Where Dreams Reside

by M. L. Buchman

  Perrin practically shouted, “Shrimp and crab cocktail!” Her attempt to drunkenly hug the waitress while she still bore the next appetizer almost caused the woman to bobble the plate, but she was good enough to save the moment.

  “Cute and smart! Too bad I’m straight. Are you?”

  The waitress shook her head no.

  “Bummer. Any takers?” Perrin asked Jo and Cassidy. Cassidy rolled her eyes and Jo just shook her head.

  “Oh well,” Perrin addressed the waitress. “No luck here, sorry about that. Girls, we have to remember to tip her extra nice.” The waitress smiled easily and drifted off at a call to the next table. Another reason Jo liked Cutter’s, the waitresses could deal with Perrin. Other places she tended to blow them out of the water and they never recovered.

  Jo thought that maybe at least on one front, she might have dodged the bullet. Cassidy was still testing the idea and edging up on her opinion.

  “Well, I knew he was attracted to you. But that was last year before I started dating Russell.”

  “You didn’t date Russell,” Perrin corrected her. She held up a finger and began counting. “First you despised his very existence. Then second, you fell head over heels in love with him. After that, third, you couldn’t figure out what to do about it.”

  “I married him.”

  “Okay, that’s fourth. But it took you long enough.”

  Jo considered that this might be an opportunity for her to quietly slip away but rather than rising to Perrin’s tease, Cassidy turned back to face Jo, trapping her on her stool.

  “And now, with no buildup, you, ah…”

  “Jumped his bones,” Perrin filled in when Cassidy hesitated.

  “Well,” Jo thought of trying to explain the wedding and the way Angelo looked at her and how uncomfortable that had made her feel. But it had also made her feel feminine. When she thought of herself as a woman, it was the power suit one who came to mind. The lawyer feared far and wide, feared even more because she was a female and had triumphed every time she’d entered a courtroom since her first mock trial in college. But Angelo kept seeing a different Jo, one she didn’t know, and, much to her dismay it was a version of Jo that she was finding she wasn’t very comfortable with.

  She thought of trying to explain the disastrous meal, his banged head, and how he’d been so cute about it. And their working out together. And… She couldn’t wrap her head, never mind her tongue, around how it had happened. Though she’d never behaved in such a fashion with any lover before Angelo, “jumped his bones” was also alarmingly accurate.

  “Sort of did that,” was the best response she could muster for Perrin. She reached for her martini to slake her dry throat, but it was already half gone and she really needed to slow down. Instead she dipped some crab in the cocktail sauce to buy herself a moment.

  “When?”

  “Last night!” Perrin answered for her. “That’s why we’re having the he-mergency meeting today.” She pulled one sleeve onto her shoulder causing the other one to fall off.

  Perrin leaned in. “Was it good? Yep, that blush nails that part of it.”

  Jo did her best to use sheer willpower to fight the heat rising in her face, which only made her cheeks burn hotter.

  “Did he stay the night?”

  This time Jo gulped some of her martini. When she recovered her breath from the scorch of alcohol sliding down her throat and the citrus twang had cleared her head a bit, she nodded.

  “He stayed until it was time to go shopping.”

  “Yes!” Perrin did a fist pump and almost elbowed a passing guy in the crotch. “That’s a good sign. And he’s so awfully pretty. Is he prettier naked?”

  “How do you do that?” Jo’s voice had drifted out of her control and it came out half in anger but got snarled up in a laugh on the way out.

  “Do what?” Perrin did her best to look all innocent, sitting up extra straight. This caused her blouse to slide off both shoulders making her look even more elfin than she usually did.

  “Make me tell you things I never intended to say?”

  “You’re avoiding the question, counselor. All I want to know is, is Angelo Parrano as pretty naked as you’d expect?” She said it in a voice declarative enough that the women at two nearby tables paused and listened for the answer.

  Jo ground her teeth and fought back the urge to scream.

  “Yes. He is completely gorgeous.” That made two of the women at other tables look away. Two others sighed in what sounded like envy before they turned back to their own tables.

