Just a Taste (16 page)

“Ah.” Michael looked caught off guard. “She told you about that, huh?”

“Yeah, she did. How dare you? That’s
my
info to share, not yours.”

“I was just trying to help,” Michael answered defensively.

“Help what?”

Michael started jostling Angelica up and down on his knee, a convenient prop, Anthony noticed, when his brother was under the gun. “Look, Ant. I know you like her, and I know she likes you. And I just thought—if she knew about what you went through, it would help give her some insight into your personality.”

“She doesn’t need insight into my personality! At least not from you! When are you going to stop sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong?”

“When you get your head out of your ass, that’s when!” Michael stopped jiggling his daughter. “Do you think Angie would want you to be alone? Here’s this wonderful, sexy woman right in front of your face, who’s actually crazy enough to be attracted to you, and what are you doing about it? Nothing!”

“You don’t understand.” He’d thought about this all night—his desire, his ambivalence—and had finally figured out what, for the most part, was up with him. “I know Vivi’s special, okay? I know that.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Which is why I want to be
sure
. It’s not fair to her if we get together and I can’t give her everything she deserves, emotionally speaking. She deserves my full attention. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. Does that make any sense to you?”

Michael looked impressed. “Yeah.” He patted Anthony’s knee. “I hear ya, bro.”

“So you’ll butt out?”

“I was just trying to help, Ant. Honestly.”

“I know you were coming from a good place. Just trust me on this, all right? I know what I’m doing here.” He touched his nose to Angelica’s. “Right, pumpkin?”

For the first time since coming in, Anthony took in the living room. The place was still, as his dear, departed mother would put it, “a sty.” “Cleaning lady still out sick, huh?”

“Worse than that,” Michael replied, glumly. “She’s gone back to Poland.”

“What the hell is there in Poland, besides Lech Walesa and bottled water?”

“Grandkids.”

“Gotcha.”

“Why don’t you hire Insane Lorraine?” Anthony taunted.

“Yeah, right.”

“Oh, but it’s okay to inflict her on me.”

Jesus, just thinking about having to tear himself from Vivi to calm down Insane Lorraine pissed him off all over again. There she was, tearful in the empty dining room, as if he owed her an explanation. He should have just let her go, but he was afraid she might do something, well, insane. He’d been forced to state firmly and plainly that he was her boss and nothing but her boss. Lorraine kept sniffling and harping on how he’d promised to come to dinner at her house, and hadn’t yet. Purely to get her off his ass, he agreed he’d come for brunch the following Saturday, regretting it immediately. But it was the only way he could think to mollify her.

He could tell from the look on Vivi’s face when he rejoined her in the kitchen that she thought something might exist between him and Lorraine, which was kind of insulting, in his opinion. He might not be George Clooney, but
Madonn’
, he was a reasonably successful, good-looking guy. IfVivi thought that was his caliber of woman, then she was as crazy as Lorraine. Still, that pinched look around her mouth when she asked about Lorraine was kind of satisfying.

Anthony stood up. “Right. I gotta run.”

“Not yet. I’ve got three words to say to you before you go: Blades Christmas Party.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Corporate wants to switch the date to the twentieth. Can you do that?”

“This is pretty short notice, Mikey. That’s what, two weeks away?”

“C’mon. Ant. This is tradition we’re talking about here.”

Anthony was adamant. “I have to check to make sure no one else has booked the banquet room. If not, then it’s a go.”

“Great. I can’t wait.”

Anthony couldn’t hide his surprise. “You’re going to go to the party?”

“I’m still a Blade,” Michael maintained sharply. “And it is my”—he caught himself—“
half
my restaurant.”

“Why don’t you start taking care of the early morning half of the day, then?” Anthony needled. “You know, be there for the dawn deliveries.”

“Can’t,” Michael said, deliberately not looking at him. “Gotta get the kids up and ready for school.”

Anthony zipped up his jacket. “Convenient.” He ruffled Angelica’s hair. “See you, gorgeous.” He pointed at his brother. “No more playing Cupid, you got it?”

Michael put up his hand as if taking an oath. “I swear on the heads of my children.”

“Yeah,” said Anthony, heading for the front door. “We’ll see how long
that
lasts.”

