Just a Taste (5 page)

Anthony’s eyes seemed to ignite at the thought of competition. “That’s a pretty big gauntlet you’re throwing down there,
Ms.
Robitaille. You sure you’re up for what we in the States call a major butt kicking?”

“Absolutely. There’s no way you can best me. You know it, and I know it.” She leaned across the table, staring hard into his big, brown eyes. “As you Americans say, ‘Bring it over.’”

“I think you mean ‘Bring it
on
.’” Anthony sprang to his feet. “When?”

Vivi rose, nimbly wrapping her own untouched slice of pie in tinfoil. “Surprise me.”

“A
nthony had never
been a fan of unexpected guests, which was why, showing up at work the day after Vivi’s apple pie ambush, he almost turned around and walked right out when he saw his brother sitting in the dining room with baby Angelica. Three visits in one week! First Little Ant, then Vivi, now Mikey. Mother of God. Did he have an invisible sign over his head that read, “Please feel free to interrupt me at work”?

“What the hell are you doing here, Mike?” he asked his brother, bending down to kiss his youngest niece where she slept in her baby carrier atop a small table in the dining room. Michael was wolfing down the remainders of a tart. Vivi’s tart.

“I was driving around trying to get Angelica to sleep, and thought I’d stop in,” Michael mumbled, his mouth full of food.

“Lucky me.” Anthony knew that sometimes the only way his brother and sister-in-law could get the little one to sleep was to drive around. But Anthony couldn’t understand why, once the objective had been achieved, Mikey couldn’t just drive back home and deposit Angelica back in her crib. Mikey knew what it was like at the restaurant. Did he really think Anthony had time to just shoot the breeze?

Oblivious to Anthony’s annoyance, Michael tapped his plate with his fork enthusiastically. “Mmm. You make this? This is the most amazing apple pie I’ve ever tasted.”

“Gimme that.” Anthony grabbed the fork from his brother’s hand and gouged a piece of tart for himself. “It’s good, not great.”

“You’re wrong,” Michael disagreed with a chortle, taking back his fork. “This pie is fucking great.”

“Shut up, Mike.”

“What?” Michael’s eyes were wide and his mouth full. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“I would if I’d made it. But I didn’t.”

“Who made it, then?”

Anthony just scowled until Michael figured it out.

“Ah, Vivi.”

“Ah, Vivi,” Anthony mimicked, stealing another bite of tart. Okay, it was great. But he still thought a little more brown sugar could make it even
greater
. He couldn’t sleep last night, trying to figure out what he could make to prove his baking skills rivaled, if not exceeded, hers. So far he’d drawn a blank.

“I guess she really believes the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Michael ribbed.

Anthony frowned. “She’s not interested in my stomach, or any other part of me unless it’s my head on a plate, and I feel the same way.”

“Sure you do.”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “Stop trying to create something where there’s nothing, will you, please? The woman is a major pain in my ass, showing up here whenever she pleases, kinda like someone else I know.”

“Might I remind you I’m half owner of this place?”

“Might I remind
you
our agreement was you’d keep out of my hair?”

Angelica stirred restlessly in her baby seat, and for a moment, Anthony and his brother held their breath, nervous she might awaken and start to bawl. Both sighed with relief once it became clear she was just getting comfortable.

“Why don’t you take her home so she can sleep in her own crib?” Anthony asked.

“She’s sleeping fine.” Michael glanced around the dining room. “Look, I’m actually here to ask a small favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Could you put together some dinner for me that I can heat up later? You know, some spaghetti and meatballs? Something Dominica and Little Ant will eat?”

“The househusband thing is really working out for you, huh, Mike?”

Michael looked defensive. “It’s working out fine,” he insisted. “It’s just been a crazy day, and I haven’t had a chance to figure out dinner.”

“So you had to come here?”

“That a problem?”

“Not yet. But it could be.”

