Just a Taste (30 page)

“Y
ou got everything
under control?”

Anthony’s staff nodded, which was not the answer he wanted. He wanted to be told that they couldn’t afford for him to step out for even a few minutes, thus giving him an excuse not to go to Vivi’s opening. They were on night two sans Aldo. Anthony wondered if Michael had gotten the chance to stop by Aldo’s as promised. He hoped so. He also hoped the old man was just trying to bust his chops about the raise. Anthony’s fear was that he
was
into the bookies in a big way, and that right now, Aldo’s body was lying at the bottom of Jamaica Bay, weighed down by chains.

He took off his apron, tossing it into the laundry hamper in the staff locker room before heading to the restroom to change out of his chef whites and clean up a bit. His heart was heavy with guilt and dread. Even though he knew it was the right thing to do, he did not want to go across the street and congratulate Vivi. All he could imagine was walking through the door and people whispering behind their hands as they stared at him in pity.
There’s Anthony Dante. Did you read that awful review of his restaurant in the
Sentinel
? It sounds like it’s really going downhill. He should give it up.

Then there was Vivi herself. She wouldn’t bring up the review to his face, but he knew she’d know about it, and she’d be gloating inside. What chef didn’t when their competition slipped a little? Worse, seeing her would lead to a chain reaction in his heart. Longing would lead to depression that he could easily turn into anger if he didn’t watch himself. Christ, if only he could just stay put and cook.

Five minutes, he promised himself as he splashed cologne on his face and neck. He’d pop in, he’d congratulate her, and leave.

He grabbed his jacket, heading out through the back door and onto the street. He could see through Vivi’s front window; the place was packed. He was about to step off the curb when he paused mid-stride to slap himself on the forehead, and turn back.

“Y
ou traitorous old
bastard.”

The minute Anthony clapped eyes on Aldo waiting tables at Vivi’s, the temptation to strangle his skinny neck was strong. How could he? No, wait, how could
she
? He could forgive Vivi a lot of things, but stealing his longtime headwaiter wasn’t one of them.

Aldo breezed past him, his noble Roman nose in the air, pretending not to hear as he deposited four bowls of French onion soup at a table of lively older women. But when the old man started back in the direction of the kitchen, Anthony and Michael zeroed in on him from opposite sides, forcing him to stop in his tracks.

“Yes?” Aldo sniffed imperiously.

Michael was goggle-eyed. “What the hell are you doing here, Aldo? You work for us!”

“Not anymore.” Aldo folded his arms smugly across his chest, accusing eyes pinning Anthony. “I told you I quit, but you didn’t believe me. Maybe now you’ll believe.”

Anthony’s hands curled into fists. “You quit at least twice a month, Aldo. How the hell was I supposed to know you meant it this time?”

“You gotta come back,” Michael pleaded. “Dante’s isn’t Dante’s without you. You know that.”

Aldo raised an eyebrow, his eyes still burrowing into Anthony’s. “Well?”

“Fine!” Anthony said loudly. A woman sitting nearby gave him a dirty look. “Shit,” he muttered to himself. He felt as if everyone’s eyes were on him, including his brother’s.

“You okay?” Michael asked Anthony pointedly.

“Yeah.”

“He’s come to kill me,” Aldo stated matter of factly. He pointed at the paper bag Anthony was holding in his left hand. “What have you got in there? A gun?”

Anthony snorted. “You really think I’d waste a bullet on you, old man?” Aldo scowled as Anthony tried to ignore the delectable scents wafting his way from the nearest table, that of perfectly cooked tomato and zucchini gratin, and soft, chewy French bread piping hot from the oven. Damn Vivi to hell.

Michael, meanwhile, was still looking at him with concern. “You sure you’re okay, big guy?”

Anthony gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

“My raise?” Aldo prompted, smoothing the front of his white waiter’s jacket with care.

“You can have your raise,” Anthony grumbled. “But you have to come back to work tomorrow.
Capisce?
”

“Capisce,”
Aldo agreed, the faintest smile of triumph on his face.