“M
ore olive loaf,
Anthony?”

Anthony stared at the tower of luncheon meat Insane Lorraine’s mother held out to him and tried not to gag. If coming to Insane Lorraine’s house for brunch didn’t earn him an E-ZPass through the Pearly Gates, then there was no God. Not only was the food revolting (olive loaf, Kraft singles, industrial rye bread, yellow mustard, horrible coffee), but the company was depressing. Insane Lorraine Senior, or Mrs. Fabiano, as most people knew her, was simply an older, mothball-scented version of her daughter: same dark circles under the eyes, same scary Prince Valiant haircut, though hers was shot through with gray. The setting didn’t help, either. The heavy velvet curtains covering the living room windows remained perpetually closed, while the overwrought French provincial furniture looked like it had never been used, and was, of course, protected by clear plastic slipcovers. At least the dining room, where they were now seated, had some light coming in, even if it was muted by floor-length sheers covering the windows that had once been white, but were now dirty gray.

“No, thank you,” Anthony said politely, helping himself to the rye bread. He vigorously shook the mustard (the mere concept offended his culinary sensibilities), and spurted some onto the bread before slapping on a slice of cheese, wishing himself luck, and biting into it. “Great,” he lied. The bread was so squishy and artificial it stuck to the roof of his mouth, the same way Communion wafers had when he was a kid. As discreetly as he could, he tried using his tongue to dislodge it, but it remained firmly glued in place. He’d just have to wait for it to slowly dissolve.

Mrs. Fabiano sat down, beaming at him. “Lorraine tells me you two have picked up right where you left off in high school.”

“Uh…” Anthony was speechless as he turned to Insane Lorraine for some kind of hint about what her mother was talking about, but she just smiled at him beatifically.

“She was telling me how closely you two are working at Dante’s. It’s wonderful when couples work together.”

“Uh…”

Beneath the table, Lorraine’s hand snaked its way to Anthony’s knee. Anthony firmly pushed it away with a glare. Lorraine flashed him a wounded look before petulantly peeling off two slices of olive loaf for herself.

“We were very sorry when we heard about your wife, Anthony.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fabiano. I was sorry to hear about Mr. F’s passing, myself. You’re suing the construction company, I take it?”

Mrs. Fabiano stared at him blankly. “What?”

Shit,
Anthony thought.
I hope I haven’t opened a can of worms I don’t want to get into.
Can of worms—now there was an expression for Vivi to mangle. “I thought some scaffolding collapsed on him,” Anthony continued carefully.

“No.” Mrs. Fabiano sighed. “It was an elk’s head.”

“Excuse me?”

“We were having dinner at the Elks Club—Roberto was a lifelong Elk, you know—and he was sitting beneath the mounted elk head on the wall when it fell. It killed him instantly.”

“That’s awful.”

Mrs. Fabiano shuddered. “It was. Especially with the antlers and all.”

Death by elk head…what a way to go. Anthony couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard about this; usually the gossip network in Bensonhurst was pretty strong. The Elks Club must have deliberately kept the actual circumstances of his death under wraps for fear of losing members.

“Some olive loaf, Anthony?” Mrs. Fabiano asked again.

“No, thanks, I’m fine.”

He endured an hour of avoiding olive loaf and stilted conversation before making his excuses to leave—but not before cornering Insane Lorraine while her mother cleaned up in the kitchen.

“Thank you so, so much for coming, Anthony.” The excessive nature of Lorraine’s gratitude made him sad, even while irritating him. “It meant a lot to us.”

“No problem. Look, we need to talk.”

Lorraine perked up. “Yes?”

God help me,
Anthony thought. “Did you tell your mother we were a couple?”

“Sort of,” Lorraine mumbled as she hung her head, her pageboy fringe hanging in her eyes.

“It’s not good to lie, Lorraine. You need to listen to me.” He waited for her to lift her head, but when it became apparent that wasn’t going to happen, he forged ahead. “I’m very flattered that you like me. But you and I have an employer-employee relationship, period. You’ve been doing a really good job at Dante’s, and I’d like to keep you on. And that isn’t going to happen unless you let go of this fantasy that you and I are involved, or are ever going to get involved. Okay?”