Anthony ignored the dark look his brother threw him as Michael wolfed down the remainder of the pie. Maybe doing all that homemaker stuff wasn’t as easy as he and Michael thought. No wonder Little Ant was feeling the heat; the kid was Michael’s lifeline to a world he knew inside and out, one in which Michael had excelled.

“How’s Little Ant doing in hockey?” Anthony asked.

Michael puffed up with pride. “They don’t play their first game until next week, but from what I’ve seen at the practices I’ve been able to catch, he’s looking pretty good.”

“The coach must
love
having you there,” Anthony drawled sarcastically.

Michael frowned. “I keep telling the guy to look at me as a resource, but I get the sense he sees me as more of a liability than an asset.
Cafone.
”

“Maybe he’s worried you’re making Little Ant nervous.”

“Nah. I’ve been playing hockey with Little Ant since he was three. He’s not nervous.”

“So, he’s enjoying himself?”

“Yeah, of course.” Michael’s gaze turned suspicious. “What’s with the fifty questions all of a sudden?”

“What, I can’t show interest in my only nephew?”

“You’re right.” He patted Anthony’s shoulder affectionately. “Didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just a little tired.”

“The kids are running your ass off, huh?”

“Pretty much. But that’s the way it goes, right?”

“I guess.” Anthony absently scratched behind his ear. “You know, last time I was at your place, Little Ant was asking me all sorts of questions about cooking.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” said Michael, frowning a little.

“I was thinking—maybe I could show him how to prepare a few things.”

Michael shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with hockey, why not?”

Shit,
thought Anthony, heart sinking on his nephew’s behalf. This was going to be one uphill battle. Anthony didn’t have any kids, so he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell his brother how to raise his.

“Do you know what time his first game is next week?” Anthony asked.

“I can check. Why? You want to go?” The prospect seemed to make Michael happy.

“Yeah, I’d love to.” The kid needed all the emotional support he could get. “It depends on whether I can get away.”

“It’d be right after school, and the game usually doesn’t last for more than an hour,” Michael said eagerly. “You’d be back here in time for the beginning of the dinner rush.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. Little Ant would love it. You know how much he loves you.”

“Yeah, I do,” Anthony agreed proudly. He was a damn good uncle if he said so himself.

Michael slid out of his seat gingerly and picked up the baby carrier, regarding his slumbering daughter with affection. “I should probably get her home and settled. If she wakes up here, she’ll freak out.”

“I’ll go put together some dinner for you. But first, let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“What do you think is the best dessert I make?” Anthony hated sounding like he was fishing for compliments, but he needed an objective opinion in choosing what to make that would blow Vivi’s socks off, gastronomically speaking.

“No question, the ricotta fritters.”

Anthony was pleasantly surprised. “Yeah? Not the olive oil cake?”

“Your olive oil cake is outstanding, but the fritters—oh man. Theresa says they’re better than sex.”

I remember sex,
Anthony thought nostalgically. He hadn’t been with anyone since Ang died. Friends urged him to find a friend with benefits, or even visit a hooker if he needed relief, but Anthony was not a sex for sex’s sake kind of guy. Never had been.

“Right,” Anthony said, tightening the ties of his apron. “You wait here, I’ll get the chow.”

“Mucho thanks, my man. I’ll shoot you a call later about Little Ant’s game.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh, and Ant?”

“Yeah?”

Michael grinned. “Next time you see Vivi, tell her from me that her apple pie is outstanding.”

“T
his estimate is
outrageous.”

Vivi tried to cover her embarrassment over Natalie’s pronouncement, smiling nervously at Ricky and Joey DiDinato. Vivi had agonized over whether to take Anthony’s suggestion, precisely
because
the brothers DiDinato were the priciest contractors of the lot. But then she’d remembered Natalie telling her price was no object. When she’d mentioned the estimate to Natalie before contacting the brothers, Natalie’s impatient response had been, “Yes, yes, whatever you want,” her aversion to managing the myriad details clear. Yet now that it was actually time to sign the contract, Natalie was balking.

Joey DiDinato, a squat man with a pair of tattooed biceps that rivaled Popeye’s and a face that looked like it had been flattened by a shovel, raised an unruly eyebrow. “We got a problem here, ladies?”