  “Jo swore,” Perrin dropped her jaw in mock horror. “He must look really amazing.”

  “Look, feel, made me feel… Beyond amazing.” Now that she’d started, she couldn’t shut up. But he had. There’d been a heat, a need, a yearning, that would have been unnerving if it hadn’t been so completely mutual. He’d opened up whole new worlds of sensation that she hadn’t known existed. She wasn’t a prude, or inexperienced. But Angelo’s body had simply been made for her. She’d had good lovers before, but she’d never had one who made it so much fun.

  “It was,” her voice sounded soft and dreamy even to herself, “the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Then why are we having a he-mergency meeting?” Perrin placed an elbow on the table and propped her chin in her hand as if that were the only thing keeping her head off the table.

  “Because,” Cassidy still spoke in that slow analytic voice of hers. “Because she’s afraid I’ll be upset.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m married to Russell.”

  Jo nodded, but Perrin simply looked more confused.

  “She isn’t sleeping with Russell. You are. She is sleeping with Angelo.”

  “Actually we didn’t sleep much.” The gin was talking. That was definitely the gin and not Jo Thompson. She really hoped that was true.

  “Now she’s bragging,” Perrin poked at the cocktail sauce with another shrimp.

  “She is,” Cassidy agreed. Cassidy straightened and only wobbled a little in her chair.

  “We’ll just all be adult about this. We’re all grown and, uh, you know, worldly sorts of people. We’ll just make sure that we all end up being friends.”

  “Or lovers,” Perrin never missed.

  “Or lovers.” Cassidy acknowledged.

  “Or married.” This time Perrin positively smirked at Jo. “Told you not to underestimate the power of a good dress.”

  “I’m not marrying Angelo, I’m only sleeping with him.”

  “Except you said you weren’t sleeping with him. Just having lots of fun.”

  Cassidy held out her hands to stop the conversation. Taking a deep breath, she tried to steer the conversation back to the point.

  “We’ll just be adult about this.”

  Jo nodded. That sounded more like her. Far more than the woman who’d lost every single inhibition in Angelo’s arms.

  “We weren’t very adult about it.”

  Perrin cocked her head to one side, still held up only by her chin on her palm. “You were juvenile about sex?”

  “No, more…fun than I thought adults ever had.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere! Cassidy, we need to get Jo drunk far more often. This is way too much fun. Waitress, where did that cute butch gal go? We need another round.”

  Jo looked down, but her martini was empty. Yup, she really was in trouble now.

  Chapter 19

  “My girlfriend is moving to Hawaii.”

  The phrase sent chills up Angelo’s back.

  First, it struck him as far too reminiscent of Jo’s statement about heading to Alaska for much of the next three-to-five years. Second, it was coming from his patissier, Eugene, at the end of another brutal shift. Angelo didn’t need him to be distracted when they were so busy they could barely breathe.

  They sat around the stainless prep table. Graziella lay with her head on her arms as if someone had shot her. Marlys the grillardin had kicked out
on the grill tonight and now she looked like the kicking had been the other way around. Vic and Valerie who’d done such yeoman service on the fryer and the soups were still upright and Angelo couldn’t imagine how. Marko was still finishing the last of the dishes. Angelo would go over there and drag him to the table in a headlock as soon as their late dinner was ready.

  Manuel was throwing together a batch of his No-Knife Pasta. He’d shredded fresh tomatoes by tearing them apart with his fingers, then added a liberal sprinkling of torn basil and oregano leaves, some smashed garlic that already spiked the air, and a fistful of Kalamata olives, all sprinkled with red pepper flakes and olive oil. He’d mixed together the last of the day’s fresh pasta, mainly fettuccini and penne. And if Angelo had the energy, he’d bless the man because otherwise he would have felt obligated to do it himself.

  He wouldn’t trade last night with Jo for anything, though eight hours extra sleep sounded awfully good right now.

  But exhaustion wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was his mother, who he’d finally forced to go home an hour ago. Running Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth had evolved into a science. Open at eleven thirty and be three-quarters full for lunch, an afternoon dribble, and two seatings at dinner. Close the doors at eight, finish the second service by nine, done and clean by ten. With the shopping and prep it was only twelve to fourteen hours a day, with everyone getting a couple hours off in the afternoon or perhaps an early leave on a quiet night.

