Just a Taste (8 page)

“N
ewsflash, Mikey: This
is a restaurant, not a day care center.”

Anthony leaned over the portable crib set up in the middle of Dante’s dining room, glowering at his brother. He couldn’t decide whether to yell (that might scare the baby), demand Michael leave immediately (Michael might yell and scare the baby), or turn around and leave himself (that might scare the kitchen staff). Bad enough that Marie Antoinette had to hurl insults at him across the parking lot; now he had to deal with his pain-in-the-ass brother. He glanced down at baby Angelica, a broad smile plastered on her cherubic little face as she held out her sock monkey to him. “It’s not your fault your daddy’s a loser,
cara
,” Anthony said with a sigh. He took the sock monkey, made a show of kissing it, and returned it to the baby.

“What’s the big deal with us being here?” Michael asked.

“Jesus Christ, Mike.” Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. “You said you’d keep out of my hair, remember?”

“I am.”

“You don’t get it. Your just being here is getting in my hair, okay? I’ve got a business to run, and you’ve got a household to run. Or am I wrong?”

Michael looked guilty. “I’m lonely at home. There’s no one to talk to but the baby.”

“Then take her to the park. Or join one of those play groups. Watch
The View
. I don’t care what you do—just quit showing up here.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Michael repeated stubbornly.

“Yeah?” Anthony pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket. “Let’s call Theresa and see what she thinks.” He started dialing. Michael yanked the phone from his hands.

“Fine,” Michael muttered, a sulky expression on his face. “I’ll leave in a minute.”

“Good.” Anthony stuffed the phone back in his pocket. He never thought the day would come, but he actually felt sorry for his brother. Michael was a lost soul now that he’d retired, spending the hours between getting the kids off in the morning and chauffeuring them after school in a kind of twilight zone.

“Mike,” Anthony said gently, “if this stay-at-home dad stuff isn’t your cup of tea, that’s okay. Not everyone—”

“It’s fine,” Michael snapped. “It’s just taking me a little while to adjust, okay?”

“Not for nothing, but if you ask me, spending your spare time here isn’t going to help. Can’t you clean the house or something to help you kill time?”

“We have a housecleaner,” Michael said glumly.

“Why don’t you get a nanny so you’re free to do stuff during the day?”

“I can’t leave the baby with a nanny!”

“Why the hell not? You’ve got enough money!”

“It’s not about money,” Michael insisted. “It’s about bonding.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Nothing says bonding like sticking her in a playpen in the middle of an empty dining room.”

“Don’t bust my balls, Ant. You’ll understand when you’re a father.”

Anthony felt a judder of pain go through his body as he looked away. It was as if gravity singled him out, rendering him immobile.

“Sorry,” Michael mumbled apologetically.

“Don’t sweat it.” Anthony studied his brother. “I really think you need to figure something out, bro. You look terrible.”

“Raising kids is hard work! By the time Theresa gets home, she’s too exhausted to do anything besides grab a quick bite to eat and put them to bed. It’s all falling on me.”

“That’s rough.”

“You’re damn right it is. So if I seek a little relief during the day by coming down here to hang with you, the least you could do is cut me some slack.”

“Does Theresa know you’re serving the kids restaurant leftovers for dinner every night?”

“No, and she’s not going to find out.”

Anthony chuckled softly. “I can’t believe the kids haven’t ratted you out yet.”

“Give kids money and they’ll clam up pretty fast.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mike, okay? But you’re pathetic.”

Michael snorted derisively. “Look who’s talking, Pepé Le Pew.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“Vivi told me all about your little tart versus fritters debate. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me—your own brother—what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Funny, she said the same thing—proof positive something
is
going on!”

“Yeah, that’s right. You’re a regular Inspector Clouseau,” Anthony mocked.

Michael was undeterred. “I think it’s great, Ant. Vivi’s really nice.”

“Nothing’s going on!”

His raised voice startled the baby, but she soon enough returned to contentedly gumming her sock monkey’s nose.

“If nothing is going on,” Michael persisted, “then why did you conveniently forget to tell me why you wanted to know which was better, your fritters or your olive oil cake?”

