Just a Taste (25 page)

“Of course.”

“Why did you break up with Anthony Dante? I thought”—she seemed to be searching for the right word—“he was what you wanted.”

“I decided I couldn’t handle the complication right now.” A dry shard of cracker stuck painfully to the back of Vivi’s throat, and she swallowed hard, struck by how close she was to fighting back tears. “I need to focus on the restaurant.”

“It’s the dead wife, isn’t it?” Natalie asked with a knowing expression.

“Yes,” Vivi admitted, feeling a sharp jab to her heart, “but it’s also me. I realized I can’t have it all, Natalie, at least not at once. Maybe later, once the bistro is up and running, I can learn to juggle, and by then, Anthony will have sorted his feelings out. But for now, I have to concentrate solely on Vivi’s.”
If there’s even going to be a Vivi’s,
she thought but didn’t say.

Natalie looked surprised. “He lent you money even though you broke up with him?”

“Yes.” A sense of shame washed over Vivi as she recalled it. “He’s a good person. A much better person than I am, clearly.”

“I don’t know about that,” Natalie replied with a loving squeeze to Vivi’s shoulder. The peaceful expression on her face faded, replaced by a more appropriate look of unease. “So what are we going to do?”

Vivi briskly wiped cracker crumbs off her lap and turned to her. “We’re going to call Bernard Rousseau.”

V
ivi hadn’t seen
Bernard Rousseau since the cook-off at Dante’s, and she’d forgotten how handsome he was: tall, with regal bearing and thick black hair graying slightly at the temples, contributing to his wise and sophisticated look. He seemed delighted that Vivi and Natalie had asked him to meet them for dinner, though the choice of where to eat had been agonizing. Vivi wanted someplace quiet yet not too expensive, with delicious food and good service. She settled upon Zusi’s, where she and Anthony had dined with Michael and Theresa.

Walking into the restaurant, she felt a small sting of melancholy as she remembered that night and how close she felt to Anthony, the laughter the four of them shared still ringing in her ears. It seemed so long ago, when in reality it was only a matter of months. Funny how quickly things could change. She sent the melancholia packing, since she was its author. If she was missing Anthony, she had no one to blame but herself.

Natalie had looked horrified when Vivi told her they were taking the subway to the restaurant, but in the end she complied, knowing she had no room for complaint. Vivi wondered if bringing Natalie with her was a bad idea, but she had no choice—Natalie knew Bernard well, and she didn’t. As long as Natalie didn’t break down and admit that she’d thrown away their inheritance and then some, all would be well, or so Vivi hoped. She had no problem securing a restaurant reservation: all she had to say was that it was for one of the French ambassadors to the UN, and—
voila!
—a free table magically appeared at the exact time Vivi had asked for. Position indeed had its privileges.

Bernard rose as Vivi and Natalie approached the table, his expression warm and open.
“Bonjour,”
he said, kissing each of them on both cheeks. “It’s not often I get to dine with two beautiful women.”

Vivi and her sister accepted the compliment with graceful smiles, though inside, doubts were jockeying for position in Vivi’s mind. What if he turned them down? Was this the right action to take? Would he be insulted that the first time they socialized together, she’d be making a loan request?

Bernard was taking in the restaurant as he pulled their chairs out for them, head bobbing with approving nods. “Very nice. I’ve heard about this place. It’s new, yes?”

“Yes,” said Vivi. “The food is very good.”

Natalie looked at her, surprised. “You’ve eaten here?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

What does it matter?
Vivi wanted to snap. “With our neighbor, Anthony.”

“Huh,” said Natalie. She seemed insulted. Vivi ignored it.

Bernard insisted on ordering the wine.
God forbid a man doesn’t order the wine,
Vivi thought, but both he and Natalie let Vivi order the food, since she’d been here before. Their meal was pleasant as they discussed life in America, life back in Paris, and the plans for the restaurant. Vivi found herself slightly envious of Natalie’s easy rapport with Bernard, especially since it was Vivi who was going to be asking for the loan. Were she here alone with Bernard, she had no doubt he would think her a pest as she plied him with questions about her father: How long did you know him? What was he like at work? When did you know about my mother and me? Did he talk about us to you? Have you ever met my mother? What is Natalie’s mother really like? Did she love him?

