Dinner at Fiorello’s (11 page)

His mother didn’t say a word, just stared at Henry expectantly.

Henry grinned but felt the effort was weak and useless, so he abandoned it. “You guys want me to be happy, right?”

“Of course we do, Henry.”

His mom set her iPad on the coffee table. Henry noticed she kept one hand on its cover.

“What’s going on?”

Henry tried to swallow but discovered his throat was almost completely dry.
Just say it. Spill it. Put it out there. Lay your cards on the table. Make a clean breast of it.
“I accepted a job today.” Again, Henry attempted to smile. And again he failed.

“What are you talking about?” His father glared at him. “You’re working with me this summer. You’re gonna learn a lot. It’s all set up.”

Henry gnawed at his lower lip.
Courage.
“No, Dad, I’m not.” He looked imploringly at the man, whom he had always seen as bearish, cuddly in a gruff way, and lovable. Now he only looked brutish and threatening. For the first time in his life, Henry wondered if his father might hit him.

“What the fuck!”

“Tank,” Henry’s mother cautioned.

“It’s not like I’m gonna be robbing banks or dealing drugs this summer! Jesus! I just wanted to do something different, something that maybe would make
me
happy. And besides, you never even asked me if I wanted to work at your office.”

His father downed his Scotch and then leaned forward. “And what is this thing that will make you ‘happy’?” He used air quotes around the word happy.

“Ever heard of Fiorello’s?”

His father shook his head, and Henry could see, perfectly, the rage boiling just beneath the surface. Henry worried what would trigger its release. He looked to his mother and saw recognition cross her features.
Of course you do
, Henry wanted to say.
You hang out in that ’hood.

“It’s, um, a really good Italian place,” Henry said.

“A restaurant?” Henry’s father spit out the word like an epithet.

“Yeah.” Henry was going to continue, but his father stopped him, standing and holding out his hand.

“So, let me get this straight. You’re gonna, what, wait tables this summer instead of work downtown in a plush law firm? A place where you’ll not only learn a lot for your future but probably begin building a network. A place I busted my ass to secure for you.” His father flung his glass against the wall. It shattered and left a dark stain.

Henry shrank back, his shoulders bunching up. He figured now was
not
the time to let his father know he wouldn’t exactly be waiting tables. Waiting tables was actually above his pay grade. “It’s just that I thought this might be my last chance.”

“Last chance to do what?”

“I love to cook, Dad. I love being around food. Haven’t you noticed? I just wanted a chance to explore that passion.”

“You’re full of shit. What a lowlife thing to do.”

“Tank, please!”

Henry’s father shot his mother a look that caused her to wither against the couch. “If you think you’re gonna toss aside a good opportunity like the one I’ve got lined up for you to work like some loser in a restaurant, you better think again, young man.” He shook his head. “Do you know how embarrassing it would be for me to
not
show up with you on Monday? I’ve been telling everyone about you, even showing your picture around. You’re my heir apparent.”

Ah
, Henry thought,
so this is what it’s really about. Him. His image.
The realization gave Henry the courage to continue. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad. But I hardly think anyone’s going to think twice if you have a different intern than me this summer. I want to do this. I want to work at Fiorello’s.” Henry crossed his arms in front of him.

His father shook his finger in Henry’s face and then leaned close enough so that Henry could feel his dad’s liquor-scented spittle on his face. He spoke with a low intensity, barely above a whisper, that made it even more terrifying and threatening than if he was yelling. “You are
not
going to do this. You are going to come to work with me on Monday. I’m your father, and for a little while longer at least, I like to think I know what’s best for you.” He raised his voice. “End of discussion!”

Henry blinked. His father stormed from the room. Distantly, Henry heard a door slam. He jumped.

He looked to his mother. “That went well.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” His mother looked away from him, staring down at her yoga pants as if there were something fascinating woven into the fabric.

This is where you’re supposed to hug me, Mom. This is where you’re supposed to comfort.
Henry stared, frozen, at his mother for a long time, waiting.