“Because I knew you’d try to make something out of nothing!”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Ant: It’s time to move on. It’s been over a year.”

“Oh my God.” Anthony closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. “Read my lips: I’m not interested. Not because of Ang, but because I’m just not interested.”

“You’re a bad liar. Always have been.”

“And you’re a pain in the ass, Mike. Always have been.” Anthony tried changing the subject. “Did Little Ant have anything to say about our cooking lesson last week?”

“He seemed to have a good time,” Michael answered distractedly. “Speaking of which, I’m bringing him to a Blades game next Monday night to see if I can’t get him a little more pumped up about hockey. You wanna come?”

Anthony hesitated. When Angie was alive, she was always nudging him to do more on his one day off. But even at home, he couldn’t leave the restaurant behind. Being a head chef was a twenty-four-hour job whether you were in the kitchen or not. However, going to the hockey game might be a good idea. He could act as a buffer between Little Ant and his father if he needed to, and the game was in the beginning of the week, when business tended to be slow. “Sure, I’ll come.”

“Great. Little Ant will be thrilled. Speaking of which, I’ve got some news you’ll be thrilled about, too.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“I took the liberty of hiring a hostess for the front of the house,” said Michael, looking pleased with himself.

Anthony stared at him. Damned if blood didn’t make a sound; he could hear his own in his ears, a pulsing torrent fighting to drown out the voice in his head, the one telling him to throttle his brother within an inch of his life.

“You did
what
?”

“Hired a hostess. Admit it, Ant, we need one. You can’t expect Aldo to pinch hit.”

“This is my restaurant, Mike.
My
restaurant.
My
domain. How many times, in how many different ways, do I have to say it?” The more he thought about his brother’s unilateral decision, the angrier he became. “How dare you hire someone without talking to me first! How dare you hire someone, period?”

“I’m helping you out here, you jackass!” Michael yelled.

“I don’t need your help!” Anthony yelled back.

Angelica’s lip quivered. Then she began to cry.

“Good one,” Michael hissed, picking up his daughter and bouncing her on his shoulder.

“Call whoever it is you hired and tell them you made a mistake,” Anthony commanded.
“Now.”

“Anthony.” Michael’s tone was cajoling. “Try and think clearly for a moment. This is something we need.”

Anthony bit down on his tongue.

“I can’t unhire her. It’s someone from the neighborhood. Someone who desperately needs the work.”

“Who?”

“Lorraine Fabiano. Remember her?”

Anthony drove the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. “You better be shitting me.”

“Why?”

“Do you remember her nickname from high school, Mike?” Anthony asked as he tore his hands from his eyes, staring his little brother down. “Do you?”

Michael looked uneasy. “No.”

“Let me remind you, then: it was Insane Lorraine.” Anthony took a step toward his brother, who clutched his baby daughter tighter. “Is it coming back to you now?”

Michael swallowed. “Kind of.”

“Kind of. Maybe this will help. She had a crush on me, remember? Used to hang around in front of the house, leave love notes for me in the hands of Mom’s Saint Francis statue? Is it coming back to you now?’

Michael’s face fell. “Fuck.”

“Fuck is right. So put Angelica down and get on the horn right now. Tell Insane Lorraine that you’re very sorry, but you made a mistake and the position is filled.”

“Anthony.” Michael’s voice was gently admonishing. “Don’t be so friggin’ hard-hearted. Her pop died a couple of months ago and she came back to Bensonhurst to help out her mother.”

“Oh, you mean Insane Lorraine Senior?” Michael ignored him. “Let me ask you something—did you ask her where she’s been the past ten years?”

Michael looked uncomfortable. “No.”

“So how do you know she wasn’t, oh, spending time in a mental hospital for burying cats up to their necks and chopping off their heads with a lawnmower?”

“Did she do that?” Michael spluttered.

“I have no idea. The point is, you know nothing about her apart from the fact she’s ‘from the neighborhood.’”

“She needs a job. I was trying to do a good deed.”

“Then hire her as your nanny. Or better yet, your cook.”

“Let’s just give her a chance, Anthony. Okay? It could end up helping us—you—out.”