“Ballbuster,” Anthony growled as his eyes followed Aldo into the kitchen.

“Smart ballbuster,” Michael said with a touch of admiration. His eyes fell to the bag Anthony was holding. “Whatcha got there?”

“An opening night gift for Vivi.” When his brother began to grin, Anthony growled, “I’m just being polite.”

“So you’re not planning on shooting anyone?” Michael double-checked.

Anthony scowled. “Apart from you? No.”

“Glad to hear it.” He patted Anthony on the back, and then went to join Theresa, who was hovering over a table of well-known, hand-selected foodies. Speaking of whom…Anthony went to join his brother and sister-in-law, tapping Theresa on the shoulder to get her attention. “Which one is Bernie boy?”

Theresa discreetly cocked her head in the direction of a dapper, handsome man speaking Italian to Aldo.
Show-off,
Anthony thought. “Over there,” Theresa said. “And you don’t have to worry, he and Vivi aren’t romantically involved at all. But you don’t care anymore about that, right?” she needled.

“That’s right.” He moved, turning when he heard someone growl, “Excuse me,” behind him.

Vivi’s pinch-faced sister was glaring at him. He’d never met someone who frowned so much. It was too bad, because she was a good-looking woman.

“What are you playing at?” she hissed. “How dare you show up here?”

“Your sister invited me,” Anthony answered smugly, trying not to bare his teeth at her.

She jerked her head at the bag in his hand. “What’s in there?”

Jesus Christ, hadn’t anyone here ever seen a paper bag before? “It’s an opening night gift. For your sister.”

Natalie held out her hand. “I’ll give it to her.”

“My ass you will.”

Natalie looked appalled at what he said, which pleased Anthony immensely. “I’m going into the kitchen now to say hello.”

“A
ldo tells me
you’ve come to shoot him.”

Vivi couldn’t resist a barb as Anthony strolled toward her, his entire body tense. Perhaps it was because Natalie was right behind him, smug and officious as if she couldn’t wait for him to make some kind of mistake. When the sisters’ gazes met, Vivi cut her eyes quickly to the kitchen door, indicating Natalie should go. Natalie let out a small puff of exasperation, but she did as Vivi requested.

“Yeah,” said Anthony with a sarcastic frown. “I always carry weaponry around in a paper bag.”

Vivi eyed the bag curiously. “What do you have in there?”

“You’ll see in a minute. First I think we need to discuss how unethical it is to steal a headwaiter from another restaurant.”

Vivi’s jaw dropped. “You think I stole Aldo?”

“He’s out there waiting tables, isn’t he?”

“
He
came over here and asked
me
to hire him!”

“You could have said no.”

“Why?” Vivi challenged, her body temperature beginning to inch up. “Good waiters are hard to come by, and he’s wonderful. If you can’t hold on to your help, it’s not my fault.” Her heart was beginning to race, unnerving her as she realized sparring with him was arousing her.

Anthony flashed a triumphant smile. “Well, you can kiss him good-bye at the end of the evening. He resumes working at Dante’s tomorrow.”

“So you did threaten to shoot him.”

“Can we stop with the shooting, please?” Anthony’s eyes lit on the two women working with Vivi. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your staff?”

“That’s Joanie”—Vivi pointed to a stout, busty woman frying onions in a skillet—“and that’s Charmaine.” The second woman, a dour-faced matchstick of a girl, was busily whipping cream. “Ladies, this is Anthony Dante. He owns the Italian restaurant across the street.” They both smiled in acknowledgment.

“Where did you find them?”

“My friend, Bernard. He knows many restaurateurs in the city, and asked around.” Vivi tipped her head up proudly. “I lured them here with superior salaries. Plus, both were eager to work for a female chef rather than a male.”

Anthony frowned. “Did you even bother to check their credentials? Or did you just take Bernie’s word for it?”

“Do you think I’m a complete twat?” Vivi asked crossly.

“Twit,” Anthony corrected quietly with a wince. “I’d be careful with that expression if I were you.”

