1
SOPHIE: ONE YEAR LATER after HARBOR
The linen delivery man has the audacity to smile at me.
“Ma’am, I understand your frustration, but the account is contracted through—”
“Through a man who is no longer associated with this restaurant.” I plant both palms flat on the hostess stand and hold his gaze. “I have called your company seven times. Seven. I have sent four emails and two certified letters. I have spoken to your customer service department, your billing department, and a woman named Cheryl in accounts receivable who told me she would personally handle it.” I gesture at the stack of folded whitelinens he has just carried through my front door. “Cheryl did not personally handle it.”
He shifts the clipboard to his other hand. “The account holder would need to contact us directly to—”
“I am the account holder.”
“Theprimaryaccount holder, ma’am. The contract was established by a Mr.—”
“I know who established it.” The words come out sharply but I honestly don’t care. It’s been months of this. Months. “I am telling you, very clearly and for the last time, that I am the owner of this establishment. My name is on the deed. My name is on the business license. My name—” I slide my business card across the hostess stand “—is Sophia Bellamorte, and this is the Arsenal, and I am canceling this linen service effective immediately.”
One year. It has been almost one full year since Vincenzo Demonio walked out of my life, and his fingerprints are still on everything. A linen contract I cannot freaking cancel. Kitchen equipment accounts. The cleaning service that shows up every Thursday even though we aren’t even open yet. The name on the bottom of every vendor invoice, authorizing payment in a bold, slanted scrawl I’ve grown to resent.
The linen guy looks at the card. Then looks at me. The smile wavers.
“If your company bills me for another delivery,” I continue pleasantly, “I will dispute every charge, report the account tothe Better Business Bureau, and leave a very detailed review on every platform I can find. Are we clear?”
A long pause. “I’ll need to make a note in the system.”
“Please do.”
He makes no note of anything, drops my card on the table, and leaves the stack of linens on the table when he goes. I’m about to run after him when Siena appears in the doorway wearing a gorgeous camel wool coat and carrying little Emilia on her hip.
Behind her is Olivia Neroli, the younger adopted sister of Matti and Tommy. She’s 22, tall, skinny, and sweet. She’s also effectively Emilia’s nanny, and I love more than anything to feed her.
“Awww my gosh, the cuteness!” I squeeze all of them in a bear hug then peel Emilia out of Siena’s arms while she takes off her coat.
I give the baby a smothering of little kisses and breathe in her baby powder scent with a sigh. “You got so big since Thursday. How is that possible? Are you letting her eat the furniture again?”
“She’s teething.” Siena unwraps her scarf and drapes it over a chair, looking around the empty dining room. “Was that the linen guy I passed on the steps?”
“Mm.” I press a kiss to Emilia’s soft temple and nod toward the stack of linens. “He came bearing gifts.”
“Fabulous. Still fighting the good fight, I take it?”
“You know it.” I carry the baby toward the kitchen, and Siena and Olivia both follow, their high heels clicking on the reclaimed hardwood that I chose myself, after three weeks of arguments with the original flooring company Vin had contracted. They’re so much warmer than what he had them install, with more character and a deep honey tone that’s beautiful in the light from the tall windows.
Olivia leans her forearms against the kitchen island. “Maybe if you talked to Matti and Tommy, they could—”
“I’m handling it.” I settle Emilia on the other side of the kitchen island and brace my hands on either side of her so she can practice sitting upright.
The counter isn’t the original one that Vin and I ‘christened’ when we found the place, nor is it the one Vin ordered, which was beautiful but six inches too narrow for the way I work. Slowly and carefully, piece by piece, I’ve been reclaiming the restaurant and making it my own.
Siena pulls a counter stool up next to Olivia and surveys me. “How are the preparations?”
“Almost there.” And it’s true, finally, undeniably true. “The last of the bar stools arrive Friday. The signage goes up Saturday morning. I feel like I’ve done 1000 soft opens with you guys over the past year,” I laugh. “So I’m just planning on the hard open a few weeks into January. It’s the worst possible time of year to open a new restaurant, but—“
“No.” Siena shakes her head. “January is perfect. The restaurant is perfect.”
Olivia gives a little shriek and slaps the counter like a drum roll.“Sophie! It’s really happening.”
They’re both smiling, and my throat tightens in response, because yes. After a year of vendor disputes and refrigeration upgrades and choosing new furniture and redoing the apartment upstairs into something that feels like home—yes. It isreallyhappening.
