Chapter 4 - Seventeen Missed Calls
The first vibration shook the metal table at 7:02 PM.
*Incoming Call: Mom.*
I didn't touch it. Brooke and I sat on two wooden milk crates in the corner of the kitchen, eating cold leftover roasted potatoes and dipping them in garlic aioli out of a plastic quart container.
The screen flashed, buzzed against the steel top, went silent, and then lit up again immediately.
*Incoming Call: Mom.*
"That's two," Brooke said, chewing slowly.
At 7:14 PM, Sienna's name lit up the screen. Three calls in rapid succession. Then two text messages popped up in quick banners across the glass:
**Sienna:** *Paige where the hell is the sauce for the meat??? The banquet manager says there's only raw broth in the pans! Answer your phone!*
**Sienna:** *Mom said you took the keys to the transport warmers! Julian Vance is asking why dinner is forty minutes late! PAIGE!*
"She sounds stressed," Brooke remarked dryly, taking another sip of water. "Stress isn't good for her complexion. It might ruin her aesthetic."
At 7:30 PM, the phone rang again. Eleanor.
Then Sienna.
Then Eleanor.
Then a text from Eleanor:
**Mom:** *Paige Holloway, pick up this phone this instant! You are ruining your sister's life! If you do not bring that sauce reduction back to the St. Regis right now, I will never forgive you!*
"Ruining her life," I murmured, watching the text fade into black. "She spent twenty years letting Sienna walk on my spine, and I'm the one ruining her life."
By 8:05 PM, the phone had registered seventeen missed calls from Eleanor, six from Sienna, four from an unknown local number, and nine panicked voicemails.
I finally stood up, stretched my aching back, and picked up the device.
"Are you going to listen to them?" Brooke asked.
"Let's see how much my presence is worth to them now," I said.
I pressed play on the speakerphone.
The first voicemail from 7:18 PM was Eleanor, her voice strained, masking panic behind maternal authority:
*"Paige, darling, I know you were hurt earlier, but you must understand I was only thinking of your comfort. You were so tired! Please, bring the finishing sauce for the ribs. The hotel chefs tried to thicken the pan drippings with cornstarch and it turned into gray sludge. Mr. Vance took one bite and put his fork down. Call me immediately."*
Brooke snorted. "Gray sludge on dry-aged wagyu. Poetic justice."
I tapped the second voicemail, recorded at 7:42 PM.
This one was Sienna, completely hysterical, her breathing ragged:
*"Paige! Pick up! Pick up right now! The cake—the cake is sliding! We tried to wheel it toward the presentation podium for Julian's speech and the entire third tier tilted twenty degrees! One of the sugar roses fell into the mayor's wife's champagne glass! Vance asked me what the structural foundation was made of and I didn't know what to tell him! Mom is crying! You have to fix this! Get over here right now!"*
I let the recording end. The silence in my little commercial kitchen was absolute.
"You know," I said, looking out the back window at the steady drizzle falling on the asphalt, "for five thousand dollars and thirty-one hours of agony, I couldn't have bought a better show."
Suddenly, the phone in my hand rang again.
This time, the caller ID wasn't Eleanor or Sienna. It was a 212 area code—New York City.
I paused. Julian Vance’s investment firm was headquartered in Manhattan.
I slid my thumb across the green button and held the phone to my ear.
"Hello?" I said evenly.
"Is this Paige Holloway?" a deep, gravelly, baritone voice asked. The tone was sharp, commanding, and unmistakably irritated.
"Speaking. Who is this?"
"My name is Julian Vance," the voice replied. "And I'm currently sitting in a private dining room at the St. Regis, staring at a plate of overcooked beef covered in burnt butter, while your sister tries to convince me that this disaster was an 'avant-garde deconstruction.'"
I held my breath, meeting Brooke’s wide-eyed gaze across the table.
"Mr. Vance," I said smoothly. "I'm surprised you have my personal number."
May you like
"I took it off your mother's phone when she dropped her purse in the hallway during a panic attack," Vance said bluntly. "Now, Paige... suppose you tell me why the portfolio I was handed an hour ago features photographic metadata belonging to *Paige Holloway Fine Catering*, while the woman claiming to be the visionary chef doesn't even know the difference between a reduction and a roux?"
***