Vivi gave a curt nod of appreciation, warmth flooding her cheeks. He probably found her pathetic, still getting euphemisms wrong after all this time.

“I heard about the review,” she ventured. She regretted it as soon as she saw his handsome face, a face she’d once cradled tenderly in her hands, fall.

“Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can,” he replied with bravado. “A little tweak here and there and that reviewer will be eating his words.”

“I think the reviewer was wrong. I think your restaurant is very good.” She moved to one of the burners to give a good stir to some fish broth simmering there. “Of course, mine is better.”

“Of course,” Anthony responded sarcastically.

“Did you see how packed it is out there?” It was probably putting pepper in his wound, but she couldn’t contain her excitement. “Your sister-in-law did a good job with the PR.”

“She did,” Anthony agreed. He joined her at the stove. “Much as it kills me to say this, you deserve this success, Vivi.”

Vivi felt her eyes fill up. God, she hated the way she was at the mercy of her emotions. One kind word and she was on the verge of tears. Maybe it was because the compliment was coming from a fellow chef whom she respected. Or maybe it was because the compliment was coming from the man she still loved.

“Thank you,” Vivi replied, managing to keep her tears at bay.

Anthony cleared his throat nervously, holding up the bag in his hand. “I brought you a small opening night present.”

“You did?” Vivi couldn’t hide her surprise. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Anthony said softly.

He put his hand in the bag, pulling out a large, clear bottle filled with olive oil. “This is homemade and hand pressed. A branch of the Dantes still lives in Italy, and every year, they send us a big batch made from the olives in their grove. I think you’ll find it exceptional to cook with.”

“Oh, Anthony.” Fingers trembling, Vivi reached out to take the bottle of oil. “This means a lot to me.”

“Use it in good health.” Anthony’s expression was strained as he touched her shoulder lightly. “I’d better go back across the street.”

“Have you tried any of the food?” Vivi asked, masking her disappointment at his departing so soon. It was slowly dawning on her that she wanted his approval. The realization troubled her.

“I have to go,” Anthony repeated.

“Not without trying something!” Vivi insisted, suddenly convinced there was nothing in the world more important. She cut off a small piece of leek tart and, without thinking, brought it up to his mouth. Their eyes met, the intimacy of the act dawning on both of them at the same time. Vivi hesitated; then she gently pushed the morsel through his parted lips, her insides trembling. Dear God, she asked herself, why are you torturing him? Torturing yourself?

Anthony chewed carefully, thoughtfully, and deliberately slowly, Vivi thought. She put her hands on her hips. “Well?”

“Too salty,” Anthony pronounced. “But passable.”

Vivi frowned. “Do you really mean that? Or are you just saying that to get my hog?”

“Goat. And no, I’m not just saying it. You always use too much salt.”

“You can go now.”

She heard a chuckle as she turned back to the stove, and then he was gone. She remembered what Theresa had said to her that day she’d gone in to discuss PR, how the verbal jousting between her and Anthony was a form of foreplay. If the warmth still heating her body in the aftermath of his departure was any indication, Theresa was right. She didn’t want to think about it right now. She had a restaurant to run, critics to dazzle. She went back to work.

People stood up and applauded when she emerged from the kitchen at the end of the opening.
Applauded
. She knew she deserved it, and yet to be so blatantly feted made her feel slightly uncomfortable. She said a quick prayer of gratitude while taking her bows, thanking God for allowing her to make her living doing something she loved. Glancing up, she quickly skimmed the well-fed crowd, a small, silly part of her hoping that perhaps Anthony had decided to stick around and share a meal with his brother and sister-in-law. After all, he’d taken the time to give her a gift; perhaps he’d give her the satisfaction of dining in her restaurant. But as soon as she saw he wasn’t there, she chided herself for even wanting it. Vivi’s was going to be a huge success. Nothing else really mattered.

U
ntil she became
aware of the sweat dripping between her shoulder blades, Vivi hadn’t noticed the seasons had turned. July had unleashed itself upon Brooklyn, with soaring temperatures shimmering up like a mirage from concrete and asphalt, and staggering humidity amplified by crowds.

