Chapter 1

Ten years ago

Ivy Callahan trudged along the sidewalk, dodging joggers, kids on bikes, and a woman walking three tiny yapping dogs who somehow managed to take up the entire space. Her feet hurt. Her head hurt. After spending the day dropping off résumés and enduring another interview that had ended with We’ll be in touch, all she wanted to do was reach her apartment, kick off her shoes, grab a glass or a bottle of wine and forget the day had happened.

The executive chef’s voice followed her down the block.

Your training is impressive, but we need someone with more experience.

Ivy tightened her grip on the strap of her bag. How was she supposed to get experience if no one hired her?

She reached the turn-of-the-century brick building she’d called home for the past year, an aging walk-up on a lively East Village block. A narrow market occupied the ground floor. She waved to Mr. Pavoni who was looking out the window. The faint scent of garlic drifted from the restaurant across the street, mixing with car exhaust and hot pavement. Somewhere behind her, a horn blared, followed by an impressive string of profanity. New York’s version of an evening serenade.

Ivy pulled her key from her pocket and unlocked the heavy door. The hinges groaned as she stepped into the narrow lobby, where the air smelled of old wood and dust.

She checked her mailbox, found two bills and a takeout menu, then stared at the staircase.

Three flights stood between her and her apartment.

With a heavy sigh, she began her climb. By the third-floor landing, her calves burned, and the strap of her bag dug into her shoulder. This wasn’t how she imagined her life after graduating from culinary school. But dreams didn’t pay Manhattan rent, and neither did pride.

In a couple of days, she’d widen her search beyond the restaurants on her carefully researched list. Hotels. Corporate kitchens. Catering companies. Anywhere that would put a knife in her hand instead of another rejection letter.

When she finally reached the fourth floor, garlic and simmering tomatoes scented the air outside Mrs. Falcone’s door, next to her own, making her stomach growl. Farther down the hall, salsa music pulsed through Celina and Joey’s door. They must be practicing their performance for Saturday night. From the thumps on the shared wall, one of them needed more practice than the other.

Ivy unlocked the door and stepped into the cramped one-bedroom apartment the three of them shared. Ginny and Ivy had squeezed two narrow beds into the bedroom, while Steve slept on the sagging sofa beneath the front windows. Every morning, his blankets, and pillow disappeared into the tiny closet. It wasn’t glamorous, but splitting the rent three ways allowed them to keep chasing careers that hadn’t begun paying the bills.

Ginny Bell rushed around the tiny living room, collecting sheet music and stuffing it into an oversized tote bag. A bright red scarf hung around her neck and one end trailed nearly to the floor. She stopped when Ivy entered.

“How did it go?” Ginny asked. “Did you get a job? One of those high-end positions where we’ll never see you again, or did you abandon us for an apartment with an elevator and a kitchen bigger than a closet?”

Ivy shook her head and dropped her bag on the kitchen counter. The executive chef’s polite smile flashed through her mind. He hadn’t asked a single question about the tasting menu she’d spent half the night preparing.

She rubbed her forehead. “Apparently, I don’t have enough experience for an entry-level position.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Ginny’s face softened.

“Pfft. Me too.” Ivy slipped off her shoes and flexed her feet. “At least I have that catering job this weekend.”

“Something will come through. I just know it,” Ginny tucked a sheet of music into her bag. “Look at me. I’ve auditioned for the same director three times, and tonight he’s finally letting me sing for a part with an actual name.”

“You got a callback?” Despite her own disappointment, Ivy smiled. “Ginny, that’s wonderful.”

“It will be if I don’t trip over my tongue.” Ginny said. “If I land the role, I might be able to stop singing at the restaurant.”

Steve Grady, their other roommate, stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his damp hair. He wore black pants and a white dress shirt. His usual uniform for singing for his supper, literally, while serving overpriced pasta to theatergoers.

“What catering job?” he asked.

“A woman I went to culinary school with works for the company. One of their servers canceled, so she gave them my name.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I’ll help with the prep and plating, too. It’s a private dinner, the money is decent, and if I impress the chef, maybe it’ll lead to something.” Ivy opened a drawer and pulled out a notepad. “I’m going in early, and I’ll volunteer for anything that gets me near the kitchen. Then, I’ll research every event company in Manhattan and start calling.”

Steve leaned against the doorway. “You already spent all day job hunting.”

“And I’ll do it again.” She wrote event companies beneath hotels and underlined both. “I’m not going to sit around feeling sorry for myself. Someone has to say yes, eventually.”

Steve tossed the towel over his shoulder. “Good, because I was hoping you’d get today’s job and we could move somewhere larger. Maybe a two-bedroom this time so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the sofa.”

Ivy gave him a pointed look. “It’s touching how deeply invested you are in my career.”

“Your success is my future bedroom.”

Both her roommates were singing waiters and aspiring actors, just waiting for their big break. Not for the first time, Ivy wished she could carry a tune. At least then she could earn tips while waiting for someone to give her a chance in a real kitchen. Ginny and Steve talked about their dreams as if success were only one audition away. Ivy was beginning to fear she’d left Beaver Creek and everything she loved behind only to discover that she wasn’t good enough.

For now, one night of catering was the closest thing she had to a real opportunity, and she intended to make it count.