Eventually, dessert was ordered: apples braised in butter orange sauce for Vivi (too much butter, not enough sauce), chocolate mousse for Bernard, a slice of apple pie for Natalie. Vivi had watched Natalie with amazement the entire evening. She didn’t seem in the least nervous or worried. In fact, at several points over the course of their meal, she had flashed Vivi a small enigmatic smile, which Vivi wasn’t sure how to interpret. Did it mean, “Don’t worry, there won’t be any problem”? Or “Ask now,
now
, while he’s laughing at my joke or interested in your cooking”? Vivi hadn’t a clue.

They lingered over dessert, Bernard ordering some port as a final digestif. Vivi could understand how he and her father could be friends; both were witty, warm, and solicitous. She wondered if he had ever married, or if he was divorced. She would ask Natalie after dinner.

“This has been wonderful,” Bernard sighed, looking with affection at both of them. “I’m so glad you invited me out this evening.”

Vivi looked down, brushing her fingertips back and forth against the lip of the table. “I hope you still feel that way after you hear what I have to say.”

She felt Natalie stiffen beside her, and looked up. Bernard’s head was cocked quizzically to one side as he asked, “What is it, Vivi?”

Vivi took a deep breath. “Natalie and I need your help. The expense of opening up the bistro is far more than we anticipated. I know this is very sudden, and most certainly unexpected, but we wanted to ask if we might borrow two hundred thousand dollars from you.” The floodgates in her brain opened. “Before you say anything, know this: I’m not talking about doing business on a handshake. I’m talking about a real loan, with signatures and a monthly payment schedule. I’m hoping that within a year—”

“Vivi.” Bernard’s voice was almost chastising. “Don’t get yourself all worked up. Of course I will give you the loan.”

Vivi fought the urge to vault over the table and kiss him.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Bernard.” She blinked back tears. “If you’d said no—”

“But I didn’t.” He topped off her glass of port.

Natalie reached for Vivi’s hand beneath the starched white tablecloth, clutching it hard. “Are you certain?” Vivi asked.

“Of course. I owe my diplomatic career to your father. We can go to my attorney and make the arrangements tomorrow if you’d like.”

Vivi swallowed. “That would be wonderful.”

Dinner finished on a quiet note. Bernard insisted on paying, but Vivi refused. She and Natalie had asked him to dinner, not the other way around. So what if she had to put it on her credit card? Vivi still had some pride. She was not going to let this man save her dream
and
foot the bill for the meal where they’d asked him for money.

They took their time strolling out of the restaurant, Natalie slightly ahead of them, talking to someone on her cell phone.

“You know,” said Bernard as he held the restaurant door open for them to leave, “there is a way you can thank me.”

“What’s that?”

“Have dinner with me Friday night. You’re a chef, Vivi. You must know which restaurants in the city are best. Pick one, and we’ll go.”

Vivi glanced quickly at Natalie. She seemed not to have heard. She looked back at Bernard. Was he asking her on a date? She couldn’t tell. He was wearing the same confident expression he’d worn all evening. She thought it over. Accepting his invitation would give her a chance to prove to him she was serious about Vivi’s, and she could ask him about her father without worrying about possibly offending Natalie.

She said yes.

“F
eel free to
kiss my feet. I got Lorraine a job.”

Anthony glared at Michael and continued chopping fresh basil for that day’s batch of gravy. Michael had just breezed into the restaurant with little Angelica in tow, despite Anthony’s repeated requests he not do that anymore.

Michael sighed, readjusting Angelica in her baby seat, which was perched on one of the long, stainless steel tables in the kitchen. “Don’t you want to know where she’ll be working?”

“You can tell me right after you fire her.”

Michael frowned. “Can’t you—”

“No way,” Anthony cut in. “You hired her, you fire her.”