Her tunnel vision of the year previous had paid off, however. Vivi’s was an unqualified success. Reviews had been glowing, and there was a waiting list for reservations. Vivi had never worked as hard as she was working now. Each night, she fell into bed exhausted but hopeful. She was sure that within a year, she and Natalie would be turning a profit and they’d be able to repay Bernard much sooner than they’d planned.

The other good news was that Natalie had finally found her own flat. Living together hadn’t been as hard as Vivi had feared. Still, when they heard the tenant in the apartment directly above, Roberta, had passed away, they jumped at the chance to get Natalie in there. Of course, the landlord raised the rent, but the price was still manageable with Natalie’s salary and the tips she made. Natalie made a surprisingly good waitress, and even seemed to enjoy it.

Taking a break from moving Natalie’s newly purchased futon into the apartment, the two sisters flopped down on it, chugging from their respective bottles of water. “Instead of buying a dining table I think I need to get an air conditioner,” Natalie said as she panted lightly. “At least for the bedroom.”

“I agree.” Vivi said between gulps of water. She found herself smiling. Natalie had been doing well at managing her finances. She was still attending a group meeting once a week for “shopaholics,” and had even made some friends. Vivi thought back to the person her sister had been over the winter, and was startled at the transformation. She had humility now, and was much less judgmental. Of course, she was still fully capable of snappishness now and then, especially when Quinn O’Brien strolled into the bistro. Vivi’s had become one of his favorite local haunts. Vivi didn’t dare mention how obvious it was that Natalie was Quinn’s main reason for frequenting the bistro. She suspected Natalie already knew, which was why she was so biting to him.

“We need to talk, my dear.”

The seriousness of Natalie’s tone, coupled with the look of concern on her face, caught Vivi by surprise, and she immediately began to worry. Was Natalie going to quit? Go back to France? Had she incurred some more debt?

“What is it?” Vivi asked evenly.

“You don’t seem as happy as you should be.”

Natalie’s words were like a sharp poke. Vivi was thrilled to be cooking, thrilled to be the proprietress of her own establishment, and yet, she still felt incomplete. That Natalie noticed was testament to how close they’d become.

Vivi pressed the bottle of cold water to her sweating cheek. “It’s silly, I know. I have everything a person could want.”

“Except the one you love.”

Vivi stared at her.

“I think you should get back together with Anthony Dante.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You always look across the street wistfully at his restaurant. Each time his brother comes into Vivi’s and you come out from the kitchen to say hello, I can tell you’re dying to ask how Anthony is. I’ve even seen you watching Anthony when you catch sight of him on the street. I think you should go to him and see if he wants to get back together.”

Was this really Natalie speaking? Natalie who’d once lectured her on avoiding widowers who also happened to be competitors? Natalie who told her to focus on the restaurant above all else?

Vivi slowly lowered the water bottle from her cheek. “I thought you hated him.”

“I don’t hate him. I just thought”—Natalie cast her eyes down in shame—“that he wasn’t good enough for you.” She looked back at Vivi, her gaze tender. “I was also afraid he’d hurt you.”

“He did.”

Vivi sank back against the futon, still stunned by the words of this new version of Natalie. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Admit I’m right,
cherie.
He’s what’s missing.”

Vivi didn’t want to miss Anthony, but she did. The way he made her laugh…the passion in his eyes when he looked at her…even his vehemence when he thought he was right and she was wrong—she missed all of it. They spoke the same language, both in and out of the kitchen. And she’d thrown it all away.

Vivi shook her head sadly. “I don’t think he’d take me back.”

“Of course he would,” Natalie scoffed.

“I—I’m not sure I could manage it all. The cooking, the restaurant, a relationship…it’s too complicated.”

“Of course you can manage it,” Natalie replied firmly. “Papa juggled a career and two families, didn’t he?”

Vivi inhaled sharply, blowing out a long, slow breath. Granted, there were times when each of her father’s families received short shrift, but overall, he had lived a very complicated life with grace and aplomb. What she faced was child’s play in comparison.

