to inspect herself in the room’s dim lighting. She always looked more like a guest than the entertainment. Today was no exception. She wore a strapless black gown that swept the floor and her thick black hair up in a graceful twist. There was a raw, unapologetic sensuality to her. Her figure, soft and curving, matched her full lips, which were painted a vivid red that contrasted with her olive skin. Carmen was the second chair for the city’s symphony orchestra. I’d never had the guts to ask her why she moonlighted with our quartet for events, and she had never offered the information.