“No,” said Vivi.

“Yes,” Natalie countered, glaring at her. “This estimate seems very high to me.”

“Compared to what?” asked Ricky DiDinato, whose physique matched his brother’s but whose leathery face boasted more contour.

“Others we’ve received,” said Natalie.

Joey snorted through his bulldog nose. “Hire the others, then.” He started to rise from his folding chair, but Vivi waved him back down.

“Please,” she said frantically. “Can you just wait one minute while I talk to my sister in private?”

“Sure.” He stood again. “Me and Ricky’ll go get a samwich. We’ll be back in ten.”

“Thank you,” Vivi said as the men sauntered out of the empty candy store, their irritation obvious.

“‘Samwich’?” Natalie repeated disdainfully as they closed the door. “Can you believe—”

“Have you lost your mind?”

Natalie’s mouth tightened. “I beg your pardon?”

“I told you what hiring the brothers would cost. You said it was fine. Now, all of a sudden, it’s not fine?”

Natalie smoothed the front of her trousers. “Vivi, doesn’t this estimate seem high to you? I mean, really.”

“We agreed we wanted the best, Natalie. These brothers are supposed to be the best.”

“According to whom?”

Vivi gestured across the street. “According to Anthony Dante.”

“The Gravy Man?” Natalie hooted. “Oh, yes, I’m sure he steered you in the right direction!”

“What do you mean?” Vivi asked crossly.

Natalie looked at her like she was a simpleton. “Did it never cross your mind that he recommended the DiDinato brothers because they’re the worst?”

Vivi shook her head in disbelief. No, it hadn’t crossed her mind. Anthony Dante was an arrogant jackass—a jackass who’d yet to track her down bearing one of his own culinary creations, she noted with some satisfaction—but devious? He didn’t seem the type.

“I don’t think he would do that, Natalie.”

“Did you even double check and ask them if they worked on Dante’s?” Natalie questioned.

“There was no reason to. When they gave me a list of references, Anthony’s name was on it.”

“Maybe they’re in league together.”

“Natalie, listen to yourself. What you’re saying is crazy.”

“Maybe to you, but—” She broke off.

Vivi approached her with concern. “What is it, sweet girl? Why are you so upset?”

“I don’t know.” Natalie seemed anxious. “Sometimes I wonder if we haven’t made a huge mistake, moving here without thinking things through.”

“We did think things through,” Vivi pointed out tersely. She was not about to let Natalie rewrite history just because she was experiencing a moment of doubt.

“Are you sure?” Natalie asked, sounding desperate for reassurance.

“More sure than I’ve ever been in my life,” Vivi declared. She wasn’t just saying it; with each passing day, she felt more confident in her surroundings. The people in Bensonhurst were so nice! They were hardworking, down to earth, and utterly without pretension—so different from so many of the people Vivi encountered when she moved from Avignon to Paris. She was starting to feel at home here, happy she’d chosen to live where she’d be working, rather than live with Natalie in Manhattan. She did get lonely sometimes, but that would change soon enough when the restaurant was up and running. She’d be living, eating, and breathing Vivi’s; time alone would become something she yearned for. A memory.

She watched as Natalie’s eyes slowly made a circuit around the room, hopeful that Natalie’s imagination was as strong as her own, and that she was seeing the room as Vivi saw it: alive with talk, laughter, and the smell of mouthwatering food prepared by Vivi. Instead, Natalie’s mouth was pinched as she pointed to the back wall. “I’m not so sure having the kitchen there is a good idea. Maybe there would be better.” She pointed to the left.

Vivi’s hands curled at her sides. “Natalie, we discussed this. The architect drew up plans according to our specifications. You can’t go changing things around now.”

“Can’t I? It’s my money.”

Vivi ignored the barb. “One minute you’re saying the DiDinato brothers’ estimate is too high; the next you’re implying that we have enough money to tear up the original plans and start over because you’re having second thoughts about the kitchen. Do we have enough money or not? Which is it?”

