Felice idly turned the page of the free local advertising shopper she’d plucked from a rack near the coffee shop’s cash register. Squeezed in between the pancake house, tanning salon, and putt-putt advertisements, a small display ad caught her eye.
EXECUTIVE CHEF—Immediate position open for creative and experienced chef for exclusive local resort. Pay commensurate with experience. Position includes free on-site housing and meals. Uniforms provided. References required. $100 signing bonus.
“On-site housing” was the magic phrase. She’d slept in the Nissan for the past two nights. Her back might never recover. Felice wasn’t what you’d call petite. Nearly six feet tall, and her braids added another two inches to her height.
She didn’t need much. Growing up in her auntie’s two-bedroom apartment in Liberty City along with her two little brothers and a herd of cousins, Felice had never had the luxury of needing much. Maybe that explained why she’d so easily fallen for Deion’s line of bullshit. He’d offered her an escape, a glittering glimpse of what life could be.
Now she picked up her phone and called the number in the ad.
Traci had read the applicant’s résumé with mounting excitement, tempered with more than a little trepidation.
The young woman, who’d called earlier, then followed up with her résumé, had impeccable credentials. Formal training at a respected culinary institute, stints at two high-end Miami hotel restaurants. But her last job, at a chain steakhouse in Hialeah, gave Traci pause. What was a woman like her doing at a place like that?
Traci had hired and fired enough staff over the years to be wary of those kinds of gaps. They could mean nothing, or they could mean a stint in rehab, jail, or worse.
Charlie poked his head inside the doorway. “You need me?”
“Just a heads-up. Ric informed me yesterday that he has effectively hired Spencer Parkhurst’s son, for a yet-to-be-determined position.”
“Oh. Well, it’s not like we can’t use an extra set of hands around here,” Charlie said.
She sat back in her desk chair. “Wait. Did you know about this?”
“Saw Ric at the tennis courts yesterday. He mentioned it in passing.”
“And you didn’t think to mention it tome?”
“You beat me to the punch. It’s no big deal, Traci. One less hire for you to worry about.”
“But Idoworry about it. That’s the point. We don’t know a damn thing about this kid, except that his father’s rich and Ric apparently owes him a favor.”
“So start him as a parking valet, or in the pro shop. If he flames out after a week or two you can fire him and send him on his way.”
“And then I’ll be right back where I started,” Traci said, fuming.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you shouldn’t have hired his daughter without discussing it with Ric. You know how he is about her.”
“He’s a giant pain in my ass. And you, Charlie? I can’t believe you’re siding with Ric.”
“I don’t side,” Charlie said. “I merely opine.”
“Go opine someplace else then,” Traci said, making a shooing motion. “I’ve got a hot chef prospect coming in for an interview.”
“Anyone local?”
“Nope. She’s young, but she sounds pretty good on paper.”
“Don’t they all,” he said as his parting shot.
Felice followed the signs pointing to the executive offices, housed in a low, vaguely Spanish-looking stucco wing of the hotel, painted shrimp pink with a red tile roof. Felice wiped her sweaty palms on the seat of her pants, took a deep breath, and stepped into the air-conditioned building, where she was directed to Traci’s office off the hotel lobby.
“Mrs. Eddings? I’m Felice Bonpierre.”
“Hello, Felice,” Traci said. “I’m so grateful you could come in today for a chat.”
The applicant was not what Traci had expected. She was very tall, for one thing, with long braids that spilled down the back ofher jacket, and curious eyes that peered out from behind oversized tortoiseshell-framed glasses. Despite the glasses, she looked very young.
“I’m glad too,” Felice said. “I was admiring your grounds as I drove in. Such a beautiful place. It would be a pleasure to work here.”