But nothing happened. After a few minutes, she opened her iPad. She smiled a little at something on its surface. There was a lot he wanted to say to her, a lot he wanted to ask, but the words weren’t there. Not now.

Henry quietly left the room. He paused in the foyer, wondering if he should go back up to his room or out into the night.

He went out into the night.

V
ITO
WATCHED
the new kid as he washed dishes. He had to give him credit—the boy had learned how to use the industrial dishwasher with ease and kept up with a constant flow of dishes, cutlery, and glasses from the dining room with nary a complaint or broken glass. His first two weeks working at the restaurant had been a study in professionalism. When Vito had first laid eyes on the boy, he had to admit, he wouldn’t have guessed he’d last more than a single shift, that those soft lily-white hands were cut out for the hard work required.

But he had fooled him. Fooled all of them, really. Carmela, Rosalie, Juan Carlos, and Antonio, who all thought Henry could never survive the harsh working conditions, not with the plush background that had spawned him.

The boy reminded Vito of himself at that age, even though Vito only had about ten years on him. Henry was eager to please, ready to learn—hell, he seemed just happy to be there in the kitchen, doing grunt work that might be some other folks’ idea of hell.

Vito needed to get back to the black cod he was sautéing in butter with fresh thyme. He tilted the pan so he could bathe the fish in the herb-infused butter.

And you need to stop thinking about that boy.
He reached over to grab a sprinkle of kosher salt from the wooden box to his left and pondered his feelings. The boy, Henry, stirred something in him. He had since he’d first walked in the door two weeks ago and Carmela had introduced him around. Those blue eyes, so different from Vito’s dark ones, captivated Vito in a way he thought was long since dead. And the way Henry held his gaze a little longer than what might be considered normal spoke volumes about which way the kid swung. And, if the eye lock wasn’t enough to broadcast Henry’s feelings, he had held on far too long when they shook hands. Vito finally had to pull his hand away and turn back to his stove.

Vito didn’t like it. Here, in front of this stove, was his sanctuary. What he loved about the restaurant, at least in the past few months, was the fact that he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to talk. He could work like a machine, muscle memory directing his hands, making recipes he’d prepared hundreds of times. He was safe.

The kid changed all that. He had penetrated Vito’s defenses, the wall he had erected when he’d lost—well, he didn’t want to think about that. Ever.

Vito was getting to the point where the scars he bore inside were just that—toughened and thickened, insensitive to the touch. Beyond his dogs, work, what to put in his belly, and when to go to sleep, Vito didn’t allow himself time for much of anything else.

Including pretty boys who seemed too eager to please. Vito allowed himself a glance over once more, and a grin creased his features in spite of himself. It wasn’t just that the kid was hot—although he was, with a tight little ass, broad shoulders, and the kind of Nordic beauty that drew Vito like a moth to a flame—it was more than that. Even in just two weeks of working alongside him, the kid was in his element. He seemed happy.

Vito both envied that and was drawn to it, although he didn’t want to be.

He would have to be careful around this Henry. He didn’t want him getting too close.

H
ENRY
WIPED
the sweat from his brow with his arm and then shoved another tray full of dishes into the dishwasher. His shirt was soaked, both from the spray of the faucet as he rinsed dishes and from his own perspiration. His back ached, right there at the base, and it made Henry want to pause to just rub it, to knead out the kinks and the pain. But there was no time!

When he was little, he’d loved the movie
Fantasia
, and his mother would allow him to watch it over and over. Looking back, he realized she wasn’t being indulgent. She was using the DVD as a babysitter, as a way to avoid interacting with him.

What made him think of the Disney film right now, though, was not a dysfunctional family memory but Mickey Mouse. He was in the segment called “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” and he lost control of his magic when he tried to have a broomstick carry buckets of water for him. The brooms multiplied and got out of control, flooding Mickey’s castle.

