1
ARIA
The phone feels slick against my palm, and I realize I'm gripping it hard enough to leave marks on my skin. I press it tighter to my ear, certain I've misheard the man on the other end.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel, years of customer service training kicking in automatically.
"A private yacht party, Miss Levin. Fifty guests. The client requests a menu entirely at your discretion, showcasing your signature coastal cuisine." The man's accent is faint but unmistakable, each word measured and precise, like he's reading from a script he's memorized. "The budget is thirty thousand dollars."
My hand trembles as I reach for the nearest surface to steady myself, finding only the edge of a stainless steel prep table. Thirty thousand dollars. That's more than I typically make in two months. Maybe three, if I'm being honest about the lean weeks when clients cancel or decide to go with someone cheaper.
"That's… that's very generous," I manage, my mind already spinning through the logistics. Fifty guests on a yacht means limited galley space, no room for error, and everything prepped in advance. "When will this event take place?"
"The yacht departs in four days. We'll provide you with the galley specifications and any equipment limitations by end of business today."
Four days. My stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with excitement and everything to do with the mountain of work that timeline represents. But this is exactly the kind of job that could transform Thyme & Tide from a modest catering operation into something people actually talk about. The kind of client who throws thirty-thousand-dollar yacht parties has friends who throw similar parties. This could be my break.
"I'll need a deposit," I say, forcing my voice into something resembling professional confidence. "Fifty percent upfront to secure the date and cover initial ingredient costs."
"Of course. I'll have the contract and deposit sent over within the hour." There's a pause, and I hear papers rustling on his end. "The client's name is Alekseev. Nikolai Alekseev."
My phone buzzes against my cheek. Once. Twice. Three times. I look at the caller ID and see my sister Maya's name. I ignore it, scribbling the client's name on the back of an invoice with a Sharpie that's running dry. The letters come out uneven, foreign-looking.
"And your name, sir?"
"Cyril Komarov. I'm Mr. Alekseev's executive assistant. You'll be dealing primarily with me for the arrangements."
Something about the way he says "executive assistant" makes the title sound like a euphemism for something else entirely. I shake off the thought. Rich people have assistants. That's normal. The knot in my stomach is just nerves about the size of the job, nothing more.
We spend another ten minutes going over details. Dietary restrictions (none), preferred cuisine style (my choice), arrival time (two hours before departure), and a dozen other logistics that I frantically scribble down. By the time we hang up, my hand is cramping, and my head is spinning with mental calculations about ingredient sourcing and prep schedules.
My phone immediately lights up with Maya's messages. I swipe through them, that familiar weight settling on my shoulders like a lead blanket.
Just got out of my NA meeting! Feeling really good today.
Sarah says hi. She asked about you.
Hey, can I borrow $200? Need to stock up on groceries before the weekend.
I close my eyes and count to ten, then twenty. Eight months clean. Maya's been doing so well, attending her meetings religiously, working her shifts at the coffee shop without complaint. But groceries don't cost two hundred dollars, and her rent isn't due for another week. I know because I paid it myself two weeks ago when she called crying about being short.
The rational part of my brain catalogs the possibilities. Maybe she really does need groceries. Maybe she's planning to meal prep for the whole month. Maybe I'm being paranoid and unfair, projecting past relapses onto present behavior.
The part of me that's been cleaning up Maya's messes since I was seventeen knows better.
I type out a response, deleting and rewriting it three times before settling on something that won't trigger a defensive spiral.
Come by the kitchen tomorrow. We'll talk.
Her reply comes instantly.
Can't you just Venmo it? I'm really busy tomorrow.
Of course she is. I shove my phone into my back pocket and return to my notes, trying to recapture the excitement I should be feeling. This yacht job could change everything. I could finally stop living invoice to invoice, stop lying awake at night calculating whether I can afford to replace the ancient mixer that sounds like it's dying. I could maybe even hire proper help instead of doing everything myself.
The name stares up at me from the invoice. Nikolai Alekseev. It sounds Russian, which makes sense given Cyril's accent. Probably some tech mogul or finance guy with more money than sense, the kind who thinks nothing of dropping thirty grand on a party.
I pull out my phone and open a browser, typing the name into the search bar more out of curiosity than anything else. Maybe I can get a sense of his taste, figure out what kind of menu would impress him and his guests.
