Fry Another Day

I was certainly interested in being called the best food Mobile had to offer. I knew getting into the two weeks leading up to Mardi Gras was hard. There were thousands of people there every year for the events.

“Yes. I’d love to be there. Thank you for asking.”

She handed me her card. “Just give me a call or text me. I’ll send you an invitation. The food truck race has been so exciting, especially having someone at the head of the pack from Mobile. Good job, Zoe!”

“Thanks. It’s been a lot of fun.”

“Except, of course for the deaths and the other problems,” she said. “What a bother those were.”

Bother wasn’t the word I would’ve used, but I wasn’t going to argue with someone recruiting for carnival. I didn’t agree, either, but our quick conversation was over. She had moved on to someone else.

I saw my mother’s face on dozens of campaign buttons before I saw her coming toward me. No button or poster could do justice to her perfect blond hair or dazzling, intense blue eyes. She was determined to be a judge, and I knew what that meant—look out other people ru

I knew she’d be here. Anabelle Chase was at all the important social functions around the city even before she began ru

“Zoe!” She air-kissed my cheek. “It’s so good to see you home and in one piece.”

“Thanks, Mom. How’s the campaign going?”

“I think I’ll be a judge by this fall.” She walked up close to me. “That dress is a little short for you, don’t you think?”

I looked at my hemline, which seemed reasonable to me. “No. I think it looks fine.”

She tried a shrimp canapé. “You might want to toss that old thing out and reinvest in something nice if you’re going to big parties like this one. I’ll be glad to take you shopping if you’re low on cash.”

“Thanks.” I loved how she always said these things in ways that were meant to undermine my confidence. Sometimes they still rankled. I knew she couldn’t help it. My mother was competitive with everyone.

Not that I was going to let what she said bother me tonight. This was my night, my success. Oddly enough, the success she was so sure I would never achieve when I started my food truck.

“So the race ends tomorrow?” Her expressive eyes swept across the room to see who was there. “You’ve done very well. I hope you win, honey.”

Like she even knows what that means. “Thanks, Mom.”

Sam, her discreet assistant, came up close to us. He had a small camera—nothing too obvious. He was a nice man, as had been the other thirty or so personal assistants I could recall. There was a certain type my mother liked to work with.

“Hi, Zoe. Congratulations on doing so well in the race!”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Maybe you two could move in closer and hold your glasses up, like you’re toasting something,” he suggested in a quiet tone.

“Of course.” My mother was almost jolly in her quest for a judgeship. “Zoe, honey?”

I moved in close, as Sam had suggested, and we even put our arms around each other.

He took several carefully considered shots and then stood back. “Maybe you should eat something, Anabelle. I could take pictures of you eating with your daughter.”

My mother moved her arm away and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t want pictures of me eating food in the media. Let’s find Chef Art. I need some pictures with him.”

“See you later.” I waved as she walked away.

“Bye, Zoe,” Sam said as she dragged him with her. “Good luck tomorrow!”

I thanked him but he was already gone. I took a deep breath, knowing my father would be around here, too.

He wasn’t ru

It would’ve been hard to find two brothers—him and Uncle Saul—that were more different.

I looked down at my phone when it buzzed. It was finally a text from Miguel.

I read it eagerly, but the news wasn’t good. Miguel said he’d decided that he wanted to be with Tina and that he wasn’t going to finish the race. He was sorry, but there was no point in letting me think he cared about me when he didn’t.

What?

I read it again, thinking I may have mistaken his meaning.

That was it. And he’d texted me to say it. Not even a phone call.

THIRTY

I walked around like a zombie in the crowded rooms until I reached the front door again. I was exhausted, on the verge of tears, and ready to leave.

“Where are you going, Zoe?” Chef Art stopped me before I could walk outside.

“Home.”

“Not yet. What about di

I looked at him in his tiny black string tie and burst into tears. I was never particularly good at hiding my emotions. My mother had never been able to teach me that trick, though she’d tried hard enough.

“Good heavens!” Chef Art put his arm around my shoulders, and his burly bodyguard parted the crowd before us like Moses parting the Red Sea.

He led me to a small sitting room that was done in pretty shades of blue and white. I knew from a childhood of following my mother around to antique fairs that the furnishings looked shabby, but they were all very expensive.

“Now sit down and tell me about it.” He handed me a clean, white handkerchief and sat back to light the biggest cigar I had ever seen.

I told him all about me and Miguel and trashed Tina. My words weren’t pleasant but at least they were G-rated.

Someone knocked at the door. The bodyguard opened it and my dad walked in. He was dressed in his old tuxedo, the one I’d seen him wear dozens of times. The look on his face made me start crying again.

He came over and put his arms around me. “What in the world is wrong, Zoe?”

I sobbed into his white shirt and gave him the details. By that time, I was all cried out.

I had been stupid to think Miguel was interested in me as something besides a client. I was even more stupid to think he and Tina were only friends after the way she’d acted with him.

Why am I so darn naive?

My father sat down and held my hand. I had always thought he was a handsome man. Now he was very distinguished with his year-round tan and close-cut hair. While my mother had always pointed out the right and wrong way to do things, my father was my heart.

There was another knock on the door. I hoped this wasn’t a cameraman who wanted to film my breakdown and hear my story again. The bodyguard opened the door, and Uncle Saul came in.

“I heard you all were in here,” he said. “How are you doing, Chef Art? Hello, Ted! What’s going on?”

“Tina and Miguel are together.” I abbreviated the tale and took out the tears.

“Sorry, Zoe.” He sat down, too. “I guess I should’ve spent time with you working on Miguel instead of helping Ollie with Delia.”

I sniffed. “Although that worked. Did you see them together?”

I certainly didn’t want my uncle giving me pointers on relationships.

My father admired Chef Art’s big cigar. Chef Art gave him and my uncle cigars, too. They lit them, and the smoke filled the room. The three of them started talking about something going on in Mobile politics. I was completely forgotten.

That was okay. I wanted to get out of there. I was going to stay for di