Storming back inside the house, I shout out for mom and dad. When I reach the living room dad shoots up from the sofa, dropping his newspaper to the floor. “Mel?”

“Where’s mom?”

“She went to Barbara’s for coffee. You seem flustered. Everything all right?”

I claw at my forehead. “No, everything is not all right. I’m gonna kill her.”

“Oh dear, what has she done now?”

“Interfered.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s only gone and given that chef next door my resume.”

Dad narrows his eyes. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

I straighten up like an arrow. “No, dad, no it is not.”

He smirks.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.” He holds his hands out in front of him. “Melanie, just . . . calm down. What happened?”

“Vincent spoke to me while I was toping up my tan.”

Dad looks lost.

“He said he wants me on his team,” I say.

“Wow! That’s great.”

“Is it? You don’t have to produce a taste test for him.”

Dad closes the space between us and removes his spectacles. “Angel, you’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you or mom ever consult me on anything?”

“Consult you?”

“The job application just now . . . the interview at the college I never chose . . . this is my life, dad. It would be nice to at least talk about stuff before you make plans behind my back.”

He exhales. “First of all, I had no idea your mother spoke with the neighbor about you. And second, so what?”

I frown. “So what?”

“You have a great opportunity there. Grab it with both hands.”

“How do you know what a great opportunity is?”

“You like the chef, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to be a chef. I mean a real chef . . . no pancakes and burger patties?”

“Well, yeah . . . but . . .” I hesitate.

“Then you should thank your mother when you see her later.”

Dad walks back to his paper, scoops it up off the floor, and sits back down like we never had this conversation.

I stare at him for a moment—speechless, but actually in quiet agreement for once. I hate to admit it to myself, but maybe this is a good thing?

Strike that, maybe this is an awesome thing.

My stomach trips when I imagine Vincent’s face as he tucks into my creation, whatever that will be. I vividly remember season four of ‘De Luca’s Food School’ on the Home channel. On episode seven, some poor girl from Gainesville rustled up a classic salmon tartare. It’s a simple dish on paper, but instead of the fish she used turkey. I wasn’t sure if it was by design or just some major fuck-up, but it didn’t go down well. Vincent’s face turned fire-red. I’ve never seen an outburst with as many cuss words in my life—and that’s saying something as I’m an avid fan of ‘Cheaters.’

I turn on my heel and make my way to the kitchen. Looking up at the clock on the wall I note that I have four hours to come up with the perfect plate. Working for Vincent De Luca could really be the making of me, but if I don’t past the first hurdle then I may have to seriously consider a new career path. The idea of spending even a quarter of the time working for Mickey’s that Billy has makes me queasy.

* * *

With a seriously limited selection of groceries stocked up in my parent’s refrigerator, I’ve no choice but to keep my test simple. I’ve made a salmon tartare. Yep, the same dish that the unlucky gal made on Vincent’s TV show. Hopefully his reaction to my version will be very different.

As I cover the dish with a second plate, mom comes back from her extended coffee morning. She’s been out all day—thank god, as she always has a habit of hanging over my shoulder when I cook at home—but already she’s taking an interest in my test.

I shoot her a disapproving look. I’m not mad anymore, in fact I’m feeling pretty happy with my simple yet elegant offering, but I still want her to know that I thought it was shady of her to go behind my back. But, as usual, she softens my mood by giving me a warm smile.

“Your dad told me you have to make a test for Vincent,” she says.

“Yep. Just finished.”

“What have you made?”

I pause.

“Well?” she presses. “Show me.”

I slowly lift off the top plate and turn the dish toward her.

“Are you taking that?”

“Yeah.” My brow pinches as I study her face. “Why?”

She angles her head and squints.

“What?” I suddenly feel my original anger creep up again.

“It’s just—”

“What, mom?”

“Don’t you think it would’ve been better to take over a main?”

I huff. “Mom, I had to do the best I could with what we had.”

She drops her house keys inside a fruit bowl and sighs. “I know. I really should do some shopping. You could have sent your dad.”

“He’s busy in the garage.”

I can see by the set of mom’s jaw that dad fooling around in his man-cave, when he could be doing any number of Sunday household jobs, rubs her up the wrong way.

I look up at the clock on the wall. “I better grab a quick shower and take this over.”

As I walk past mom, she reaches out for my arm. “Honey . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Good luck. I know my baby will impress.”

I snort. “Whatever.”

She squeezes my arm a little firmer and levels her gaze to mine. “I mean it. I’m so proud of you, honey.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re so soft sometimes.”

“I can’t help it. You’re my only child.”

“And I’m twenty-four.”

She stands back and looks me up and down. “And what an amazing woman you’ve grown up to be . . . talented, independent . . . beautiful.”

“Okay, you can stop now.”

She grins.

As I make my way upstairs for my shower, I smile to myself. Mom’s a handful sometimes but it’s nice to hear those things from her. In spite of everything, my parents give me the courage to fool myself into thinking I can really do this for a career. But although it’s a reassuring feeling to have my folks on side, it’s also a great pressure—a great pressure which now tears at my gut. It suddenly hits me that in a little under an hour the chef of all chefs will be placing a mouthful of my food into his mouth.