Henry didn’t feel like a magician, but he did understand now, better than ever, what it was like to have overwhelming work just keep coming at him, like some sort of tsunami. The plates, the knives, the forks, the spoons, the drinking glasses, the wineglasses that had to be hand washed, and more just never seemed to stop coming once service began. Henry was afraid that if he paused to take a piss or even something as luxurious as a deep breath, he would be buried in stainless steel and pottery.

It was endless!

And yet, and yet, Henry loved being here. He loved the feel of excitement in the kitchen. It was a rush. The energy level was high because it had to be. No one had the luxury of downtime. You just kept working, and the hours passed like minutes.

On his very first day, which now seemed so long ago, Rosalie threw him in with little training. True to her taciturn ways, she said, “Sink or swim, Henry,” then handed him a stack of towels and the manual for the dishwasher. “Do good there and we’ll break things up with busing tables.” Right now busing tables seemed like nirvana, the impossible dream.

Henry was grateful, absurdly so, for each of his two ten-minute breaks and his half-hour lunch. He took a second to glance behind him and was rewarded with seeing Carmela walking toward him, a stack of menus in her hands.

“Jesus,” she said. “Is that smile for me?”

“Uh-huh,” Henry said. He shoved one last load into the
dishwasher. “It’s break time, right?”

“It’s lunchtime. And you’re not smiling at me because you’re happy to see me. You’re smiling because you finally get to sit down.” She laughed. “I know. Believe it or not, I was once in your shoes.”

“Really?” Henry moved over so that Juan Carlos, the young man who currently bused tables, now promoted out of dishwashing hell, took his place at the big machine.

“Oh yeah, Rosalie likes her staff to work their way up. Just a couple years ago, I was bubble dancin’ for my life.” She snickered.

Henry followed her back to a small area where a little porcelain-topped table sat with a couple of ladder-back chairs around it. He slumped into one of the seats.

“You’re not like a lot of the guys who work here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most of them, soon as they get a break, they shoot out that back door. Smokin’.”

“Never took up that vice.”

“You’re young. There’s still time.” Carmela winked at him.

It felt good to just sit, to let his bones settle, his breathing and heart rate slow a bit. Carmela started away.

“What’s for family meal?” Family meal, Henry had learned, was what everyone called the dish they prepared each night for the staff to eat. It usually relied on using up products left from specials that week and produce that was still good—but not for long.

“Vito made some beans and greens. It’s in a pot on the back burner.” She started away again.

“Carmela?”

She whirled around. “What? I’m sure they’re already lined up at the hostess desk. I don’t want Rosalie on my ass.” She wiggled her eyebrows, so Henry knew she wasn’t
too
annoyed. “Antonio’s another story.”

“You and that bartender. Don’t be a home wrecker. But would you mind bringing me a bowl of the greens and beans?”

“Tsk. Spoiled rich boy. You want me to serve you?”

“I do.” Henry tried to put on his most endearing smile. “Would you mind?”

Carmela shook her head. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. Next time, you get it yourself, okay?”

She hurried away without waiting for a reassurance.

It wasn’t that Henry was being lazy. It was that he was afraid of the cook, Vito. Not really afraid, maybe. There was a whole mix of emotions, and Henry was just too tired to deal with them. He knew they’d be brought front and center if Henry leaned over the chef as he worked. Just the nearness of Vito caused Henry’s pulse to accelerate, in a way entirely different from how hard work caused it to jump.

He had to admit it—he had a little crush on Vito. And never was a man less deserving of his affection! But he couldn’t help it. Vito was everything Henry could imagine wanting in a man. Physically he was
all male, rough-edged, dark, and exotic. His body was thick and solid, that of a linebacker, yet there was also something of the teddy bear, cuddly, although Vito’s aloofness worked hard to counteract that impression. Where Henry was smooth, Vito was hairy. Really hairy. In the dictionary, Henry imagined a picture of Vito next to the word “hirsute.” Tufts of coiled black hair poked out of the collar of his shirt. The backs of his hands were thick with coarse black hair. And that face—with its strong jawline heavily shadowed by a beard that must spring back minutes instead of hours after shaving. And the curly, unkempt black hair atop his head just begged for the touch of loving
fingers.