“Or, we could end up losing customers when she strips off all her clothes and does the hokey pokey on top of the bar.”

Michael looked apprehensive. “Did she—?”

“Yeah, she did, Mike. Mr. Leotardo’s tenth grade geometry class.”

“I was still in junior high,” Michael mumbled, hanging his head.

“Convenient. You want to play Good Samaritan? You train her.”

Michael’s head snapped up. “What?”

“You heard me. You hired her, you train her. And if we need to, you fire her. We clear?”

“Ant—”

“We clear?”

Michael was sullen as he balanced Angelica on his hip and started folding up the playpen with his free hand. “We’re clear.”

“V
ivi was unhappy.
Not only had her conversation with Anthony put her in a sour mood, but the DiDinato brothers were well over an hour late, as was Natalie. Natalie had promised to be on hand when the work started so that everyone would be on the same page. But in typical Natalie fashion, the appointed time came and went. Vivi knew she would be here eventually, but the DiDinato brothers were another story. She hoped their tardiness wasn’t symptomatic of a lackadaisical attitude toward work in general. They were paying them a small fortune. The least they could do was
try
to be punctual.

She peered out the window of the candy store, watching pedestrians hurry down the wide concrete sidewalks, while in the street, a large panel truck sat idling at a red light, its exhaust belching sooty smoke. She felt homesick. She missed Paris’s small winding streets, and the way the sunshine caressed the Seine, making it shimmer like a mirage. She longed to tarry in the open-air markets, squeezing fruit, selecting the freshest ingredients for that night’s meal. Paris wasn’t her hometown, it was true, but she’d grown to love it almost as much as Avignon. Strolling briskly from her apartment that morning, she’d noticed a cyber café on Seventh Avenue. Perhaps when she was done here, she would go there and e-mail friends back home, filling them in on her progress. Then, later in the day, she would treat herself and call
maman.

“Bonjour!”
Natalie’s voice was cheerful as she entered the candy store, clutching two cups from Starbuck’s in one hand and a large shopping bag in the other. “I thought we’d see what the fuss was all about with this coffee.”

Vivi took the paper cup proffered by Natalie, trying not to feel injured, or worse, paranoid. Suppose her coffee
was
substandard, and Natalie had purchased this coffee so she wouldn’t have to drink Vivi’s?

Natalie put the shopping bag down and raised her own coffee cup to her lips for a good long taste. “Nowhere near as good as yours.”

Vivi gave a small curtsy. “Thank you.”

As always, Natalie was stylishly dressed in an outfit Vivi had never seen before: tailored black trousers, a lovely gray silk blouse, a red scarf knotted expertly at her throat. “You look lovely,” Vivi murmured.

“All Tahari,” Natalie confided.

The name meant nothing to Vivi, but she guessed it was a big-name designer. Not for the first time, Vivi found herself wondering what Natalie did all day in Manhattan. Shop?

Natalie dipped into the large shopping bag at her feet, pulling out a box from Saks Fifth Avenue. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Natalie!”

“Oh, Natalie, nothing,” Natalie pooh-poohed, handing Vivi the box. “As far as I can tell, you haven’t bought yourself one new thing to wear since we’ve been here. What kind of French woman are you? Don’t you know we have an image to uphold?”

Do I look that bad?
Vivi wondered, feeling inadequate for the second time. Like most French women, Vivi was careful with her appearance. She might not dress fancily, but the pieces in her small but simple wardrobe were well tailored, and she never, ever left her apartment without putting on at least one coating of mascara and a touch of lipstick. The American women she saw who went out in public in sweatpants—or worse, sneakers—stunned her. That was one of the easiest ways to spot a tourist in Paris: Their sensible shoes gave them away every time!

“Open it,” Natalie urged.

Vivi tore the lid off the box, pulling out a beautiful, velvet blazer in chocolate brown.

“Now you can enter the fall in style,” Natalie declared.

Vivi held the jacket up against her, stunned. “How much did this cost?”

“That’s not your concern. Do you like it?”

“I love it, but—”

“Non,”
said Natalie, wagging a warning finger in her face. “Not another word, apart from ‘thank you’ if you’re so inclined.”