  That was about the easiest restaurant job Angelo had ever had, or at least the fewest hours. Add on the two days closed every week and it was downright cushy. It also, he knew, would make his staff insanely loyal by keeping such an easy schedule.

  But Maria Amelia Avico Parrano had thrown a hatchet into that the last several days. There was now a line sufficient to fill half the restaurant the very moment they opened the doors, and the tables were packed solid by noon. Afternoon was the staff’s time to shift over to dinner prep, cook the staff dinner, often they could even eat together, or run some personal errands. Now they stayed at busy-lunch levels right to the five o’clock start of dinner for theater goers. And when he’d locked the outer doors tonight, he’d still had two parties of six and three of five that hadn’t even been seated yet. They’d been more than happy to wait, especially as his mother had served them wine and complimentary hors d’oeuvres while they waited.

  His mother was just too charming and too beautiful. She flitted between the cookline and the table service. When Graziella and her two assistant waiters were swamped, his mother showed up on the floor with the black pepper grinder for the patron’s salad or the parmesan shaver for their pasta. When Valerie was seasoning the soup, his mother was there to taste and give her an opinion. Angelo himself had agreed with Maria Amelia so many times that he was beginning to sound like a parrot. Even when it was his idea in the first place, her agreement with him somehow instead sounded like his agreement with her. Just trying to figure out how that happened made his head hurt all over again.

  Manuel dumped the pasta into a massive colander, flipped the pasta right back into the pot and tossed in all of the ingredients. A couple fistfuls of mozzarella and Asiago then he dropped the pot in the middle of the table.

  “Hey Marko!” Angelo didn’t have the energy to go and grab the kid. So he’d be both lazy and devious, killing two noodles with one fork. “Bring over some bowls and forks.”

  “We gotta get some more help on the line.” Manuel dropped onto a stool.

  “That’s not the problem.” He took the dishwasher-hot bowl from Marko, which would have singed his fingers if he didn’t have a cook’s calluses. “Okay that’s not the only problem.”

  He nudged Graziella from her nap. “Food, Grazie.”

  “You’re welcome,” she mumbled.

  “Not thanking you. Eat, per favore.” He nudged her again and she came fully awake, shook her head to clear it, and tried to serve herself from the big pot. She almost lost it all to the table.

  “Then what is the problem?” Manuel took the bowl from her fumbling hands, filled it, and handed it back before she noticed it was gone. Then he filled another and slid it down the table to Angelo. Angelo skidded his empty one back.

  He dug in and took his first real bite of food in over eight hours, perhaps twelve hours since he’d had his mother’s cornetto. He couldn’t be sure any more.

  “Oh, Manuel,” the flavors bloomed in his mouth. Simple, fresh, clean. Three spices, perfectly ripe tomatoes, and olives for depth. “You’re so good, my friend.”

  Manuel was a dark Mexican from Oaxaca in the south, squat, broad-shouldered, and quiet.

  “Did I ever tell you how I met this guy?” Graziella had been there, with him since before he opened the restaurant, but the others simply shook their heads.

  “This guy,” Angelo took a mouthful of pasta and then aimed his empty fork at Manuel’s chest and spoke around his food a bit. “He shows up at my kitchen door. It was the same day I installed the grill and thought I was finally getting somewhere. He stood silhouetted in the back door of the kitchen.”

  “‘Italian?’ is all I say to him.” Manuel joined in his own story.

  “That was it, one word. When I said it was, he just nodded and walked away. I didn’t think anything more of it.”

  Manuel just grinned at him.

  “You were a little spooky,” Graziella told him then turned to the others. “Half an hour later he walks back into the kitchen with a couple of shopping bags from the Market. Without a word he pulls out a knife, a beautiful piece of chicken, some sherry, and three other ingredients. He just walked in and started cooking as if he owned the place.”

