Luck on the Line by Zoraida Cordova Page A

pretty one with a white on white embroidery. “Ohhh, I like this one.”
    “You know, this one time,” I take the booklet and thumb through the rest of the brocade fabrics, “my mom bought a painting for five thousand dollars. It’s not that she thought it was pretty because who wants to look at a painting of splatters on newspaper clippings and the artist’s actual crystallized tears? I mean, it was hideous. But she bought it because it was expensive.”
    “Oh…”
    I shrug, wishing she would loosen up a little bit. “Which would you pick?”
    She looks at me as if this is the first time she’s been asked this question.
    “I like clean, modern looks,” she says assertively. “But at the same time, I think a location should look warm, whether it’s a living room, a bathroom, a restaurant, or my closet.”
    I stare at her curiously. “Did you decorate my mom’s place?”
    Felicity nods, pride flushing her face. “That’s how I ended up working for Stella. One minute I was picking out the right couch out of a 20-couch line up, the next thing she decides to hire me as her assistant. The interior design company I was working for at the time had just laid me off and my rent went up. I don’t know what I would have done if Stella hadn’t taken me in.”
    That’s my mom, a regular bleeding heart.
    “So you should have this in the bag,” I say.
    “For the last year I’ve been handling bills, phone calls, and hiring. Besides, Stella’s changed her direction for The Star about ten times. I think that’s the hardest part of this project. It’s so big and she wants to do everything —I think she forgot the reason she wanted to have the restaurant in the first place.”
    I make a face. “My mom only wants the camera pointed at her. I’m sure this restaurant will add another 15 minutes to her reel of fame.”
    “Oh…I don’t know if that’s it.” Felicity turns back to our task.
    If I thought I would find some sort of solidarity in Stella-complaining, then Felicity is the wrong person.
    “Which ones did Stella want originally?”
    “She didn’t say.” Felicity’s big brown eyes get bigger. “She wanted white and gold to be the main colors of the restaurant.”
    I roll my eyes. “I hate eating at places that look like I can’t get the napkins dirty. What’s the point of delicious food?”
    “Well, the menu is a little more tailored to high end small plates.”
    I make a face. “Sounds yummy.”
    “What if she hates the fabric we choose?” Felicity grips the piece of cloth in her hand. The sales associate that brought us all the samples stands nearby, but at the sound of Felicity’s shrill panic, he decides to wait on approaching us again. “What if she likes the color, but hates the pattern? Stella changes her mind so quickly. Maybe we should send her photos before we pick?”
    I grab her by the shoulders. “Get a grip. This is our decision making time.”
    Felicity nods rapidly and breathes heavily. “I just don’t know—”
    “Felicity,” I say, sounding more like a mother hen than I’d like. I used to have this roommate that would have daily panic attacks. The most random things would set off a domino effect in her brain. The dishes wouldn’t be clean, and the next thing she knew she thought we were getting a cockroach infestation. I saved the paper bags from the deli to give her something to blow into.
    “Look, if Stella didn’t trust us, she wouldn’t have left us alone.” Even as I say this, the lie makes my tongue feel like lead.
    I hold a swatch that’s a deep sea-green and my mind flashes to a memory of James’s eyes. The way his lips brushed against my lips.
    “Right. Yes. Okay. Good.” She spreads out the samples back on the table. She looks up at me, then back down to the mess on the table. “So…”
    I set my finger on a dark gold fabric. “This one.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Well, I was going to play Eenie-meenie-miney-moe…”
    Felicity smirks. She turns