Lorraine lifted her head; her expression was bitter. “It’s because of that French woman, isn’t it? You think she’s prettier than me.”

“Lorraine.” Anthony was beginning to feel powerless in the face of Lorraine’s obvious aversion to reality. “I’m not discussing Vivi Robitaille with you. My personal life is none of your business. I told you, I’m your boss, you’re my employee. Either accept that, or start looking for another job, all right?”

Lorraine said nothing. All righty, then. He’d said his piece, and it was time to go. “Thanks again for brunch, Mrs. F,” Anthony called into the kitchen, where Insane Lorraine’s mother was wrapping up the leftovers. Not surprisingly, there were a lot.

She hurried out into the living room/mausoleum to kiss his cheek. “It was so nice to see you, Anthony. You’ve made Lorraine so happy, you don’t know. Next time, let’s make it dinner.”

Anthony managed a sickly smile. “Sure.”

Shaken, he left the house without a further word.

“G
od, they’re killin’
me here.”

Anthony studied the guest list for the Blades Christmas party, which seemed to grow longer every year. Luckily for the team, he was able to switch the dates as Michael had requested. But the number of people they expected him to cram into the banquet room was unreal. He’d need all the help he could get, both in the kitchen and with the front of the house. Aldo would bust his balls about having to work the party, but in the end would capitulate. Everyone else would be on board as long as Anthony paid them well, which he always did. He was a firm believer in paying people what they were worth; it showed respect and helped create loyalty. Between working the Blades party and their regular Christmas bonuses, his staff would have a very Merry Christmas indeed.

“Hello?”

He looked up to see Vivi peeking her head through the restaurant’s front door. He hadn’t seen her since the night of the cook-off. It surprised him how much lighter just seeing her face made him feel. It was as if she brought the sunshine into the room with her.

“Come on in.”

Vivi approached the table, eyes bright. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

“I’m always here. What’s up?”

“The DiDinatos have finished installing my kitchen equipment. It’s so beautiful! I want you to see it.”

“I would love to.” Anthony slid out of his chair and followed her across the street.

“Well?”

Vivi looked at Anthony expectantly. The equipment for the kitchen had indeed been installed. What surprised him was how small a space the kitchen was—long and narrow, like a galley. He couldn’t imagine fitting more than a couple of people in there at a time.

“It’s great,” Anthony told her. “It’s just—small.”

Vivi frowned. “This is a small bistro, Anthony, remember? I don’t need a kitchen your size.”

“Yeah, but—” He clamped his mouth shut, determined not to dampen her enthusiasm.

“But what?” Vivi demanded. She was scowling at him like a Halloween witch.

“Nothing.” Anthony held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry I said anything. Clearly, I’m talking out my ass.”

Vivi’s scowl turned into a look of mild offense. “My kitchen is somehow related to your ass?”

“No, no, no.” Jesus, he really had to watch the colloquialisms. “It’s an expression. ‘Talking out my ass’ means ‘I don’t know what I’m talking about.’”

Vivi considered this. “You
are
talking out your
derriere
,” she declared.

“Exactly. It’s a nice kitchen, Vivi. I mean it.”

She sighed wistfully. “I just wish I didn’t have to wait months to be able to use it. I’m dying to cook.”

Anthony hesitated a moment, then jumped in. “Mikey’s old hockey team is having their Christmas party at Dante’s in a few weeks. Would you like to help me out?”

“Yes!” Vivi enthused, but then her face fell. “When is it? I’m going back to France for Christmas.”

“Oh.” Anthony felt a wave of disappointment. “The party is the twentieth.”

“Perfect! Natalie and I are flying back the twenty-first.”

“How long will you be gone for?”

“Just through the New Year. We’ll be back on January second.”

“I see.” That disappointed him, too, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he was a big New Year’s Eve guy. Usually he was working; New Year’s Eve at Dante’s was one of his busiest nights of the year.

Vivi rubbed her hands together excitedly. “When do you want me here to help you cook? And what should I make? A
buche de noel
? That’s a traditional French holiday dessert; it’s in the shape of Yule log.”