  “That basil-mustard-lemon chicken poached in sherry was truly spectacular,” Angelo told him. “Simpler even than this, nowhere to hide any mistakes. I’d had this whole plan of interviewing and training my sous chef. Had to have at least culinary school and ten years’ experience. Manuel took the job that afternoon. A crazy Mexican who cooks Italian.”

  “Want to try my Chinese?”

  “Don’t even think it!” Angelo knew he’d be a goner the day Manuel left.

  He laughed quietly. “Thanks boss. It’s been great. But we need help. Why you say that no hay problema?”

  Angelo dug into his pasta one more time hoping to find another answer.

  It was a problem and Angelo knew it. But it wasn’t the only problem. Hiring more people didn’t scare him, he had the cash flow to do that. It was the other idea that was worrying him spitless.

  They all ate in silence for a minute or two while he tried to collect his thoughts. They were drooping, every last one of them.

  “The problem,” he went to the walk-in cooler and found himself a beer to balance the heat of the red peppers and tang of the garlic. “The problem.”

  Man! He was already in over his head, might as well go the rest of the way. He got back to the table and faced his team, they deserved to know.

  “The problem is that we don’t have enough seats in this restaurant. Between the amazing cooking and service we’ve been doing, and what my mother has taught us about marketing ourselves better these last few days, there just aren’t enough seats here.”

  “Well,” Valerie looked up at the ceiling. That’s where she and Vic lived, right over the restaurant. “I guess we could move.”

  Manuel was shaking his head. “No! The kitchen, she matches the restaurant. If we go up, we need bigger kitchen. That fix nothing.”

  “Right. What we need,” Angelo knew he was going to hate himself in the morning. “What we need is to open a second restaurant.”

  The collective groan was exactly the answer he’d expected.

  “But my girlfriend is moving to Hawaii,” Eugene repeated his news as if it were a protest.

  “That’ll give youse more time to make fine Italian desserts.” Marlys, the grillardin, used her fake Brooklyn mobster accent and slapped her drinking buddy on the back almost making him snort his pasta.
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  No one quite knew how the two of them got along. Marlys hailed from a good Italian family in Brooklyn. She and Angelo had met when he was working a restaurant in Brooklyn Heights, he’d been the master of the grill then, and she’d been in charge of the fryer. When he’d started the restaurant, she’d been one of his first calls. Her lover had just dumped her and she leapt at the chance to move out of the city.

  Eugene, was, well, to put it kindly, a slightly annoying kid from Colorado. But he made exquisite pastries.

  Angelo knew they double-dated on several occasions, Eugene and Audrey, Marlys and whatever woman she was seeing at the time. On the cookline they were always talking movies or the latest hot television series that Angelo had never heard of, they were seriously into media. Eugene was also into online gaming, though not in a deep fanatic kind of way, and Marlys kept teasing him about not living in the real world. As if performing detailed analyses of this week’s shape-shifting-vampire-British-spy episode placed her on such superior footing.

  “No,” Eugene planted his fork in his pasta as if for emphasis. “I’m going with her.”

  That shocked the table to silence. For two years the core team had remained inviolate, except for Marko joining them just six months ago when Ricky had decided to go to college, in astrophysics of all unlikely things. To lose their patissier was unimaginable. There was no position harder to replace. Angelo was the only one who could possibly fill in, but he’d need to work full time at just pastry and he had a restaurant to run.

  “Are you, uh,” Angelo struggled to find his voice and keep calm. “Are you sure?” It was also hard to imagine the sallow-faced boy in the land of sea and sun. Boy. He was four years younger than Angelo, but he always seemed to be eighteen going on sixteen.

  “I was going to tell you today, but service never stopped.”

  Angelo glanced at Marlys. She looked surprised and worried. Neither of them had missed the way he’d phrased it. Not, “My girlfriend and I are moving to Hawaii,” but rather “My girlfriend is moving.” Did he know Eugene well enough to point out that maybe she didn’t want him to follow her and was being too nice to say so? He remembered Heather at the CIA. She never said, “No, we’re done.” She simply kept not finding time to be with him. It had taken him a while to learn that while some women said no and weren’t listened to by the jerks, there were some women who simply didn’t know how to say no.