The Cabaret? In what other job could she be forced to take a week off and return to news of a fabulous promotion? The Cabaret was where famous comedians and musicians performed. She was leapfrogging some of the other girls, who’d worked the Sidewalk Café longer than she had, and this would ruffle some feathers. But who cared? She let out a squeal and smiled for Gloria, knowing better than to try for a hug again. “Oh, thank you! That’s, I mean, that’s just terrific!”

Gloria didn’t smile back. “You’ll shadow Bunny Tina. Listen to every word that comes out of her mouth.”

Three hours into her first shift, Sherri felt like she could serve every single guest that ever walked through the front door of the resort, run to Chicago in her heels, climb a mountain, fly an airplane, jump out of it, and make a perfect landing on earth. She felt great, and clear! She dutifully weaved behind Tina as she explained how they set up the tables in the club. She couldn’t wait for her second shift, when the place would fill up with guests, the lights would go down, and the performers would take the stage. Unlike the Sidewalk Café, the tables here were huge, seating ten people, and were covered in beautiful white linen cloths. The porcelain plates with the bunny logos gleamed as white as Tina’s teeth, and the napkins weren’t rolled but folded into the shape of swans. There were two forks instead of one, a spoon above the plate, and beautiful goblets for water. The menu featured French dishes Sherri had never heard of. “I love it here,” Sherri said. “It’s so classy.”

Tina smiled. “I can tell you’re on something. Be careful with that stuff. When you come down, you really come down. And when you’re up, like you are now, you have to watch yourself. Be mindful of your voice, you’ve practically been screaming. And focus, OK? Are you with me? Here, you’re going to need to say these words with a French accent.” Tina pointed at the menu, divided into Les Entrées, Les Grillades, Les Desserts, and Les Cafés. The meals cost around eight dollars, more than twice the price of the meals in the Sidewalk Café. “The chef is from Paris. Read this.”

“Lays Grill-aids,” Sherri said.

“No, Ley Grillahds. And this—” She pointed at the smaller print.

“Pra-vyance sauce.”

Tina laughed. “You sound like you’re pinching your nose. Prah-vance.”

“Nobody around here even knows how to speak French.”

“Some of them do. And the ones who don’t, well, don’t try to correct them when they butcher the language the way you just did. Just smile and write their order down.”

Arthur spoke French. He was the only person she knew who’d actually been there. He told her about country houses made of stone, fields of lavender, and grapevines that were hundreds of years old and worth thousands of dollars—just the vines! He’d called Sherri “ma chérie” instead of “Sherri” and told her it meant “my darling.” He whispered to her in French when they were intimate. It was sexy to hear him speak that strange, liquid-sounding language.