“But you’re her boss.”

“You’re her boss, too, Mister ‘Half Owner.’”

Michael scowled, sidling up to Anthony at the cutting board. “I got her a job at one of the concession stands at Met Gar.”

“I guess that explains why you’ve been going there all the time.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Idiota
, Anthony cursed himself. He wasn’t supposed to know that little nugget of info that had come his way courtesy of Little Ant.

“What?” Anthony asked back innocently.

“How do you know I’ve been going in to Met Gar?” Michael asked, popping a sprig of basil in his mouth.

Anthony played it cool. “Little Ant told me on the phone the other day.”

“You talk to Little Ant on the phone?”

“Yeah. Sometimes we e-mail, too. What are you, in the FBI?”

“No.” Michael looked peevish. “I just didn’t know, that’s all.”

“Is that why you’ve been going into the city?” Anthony tried again. “Trying to rustle something up for Lorraine?”

“Yeah,” Michael said evasively, picking up another sprig and studying it as he rolled it between his fingers. His eyes cut to Anthony’s, then looked away.
Madonn’
, thought Anthony,
he really is hanging at Met Gar with his ex-teammates, strolling endlessly up and down Memory Lane.

Anthony plucked the sole remaining basil sprig from his brother’s hand, chopped it, then tipped the whole cutting board of chopped basil into the stockpot bubbling on the stove. “Suppose Lorraine doesn’t want to jackass into the city for work?”

“Why wouldn’t she? People do it all the time.”

“Some people don’t like it. And she’s, um, what’s the word I’m looking for here?” Anthony snapped his fingers as if trying to recall something. “Oh yeah,
insane
.”

“She’ll take it,” Michael replied in an overconfident voice that really grated Anthony’s cheese. “I got her a full-time job without her even having to be interviewed. She’ll be so grateful she won’t be able to turn me down.”

“You better be right,” Anthony warned, “because if I lock up here one night and she comes flying out of the shadows at me wanting to play Adam and Eve, you’re a dead man.”

“Have a little faith.”

Anthony frowned. “I’m not too big on that word these days.” He leaned over to kiss the tip of his niece’s nose on his way to fetch some onions to chop. He could feel Michael watching him.

“What? Vivi?”

“Oh yeah.”

Michael looked concerned as Anthony walked back toward him. “It didn’t go well? Your talk?”

“It didn’t go at all. I did just what you advised: laid it on the line, was honest with her, asked her to be patient, told her I loved her, told her about the dreams, yadda yadda yadda.”

Michael picked up a wooden spoon nearby and began stirring the sauce. “And—?”

“She thinks I’m not over Ang. Also, she can’t handle a relationship right now while she’s trying to get ready to open the restaurant. It was like, ‘Oops! Sorry to fuck up your life, but I’ve changed my mind!
Au revoir
, Pasta Boy!’” Anthony peeled the spoon from his brother’s fingers, putting it down on the steel counter with a resounding
clap
. “I told you I never should have gone for it, Mike. My life was perfectly fine as it was.”

“No, it wasn’t. You were a moody, pain-in-the-ass workaholic, just like you were before Angie entered the picture and showed you there was more to life.”

Anthony wasn’t listening. “I should have known this would happen. All chefs are fucking nuts. I of all people should know.”

“Listen to me.” Michael’s voice was firm. “Maybe she’s just feeling overwhelmed right now, okay? Why don’t you wait until Vivi’s opens, and then see what happens?”

“And what?” Anthony snapped. “Go crawling across the street and say, ‘Think you can handle a relationship now?’ No way. She doesn’t want me? Fine. Whatever. Have a nice life,
Mademoiselle
Nutball.”

“You don’t really mean that. You’re just pissed right now.”

“You’re damn right I’m pissed,” said Anthony, slicing through an onion with unusual vehemence. He shook the knife in his hand at his brother. “The sister’s got something to do with this, I’m telling you right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have. I’ve always gotten the sense the sister thought she was better than us, you know?” Michael frowned, but nodded in agreement. “Maybe she talked Vivi out of seeing me.”