“I don’t know what to say, Natalie.” Vivi closed her eyes, pressing the sweating bottle to the back of her neck.

“Do you want him?”

Vivi hesitated. “Yes.”

“Then go after him. Don’t worry about the small details right now, just think about the big picture: the two of you back together and happy, arguing about the sex of zucchini blossoms.”

Vivi cracked open an eye, regarding her sister wryly. “You’ve become very philosophical in your newfound frugality.”

“Maybe I’ve just figured out what really matters.”

“What if he won’t take me back?” Vivi asked again plaintively.

“He loves you. You know that.”

She did know that, but that didn’t save her from feeling fearful. Anthony was a passionate man, with a strong sense of pride and a temper to boot. What if he told her to go to hell, that he’d gotten on with his life and didn’t want her anymore? It was possible.

Still, her father always said it was better to try and fail than never to try at all. She would speak her heart to Anthony, but only after she consulted with another member of his family.

F
ollowing a map
provided by the Fernwood Cemetery’s office, Vivi made her way to the grave of Angie Dante.

The cemetery was nowhere near as grand and magnificent as Pere LeChaise where her father was buried, but there was a sense of peacefulness among the rolling green hills that made it an unexpected oasis of calm in the heart of industrial Brooklyn. She could see why some people came to cemeteries just to think, and why people long ago used to hold picnics in graveyards; the serenity was wonderful.

She was surprised by the simplicity of Angie’s grave. The Dantes were so dramatic, she was expecting an elaborate headstone. Instead, it was a simple rectangular stone bearing Angie’s full name, Angela Maria Dante, below which was inscribed, “Beloved Wife, Sister, Daughter.” A bouquet of wilting rosebuds and baby’s breath lay propped up against the stone, with a card that said “From Mama.”

Vivi stood there for a long moment, feeling the warm breeze brush her face and hair, searching her heart for something to say. Thinking back to her talk with Natalie, it had occurred to Vivi that maybe it wasn’t Anthony who couldn’t let go of his dead wife. Maybe it was she who had to get over his past.

“I hope you don’t mind my being here,” she began, picturing in her mind’s eye the dark-haired, curvaceous woman whose smiling face had looked out at her from photographs at Anthony’s home. “There are some things I need to tell you. Anthony is a wonderful man. You know that, but I wanted you to hear me say it.

“I love him, and I hate the fact that I hurt him. If he takes me back, I will never, ever hurt him again, Angie.” She swallowed. “I was afraid that deep down, you were still number one in his heart and that he couldn’t commit to me the way I wanted.”

She lightly touched the top of the stone. “I want you to know that you don’t have to worry about him. I promise I’ll take good care of him. I’ll make him as happy as I can; as happy as he deserves to be.” Vivi felt tears prick the corners of her eyes and she blinked them back. “Thank you for loving him first, and showing him how wonderful life can be when two people really love each other. Were it not for that, I don’t think he ever would have been willing to try again.” She took a step back, head bowed. “Rest in peace.” She made the sign of the cross, and blew a gentle kiss. Immediately Vivi felt lighter. She turned her face to the spring sun, and set out to find Anthony.

W
hy couldn’t God
have designed human beings so they didn’t need to exercise? Finishing his morning run, Anthony paused, catching his breath as he waited for the stitch tearing his side to abate. He’d pushed it. He always pushed it. He had to learn to slow down and let himself build up speed and endurance. Otherwise, he was going to blow out his knees or keel over from a massive coronary.

He squinted as he looked up the street, swearing he saw movement on his front stoop. Was someone sitting there? He squinted harder. “Shit,” he muttered to himself. It had to be Insane Lorraine, returning to exact vengeance; selling hot dogs and beer to rowdy hockey fans had probably traumatized her. Or maybe she had traumatized them. It wasn’t until he was two houses away that he realized it was Vivi, sitting there on the top step of the stoop, a foil-covered bowl resting in her lap.