“I know what it is. Look, here’s the thing, we’ll be following my menu, and it’s pretty basic: fried calamari, large trays of lasagna and eggplant parm, that type of thing. Nothing fancy. This is not a fancy crowd.”

“But perhaps they’d like to try something new.”

“Vivi.” Anthony was keeping a leash on his mounting annoyance. “The foods I serve, they’re kind of a tradition, you know? You know what it’s like cooking for a large party or a wedding or something like that, right? They get the choice of a few dishes, period, for both simplicity’s sake and expediency’s sake.”

Anthony could tell by the frustrated look on Vivi’s face that this wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “What if I made something on my own time and brought it in?” she wheedled. “Would that be all right?”

There was only one reason Anthony could think of for why it wouldn’t be: he didn’t want her outdoing him, the way she did at the cook-off. He knew it was petty, but he couldn’t help it. This was
his
gig.

“Let me think about it.”

Vivi looked pouty. “Can I bring Natalie?”

“Sure, if she doesn’t mind hanging around with a bunch of hockey players—though there will be some corporate types there as well.”

“Natalie does very well with corporate types. She’s been feeling very low. I think being at a party will cheer her up.”

“You’re a good sister, Vivi.”

“Half sister. I try to be.” She touched Anthony’s forearm, her hand lingering there. “I promise I won’t be too much of a pain in the jaw—”

“Neck—”

“—in the kitchen. I’m so happy you asked me to help you. It’s the best Christmas present anyone could give me.”

Anthony winked at her. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

“T
hese hockey players
—they’re so loud.”

Vivi nodded in agreement as she and Natalie stood in the doorway to Dante’s banquet room, looking out over the crowd. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Of course, the never-ending flow of liquor helped. Many of the players seemed well on their way to getting toasted, as the Americans would say. Vivi liked that some of the players had their families with them, too. There was a real close-knit feeling to this group. Her eyes sought out Michael and Theresa, sitting with their three children, and two other couples Vivi assumed were related to the team. Vivi nudged Natalie.

“Why don’t you go talk to Theresa? Tell her you want to discuss PR for Vivi’s as soon as we get back from France.”

“Stop pushing me, Vivi,” Natalie said, irritated. “It will be taken care of.” Natalie’s eyes did a second circuit around the room. “Many of the men are handsome, though apparently, many of them lack their own teeth.”

“Have you met anyone interesting?” Vivi asked coyly. She was hoping Natalie might meet someone nice. Frankly, she was nervous about Natalie returning to France for the Christmas holidays. For weeks, Natalie had been gripped by an unhealthy nostalgia. “At this time last year, Thierry and I were planning a weekend together.” “At this time last year, Thierry bought me perfume for an early Christmas gift.” Vivi feared that upon returning to Paris, Natalie’s depression might deepen, and she wouldn’t want to come back to America after the New Year.

Natalie considered the question with a snort. “No.”

“Have you even tried speaking with any of them?”

“
Cherie
, listen to me.” Natalie looked touched as she pushed some wisps of hair out of Vivi’s eyes. “I know what you’re up to, and I appreciate it. But you don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. You seem very melancholy to me.”

“It will pass. Trust me.”

“That Quinn O’Brien likes you,” Vivi pointed out. “He likes to tease you.”

“He’s a barbarian. Besides, I would never go out with a journalist. Journalists ruined my life, as you might recall.”

Vivi dropped the subject. She’d learned that when Natalie didn’t want to discuss something, it wasn’t discussed—unless Vivi pushed hard. Vivi decided to let it go for today. It was five days until Christmas, after all. She wanted goodwill to prevail.

“What are you and your
maman
doing for Christmas?” Vivi asked. She couldn’t wait to see her mother, to go to Midnight Mass with her and her grandmother, then come home and drink hot chocolate together while they all opened their presents. She missed her mother so much it was a physical ache sometimes.

“I don’t know,” Natalie confessed. “When Papa was alive, we would always go to his brother’s house. But now that he’s gone, my mother doesn’t want to. She could never stand his family, anyway.”

Vivi nodded, a small lump forming in her throat. Never in her life had she spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with her father. He always came a few days after, when his other responsibilities were out of the way. Sometimes, she’d go to bed on Christmas Eve and pray that by some miracle he might be there in the morning when she awoke. But he never was.