“Vivi doesn’t strike me as the type who can be talked out of things.”

Anthony gave a dry little laugh. “That’s true.” He shook his head. “I don’t get it. I really don’t.” He reached for another onion, not sure whom he was speaking to—himself, his brother, or both. “Maybe it’s better this way, who knows? God knows she’s got an opinion about everything. It probably would have driven me up the wall after a while.”

“Just wait until her restaurant opens and see what happens,” Michael repeated.

If it opens,
Anthony thought to himself. Should he tell his brother about his impromptu loan to Vivi? Probably not. His brother was the biggest gossip this side of Rush and Molloy.

Ever since he’d written the check for Vivi, he’d been plagued with worry. What the hell was going on? First rule of business: never get behind in your payments. How could Vivi and her sister not know that? What would have happened if he hadn’t been there to give her the money, or vouch for her? Would Joey and Ricky really have wrecked the place?

At least he’d been able to help out. It gave him the chance to prove to her, in a very concrete way, that he wasn’t just your average, run-of-the-mill guy. What other man would lend fifteen thousand dollars to the woman who’d just trampled on his heart? Either he was extraordinarily kind or he was a total patsy. Shaking his head one final time, he concentrated on chopping onions. Maybe his generosity would shock some sense back into her. You never knew.

“M
ore wine?”

Vivi smiled politely at Bernard Rousseau’s question and shook her head no, fearful a third glass would make her tipsy. At his request, she had selected what she knew to be one of the finest French restaurants in the city: Rene’s, named after its famous chef, Rene Bruel, a culinary superstar in France. Vivi had never had the privilege of cooking under him, but her friend Marcelle from Le Cordon Bleu had, and he said it was grueling yet rewarding, as was the case with all great chefs. Vivi had been in some beautiful, expensive restaurants in her day, but Rene’s, with its soaring ceilings, luxurious tapestries, and intimate, individual dining niches, took her breath away. The china, glassware, and flatware were delicate and exquisite. She wasn’t surprised to learn they were custom designed for the restaurant.

She’d almost choked on her wine when the famous Rene himself stopped by the table, and Bernard told him that Vivi, too, was a chef who was opening a restaurant. “Is that so?” Rene asked politely, eyes narrowed in competition. Vivi hastily pointed out that it was a small bistro in Brooklyn, nothing like the magnificent Rene’s. She then invoked the name Marcelle. Rene’s expression softened, and together the three of them spoke volubly about fine food, fine wine, the importance of setting, and atmosphere. By the time Rene said his
adieus
and moved on to greet the diners at the next table, Vivi was surprised to find herself feeling a little homesick after speaking in her native tongue of the things she loved.

For the first time in she didn’t know how long—years, perhaps—Vivi couldn’t come up with a single critique of the meal she’d been served. Her appetizer, tomato tarte tatin, had been delicious enough to make her swoon; her entrée, pancetta-wrapped tuna with potato puree, filled her with envy. By the time dessert rolled around and she took her first bite of spiced Bosc pear with Vietnamese cinnamon, she wasn’t sure if her ego could take the beating. Everything was flawless.

“He’s amazing,” Vivi sighed with a touch of envy as Chef Rene moved out of sight. She looked at Bernard. “Wasn’t the food incredible?”

Bernard smiled companionably. “Fantastic. We’ll have to come here again.”

Vivi hesitated. “Yes,” she said faintly, not sure how else to respond. She finished her last few drops of wine, more than certain that she’d had enough. “Bernard, I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but I can’t thank you enough for the loan.”

“Pffttt,”
he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Enough about that. It’s the least I could do for Stephan Bocuse’s daughter.”

“Daughters,” Vivi corrected.

“No, daughter.” Bernard’s gaze was unnervingly direct. “I know Natalie got you into this mess, Vivi. I know because I remember her doing the same thing in Paris.”

Vivi blinked hard. “Papa told you about Natalie?”

“Oh, yes. It was his heartache. That, and not being able to see you and your mother enough.”