Natalie blinked with surprise. “Why are you upset, Vivi?”

“Why?” Vivi replied, trying not to sound shrill. “Because at every turn, you remind me that you hold the purse strings. I’m fully aware that I couldn’t do this without you. But you said you wanted to be a silent partner, and leave all the details to me. Money is no object, you told me. But clearly it is.”

“Look at the balance in the account. We have nothing to worry about.”

“Then why nitpick over the brothers’ price?”

Natalie hesitated. “I don’t want us to be taken advantage of. I don’t want people thinking they can push us around just because we’re foreigners.”

“Believe me, Natalie, no one would ever think that of us. That’s one thing we both inherited from Papa: a ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude.”

“Vivi!” Natalie looked horrified. “Watch your language. You’re starting to sound a bit, well—”

“Amerique?”
Vivi offered.

“Oui.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

Natalie’s eyes once again swept the empty store. “Don’t you ever get homesick?”

“Of course I do,” Vivi admitted quietly. She missed her mother and grandmother desperately. “Don’t you?”

“Yes and no. I miss my mother”—her eyes glanced away from Vivi’s—“and a few friends.”

Vivi looked down at the floor. Things felt out of joint. Natalie must have felt it, too; she came over to Vivi and kissed her cheek.

“Let’s make up.”

Vivi lifted her head, bemused. “Are we fighting?”

“I don’t know. Are we?”

“I’m not sure.” Vivi knitted her brows. “Natalie, please. If you would like to be more involved in the day-to-day decisions regarding the restaurant—”

Natalie held up her hand. “No. It’s fine. This is your domain, Vivi. I was wrong to be so pushy about the contractors, and about the kitchen.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t think my nerves can take it if every time you come in here, you want to change something.”

Natalie reddened. “From now on, I promise I’ll be perfectly happy to let you write the checks from the restaurant account.”

“Good.” Vivi returned her kiss on the cheek. “I guess we’ll just wait for the DiDinatos to come back—”

“With their ‘samwiches,’” Natalie sniffed. “Honestly, the way some of these people speak…”

“Natalie?”

“Yes?”

“Do me a favor.”

“Yes?”

Vivi put her index finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

Natalie covered her face and laughed. “As you wish.”

“C
’mon, Little Ant!
Hustle, hustle, hustle!”

Anthony and his sister-in-law Theresa exchanged worried glances as Michael Dante stood up with his hands cupped around his mouth, coaching his son from the stands. It was Little Ant’s first hockey game, and as promised, Anthony was in attendance, not only to support the kid, but also to rein his brother in if he started acting like he was watching the Blades play rather than a midget hockey team. Little Ant had been on the ice less than a minute, and already Michael was shouting directives. Not good.

“Michael, sit down and shut up,” Theresa admonished her husband. “He just hit the ice. Let him enjoy himself.”

“I’m just making sure—”

“Michael.”
Theresa’s voice was laced with warning.

“Fine.” Michael reluctantly sat down, but his eyes remained glued to the ice. “Mother of God, this coach Plano doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing…”

Theresa turned to Anthony, pointedly ignoring her husband. “It’s so great that you’re here. Little Ant was so excited.”

“Hey, I couldn’t miss his first game, could I?”

“Neither could I.” Theresa’s eyes nervously followed her son on the ice.

“How’s work going?” Anthony asked, wincing as his nephew missed a cross-ice pass. He tensed, waiting for his brother to shout something. Michael managed to keep himself under control, but Anthony could see it was tough for him. Michael kept opening and closing his mouth like some sad fish out of water gasping for breath.

“Work’s going great,” said Theresa, giving her husband a look. “It took me a while to get back into the swing of things, but I think I’m doing all right.”

“Where’s Dominica?” Anthony asked, referring to Michael and Theresa’s older daughter.

“Over at my mom’s.” Theresa chuckled. “I asked her if she wanted to come and watch her brother play and she just looked at me as if the very thought was torture. She’s turning into a real
principessa
, that one. She’d better watch her step.”

