April in New York was a smash hit, and it was her entire life. She had no time for, or interest in, anything else. And it was only on a day like this that she allowed herself to think about what else she didn’t have in her life. In fact, she had nothing else, but she didn’t want anything other than a restaurant. She hadn’t had a serious romance in five years, but she didn’t have time for one anyway. Before that, in Paris, she had been in an abusive relationship, with another chef who walked out on her every five minutes and had once threatened her with a butcher’s knife. It had taken her two years, a shrink, and eighteen months on Prozac to get over him, and she’d been gun-shy ever since. Since then, her relationships had been brief, infrequent, and superficial. The restaurant seemed to satisfy all her needs for now.

What shocked her, and was something of a wake-up call, was turning thirty today. Thirty seemed so grown up, or maybe just plain old. It made her suddenly wonder if she’d ever be married and have kids, and how she’d feel about it if she didn’t. What if all she had was a string of restaurants instead? She wanted to open a second one, one day, but not yet. She wanted to get everything about this one right first. Even after three years, there were things she still wanted to improve on, systems she wanted to refine and change. She had just hired a second sommelier, because the one she had said he was overworked and, unlike her, didn’t want to work seven days a week. April didn’t mind working that hard at all. It was the nature of the business. She had no idea what she’d do with herself if she took a day off, so she never did.

As she drove to the new Fulton Fish Market in the Bronx, she thought about her birthday again.