“I didn’t just pull my plans out of thin air,” Dani shouted. “You knew I was leaving. You promised us both that the three of us would stick together for at least another year.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t keep that promise.” Tears welled in Ivy’s eyes. “It’s now or never for me.”

Dani set the red plastic drink cups down hard, splashing more beer. “I forbid you to leave. Not until we’ve hashed this out.”

“No,” Ivy said.

“Her word is worth shit,” Matthew said.

“Apparently,” Dani said, crossing her arms.

Ivy left for New York the next morning, operating on no sleep and sporting a wicked hangover.

Her resolve lasted all the way up I-95 and into the city parking deck, where she suffered sticker shock at the fees. She found her room at the YWCA, and over the next six days, she visited restaurants on her list plus a half dozen more. No one had heard about the Seaside Resort, and no one had a job.

On day six, chewed up by defeat, guilt, and loneliness, she pulled out her suitcase from under her bed and started packing until she caught herself. She had inherited her mother’s recklessness but also Ruth’s iron stubbornness, and the last thing she was going to do was return home with her tail tucked between her legs. She wasn’t opposed to going home one day, but it would be with sails plumped with success. So she again hit the pavement the next day.

Her tenacity did pay off. She found a job in an Italian restaurant called Vincenzo’s, two blocks off Broadway, as a fry cook and dishwasher. The staff were all related to the owner, and she was the first nonfamily member Mama Leoni had hired in twenty years. Mama said she liked Ivy’s look, the calluses on her hands, the faint scars on her arms from the Seaside Resort’s kitchen fryer, and her yes, ma’ams delivered with eye contact. Mama Leoni explained that the restaurant had grown in popularity following a review on a blog site, and the chef, her husband Mario, and their son, Gino, needed help. Beyond grateful, she agreed to report to work that night.

While Ivy stirred the large pots of Italian gravy and cut, sautéed, and seared, Mario and Gino shouted at each other, relitigating arguments they’d likely been having for decades. Each fight ended with Mario escaping to the alley for a smoke. Not so different from Ivy and Ruth and the Seaside Resort kitchen.

When Mario became sick with cancer three years later, he cut back on his hours, Gino became head chef, and she rose to sous chef.

Mama Leoni told Ivy she was family. “You have Italian running in your veins.”

And Ivy wanted to believe her. Family didn’t always stick together, but it was supposed to in theory. And when the tough times came for Vincenzo’s, and they did, Ivy worked double time to help keep the restaurant open.

And when the time had come for Ivy to take a leave of absence to return to North Carolina after Ruth’s death, well, apologies and tears aside, Mama Leoni had needed only seconds to refuse. They’d abandoned her.