She looked happy to see him, which helped ease his embarrassment over being so sweaty. “Hey,” he said more casually than he was feeling, swiping a forearm across his forehead. It served a dual purpose—it allowed him to wipe away perspiration while at the same time catch a quick sniff of his armpit to see if he smelled rank. He didn’t—at least he thought he didn’t. “This is a surprise.”

“It was intended to be.”

He nodded at the bowl in her lap. “What you got there?”

“Hazelnut risotto pudding.”

Hazelnut risotto pudding? The dessert he’d made in their cook-off—the cook-off he would have
won
were it not for his traitorous brother?

Anthony swiped his other forearm across his forehead. “And you made this because…?”

“Because you should have won that day, and this is my way of admitting it.” Her smile was tentative. “Think of it as a peace offering.”

“I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“I can see that.” Anthony chuckled. “It’s not very often I come home from a run and find a French woman on my stoop offering me dessert. You must really want to talk to me
bad
.”

Her hands tightened around the bowl on her lap. “I do.”

Anthony felt his pulse beginning to hammer, hard and primal, but his mind warned him not to get ahead of himself. “Well, let’s go inside, then.”

He tried not to think about the last time they’d been together at his house as he unlocked the door and ushered her inside. “Guess you’re off today, too, huh?”

“Yes.” There was a slight hesitation in her voice as she added, “Like you, I’m closed on Mondays.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”

He noticed everything that went on across the street: what time her deliveries came, the daily specials posted on the sidewalk chalkboard outside the restaurant, whether her business had gouged into his in any way. It hadn’t, which was good. It would be hard to sit here and talk to her if her restaurant was seriously drawing away from his customer base. It was going to be hard to sit here and talk to her anyway—she looked gorgeous, her hair back in its usual functional braid, her long coltish legs poured into a pair of faded but form-fitting jeans. So simple. So beautiful. Did she even realize?

He followed in bemusement as she headed straight for his kitchen as if she’d been there a hundred times before. “Spoons?” she asked as she put the bowl down on the table.

“We’re going to eat this now?”

“Yes. As we talk.”

The same pushy Vivi. He was desperate to go upstairs and shower, but the resolute set of her jaw told him that wasn’t going to fly. Sighing in resignation, he fetched two spoons. “You want bowls as well?” he asked her over his shoulder from the kitchen counter.

“No. We can just dig into this bowl.”

“How informal.”

She smiled shyly. “Are you teasing me?”

“Maybe.” He walked back to the table and, peeling back the foil atop of the bowl, handed her a spoon.

“Sit.”

They sat, Vivi eagerly sliding the bowl to him. “Taste. Please.”

“You do know it’s counterproductive for me to be eating this after working out, don’t you?”

“‘Working out.’” Vivi clucked her tongue dismissively. “You Americans are so obsessed with fitness! If you just ate right and walked around more, you wouldn’t have to ‘work out.’”

“Yeah? Maybe if we all still smoked like the French that would be enough.”

Her brows furrowed into a little scowl. “Just eat.”

“As
mademoiselle
wishes.” He dug into the custard, helping himself to a hearty spoonful, letting it slide around his mouth for a few seconds so he could appreciate the full taste before swallowing it down. Damn, it was good. As good as his. “This is fantastic.”

Vivi’s face lit up. “Thank you. It’s the currants that make it, no?”

“Completely.”
Ha! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mikey.
Wait until he told his brother that another chef agreed with him on the currant issue. “Where did you find a recipe for it?”

Vivi hesitated. “Your brother. I wanted to make it exactly like yours.”

Now it was Anthony’s turn to scowl. “My brother gave you a family recipe?”

“I promised him I wouldn’t use it at Vivi’s.”

He’d gone from flattery to annoyance in a matter of seconds. Goddamn Michael. Anthony couldn’t wait until he was back at Met Gar next month.

Vivi looked upset. “You’re mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad at you.” Anthony sighed. How could he be mad at her? She’d gone out of her way to make something to please him, to restore some kind of link between them. The question was, why?