“And the baby?”

“She’s at my mom’s, too, probably screaming her head off as we speak.” She leaned close to Anthony and whispered, “How’s Michael doing with the househusband stuff? Honestly.”

“He’s doing great,” Anthony replied, wondering if it sounded like he was exaggerating.

“Good.” Theresa looked relieved. “I have to confess, I was a little worried. He’s used to the excitement of this”—she gestured at the ice—“not picking stale Cheerios off the carpet that the baby threw from her high chair, you know what I mean?”

“I think he’s doing okay,” Anthony reiterated, glancing at his brother, who looked on the verge of bursting a blood vessel in his temple. He was about to say as much when Michael sprang back to his feet.

“What the hell was that?” he yelled at the ref. “You bench my kid for boarding and you let that little
cretino
on the other team go scot-free? You did good, Little Ant,” he called down to his son. “Hang tough. Remember what we talked about before the game.”

“Michael,” Theresa hissed, yanking him back down into his seat.

Anthony glanced around discreetly. Other parents were looking at them, most with displeasure. There were a few scattered whispers; Anthony caught the words “New York Blades” more than once. He could just imagine what people were thinking.

“Mike, I really think you need to calm down,” said Anthony under his breath.

Michael scowled at him. “I’m just trying to make sure Little Ant plays the best game he can.”

“How about you let him have some fun?” Theresa snapped. She turned up her palms in disbelief. “Can you believe this?” she asked Anthony.

“Sadly, yes.”

Anthony watched as his nephew returned to the ice with his line. All the kids, regardless of skill, looked gawky to him at this age, their helmeted heads making them look like lollipops on skates. Little Ant looked up into the stands, scouring the crowd for his parents. When he found them, he gave a tentative wave.

“Pay attention to what’s happening on the ice!” his father shouted down to him. Little Ant dipped his head in shame and skated up the right side.

“So help me God, Michael,” Theresa fumed, “if you don’t stop it right now, I’m going to talk to the coach about having you banned. Seriously.”

“You believe this?” Mike asked Anthony, gesturing at his wife. The same question Theresa had asked him not ten seconds before.
My hell is in stereo,
Anthony thought. But he couldn’t lie to his brother.

“Theresa’s right, Mikey. You’re gonna turn the kid into a wreck. You should shut up.”

Michael looked at his wife, then his brother, opened his mouth, closed it, and kept silent.

“Thank God you’re here,” Theresa murmured to Anthony. “If you weren’t, I think I’d kill him.”

“I heard that,” said Michael, eyes following the puck.

“That means you’ve heard everything else I said,” said Theresa. Michael muttered something under his breath, but he kept his opinion to himself.

“So,” said Theresa with a friendly pat to Anthony’s knee, “Michael tells me you have some very attractive competition.”

“What?” It took him a second or two before he realized she was referring to Vivi. “Oh.” His thoughts were further interrupted when a buzzer sounded, heralding that a goal had been scored.

“Yess!” Michael was pumping his fist in the air. “You see that?” he said to Theresa excitedly. “He got an assist! Keep the pressure on, Ant!” he called down to his son.

“Your competition?” Theresa said loudly to Anthony, trying to redirect attention to their conversation.

“What about her?”

“Michael says she makes a mean apple tart.”

Anthony made a sour face. “It was good, not great.”

Theresa’s mention of the tart reminded him that he’d yet to carve out time to make the ricotta fritters that would reveal Vivi as the amateur she was. Maybe he’d make them Sunday morning, after visiting Ang. He’d see.

“Michael says she likes you,” Theresa continued.

“
Likes
me? No offense, Ter, but I think Mikey took one too many pucks to the noggin. The woman doesn’t like me at all, nor do I like her. She’s a friggin’ know-it-all.”

“You worried she’s going to cut into business?”

Jesus Christ,
Anthony thought. Subtle, Theresa was not. “I’m sure
she
thinks she will,” said Anthony. “She obviously doesn’t know who she’s up against.”