Vivi’s head was spinning. “Bernard…you have to excuse my ignorance…but there’s so much I don’t know about my father.”

“Perhaps I can help you out. What would you like to know?”

Vivi’s hands twisted in her lap. “Was he easy to work with?”

“Very easy,” Bernard assured her.

Vivi swallowed hard, trying to keep at bay all the questions on her tongue competing for voice. “And you knew about my mother and me?” she continued.

“Of course.”

“What—what did he say about my mother?”

“That he loved her, of course.” He paused, thinking hard. “He said she was very free-spirited. Unconventional, if you will. He liked that.”

Vivi laughed in recognition. “She is!” Tell me more, she wanted to beg, like a child clamoring for the fairy tale being told them to never end. “Can you remember anything he said about me?”

Bernard’s smile was gentle. “He was very proud of you, Vivi. He used to talk about you all the time, what a wonderful cook you were. What a wonderful young woman you were.”

“He did?” Vivi looked away, trying to stay tears. “Thank you for telling me that. It means a lot to me to know he said that to other people, not just me.”

“What else can I tell you?” Bernard teased. “His shoe size? How many
Gauloises
he smoked a day?”

Vivi affected pique. “I already know the answers to those questions, thank you very much.” She hesitated, unsure whether she really wanted to hear the answer to her next question. But she had to know. “Do you know if he loved Natalie’s mother?”

Bernard began fiddling with his teaspoon. “He did love her,” he said carefully, “but that does not mean he was in love with her. He was in love with your mother, Vivi.”

Vivi inhaled raggedly as a tear splashed onto the tablecloth. “Then why didn’t he leave his wife? Why didn’t—”

“Shhh.” Bernard came around to her side of the table and sat down beside her, patting her shoulder. “You know why. You know how important appearances are for a man of his station. You know leaving his wife for his mistress would have been frowned upon. Besides, both your parents were perfectly happy with their arrangement, so don’t fret.”

“Well, no one bothered to ask me if
I
was happy with it, did they?” Her chest ached from holding back a cry of frustration. “I would have given anything for him to be there full time, not part time! Didn’t he know that?”

“It was what it was, Vivi. Would it comfort you to know that Natalie and her mother only had him part time, too, since his work was so demanding?”

“That’s what Natalie said.”

“There, you see? It’s the truth. He loved both you girls very much, Vivi. More importantly, he loved both of you the same.”

“Natalie’s mother.” Interesting, wasn’t it, how she could never bring herself to refer to her as her papa’s “wife”? “Is she mean and horrible? Natalie always says she is.”

Bernard furrowed his brows. “She’s…dramatic.”

“Very diplomatically put,” Vivi said with a sniffle.

“Appropriate, is it not, since I’m a diplomat?”

“Yes.” She turned away, blowing her nose discreetly into a tissue. “I’m sorry about this. There are just so many things about my father I don’t know. So many things about Natalie I don’t know.”

“You can ask me anything you want about your father anytime. As for Natalie, I can tell you she was thrilled when she found out she had a half sister—after the shock died down, of course. She loves you, Vivi. But she’s troubled. This money problem…” He shook his head.

“She’s getting help.”

“Yes, I know, but I still think it was unfair of her not to tell you about her history.”

Vivi paused thoughtfully. “Shame can make people keep secrets about all sorts of things. When I was young, I used to lie and tell people my father was a traveling salesman, always on the road. It was better than ‘I was born out of wedlock and my father has a wife and child in Paris.’” She thought about Natalie. “No, I can see why she hid it from me. I’m not pleased about it, but I understand it.”

Bernard gave a small whistle of admiration. “You’re very generous, Vivi. Someone else might want nothing to do with her.”

“She’s my half sister, Bernard. And she’s the only person I have in this country.”

“That’s not true. You have me.” He leaned over, softly kissing her lips. Vivi stiffened. “You’re a very attractive woman, Vivi,” he murmured, touching a hand to her cheek.

“I’m flattered you think so.” Vivi could feel herself bristling. “Is this why you loaned me the money?”