Just Roll With It (Perfect Dish Romances Book 4)

by Tawdra Kandle

  “Oh, Jesus.” Vincent shook his head. “I’m supposed to be sorry now that I didn’t bring home some losers so that you’d look better to my family? Trust me, sweetheart. That’s not how it works. And you don’t have to feel like you’re Joan of Arc going to the stake. No one’s going to burn you alive. Just relax and have fun.”

  He didn’t give me any more time to second-guess or whine. Instead, he dragged me up the small side porch to a screen door, which he opened. Standing aside, he gave me a mock bow. “After you, St. Joan.”

  I was tempted to flip him the finger, but just as I was about to do that, Mrs. DiMartino stood in the doorway.

  “About time you got here, Vincent. Dinner’s practically on the table, and it was going to get cold with us waiting.” She glared at her son and then turned to me, her eyes softening. “Amanda! So glad you could come today. Come in, come in.”

  “I’m sorry we’re late. It was actually me holding us up.” I figured confessing this right off the bat might win me points for honesty. “I apologize.”

  “Who’s late? No one’s late. You’re fine.” She opened her arms and pulled me into a brief, tight hug. “Welcome. Now I think you know everyone, but if you don’t, just introduce yourself. I gotta go finish the salad.”

  “Hey, girlfriend!” Ava called out to me from where she stood at the counter, cutting tomatoes. “Welcome to the craziness. Liam’s in the living room with my dad and Carl, if you want to say hello.”

  Vincent paused behind me and dropped a kiss onto my cheek. “See? I told you. Nothing to it.” He winked as he walked through the kitchen toward a doorway on the far side, through which I could hear a television.

  “Um . . . what can I do to help?” I stood in the middle of the busy room, watching women bustle around, and I felt imminently useless. Mrs. DiMartino was pouring oil and vinegar onto the salad. Ava was putting something together—when I looked closer, I saw it was fresh mozzarella and tomatoes. Angela stood in front of the stove, stirring a steaming pot of water. And an older lady whom I was relatively certain was Vincent’s grandmother was slicing bread.

  “Not a thing.” Mrs. DiMartino pointed to the kitchen table. “If you don’t want to go in the living room—and who can blame you, they keep that game on the TV up so loud it’s a wonder they don’t all go deaf—then have a seat here.”

  “But I want to help. I mean . . .” I shrugged. “I don’t know what I can do, but I don’t want to sit while everyone else is working. Are you sure there’s not something?”

  “Amanda, when Ma says, sit, you sit.” Ava tossed a reassuring smile at me over her shoulder. “Today, you’re a guest. Next time, she’ll yell at you when you walk in the door and hand you a knife to start chopping garlic. So savor this time. Enjoy it. One day, you’ll look back at it fondly.”

  “Ava Caterine. The things you say.” Mrs. DiMartino shook her head. “Amanda, honey, sit down. I promise if there’s something that needs to be done, I’ll tell you. For now, tell us how you are. Vincent says you’re graduating from law school next month? Your parents must be so proud.”

  “Um, thanks. Yeah, I think they are.” I slid out one of the ladder chairs from the scarred kitchen table and sat as directed. “I’ll just be glad to have it over.”

  “Have you decided where you’re going to work after?” Ava reached for the salt and sprinkled it liberally over the tomatoes and mozzarella. “Ma, I need the oil and vinegar.”

  “So come get them. I need to put out the butter.”

  “I don’t know yet. I have to study for the bar and pass it before I can figure that part out. I know a lot of my friends have gotten offers—and so have I—but I want to take some time and figure out what I really want.” And more and more often lately, I’d hesitated to say where I wanted to work, because now that Vincent was part of my future—I hoped—taking him into consideration was important. I didn’t want to commit to a job in the city when he lived and worked down here at the Jersey shore. I’d already decided to take both the New Jersey and the Pennsylvania bar exams. That wasn’t unusual; most firms in the city preferred that their associates could practice in both states, as they often had clients from the other side of the Delaware. But it was now more important to me than ever, because if I decided I wanted to set up my own small firm somewhere down here, it would be much easier for me to be admitted to the bar in my home state already.

  “I can’t even imagine that.” From her spot in front of the stove, Angela turned to beam at me. “I hated tests in school—and taking one that says whether or not I can do the job I just spent three years studying to do? The pressure would kill me.”

  “Ange, you’re smart. You could do it.” Her mother-in-law patted her shoulder. “And Amanda is going to do just fine. She’s smart, too.”

  “Amanda, did you know Ma was going to be a lawyer?” Ava glanced at her mother. “She was studying pre-law in college, before she got pregnant with Carl.”

  Angela’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know that. Were you really, Ma? You would’ve made a great lawyer.”

  Mrs. DiMartino narrowed her eyes Ava’s way. “That was meant to be kept between us, Ava. Remember?”

  Ava lifted one shoulder. “The fact that you were going to night school to get your degree? Why is that such a secret?” I saw a loaded glance between mother and daughter, and finally, Mrs. DiMartino sighed, waving her hand.

  “Fine, yes. I was in night school, but once I got pregnant, I dropped out to start a family. It’s not a big deal.” I didn’t miss the way her lips tightened as she lifted the salad bowl and carried it out of the kitchen.

  “Not a big deal now, but back then, it was.” Ava’s grandmother spoke in a low voice. “About broke her heart. My girl had worked hard to get to a place where she might do that. She loved that baby, sure, but she was sad about having to give up the dream.”

  Mrs. DiMartino sailed back into the kitchen. “Angela, is that macaroni ready to be drained? Ava, get the bowl. I’ll put up the gravy. Ma, the basket for the bread is in that cabinet under you. Let’s get dinner on the table before we all starve.”

  Growing up, I used to watch television shows that featured large families, and I’d been fascinated by the idea of all those people who were related to one another gathered around one table for a meal. It was completely out of my realm of experience; family meals for me meant three of us, and since my parents were often not around to cook, it usually also meant either takeout or eating at a restaurant. It wasn’t wrong, and I didn’t feel as though I’d suffered from the lack, but it was different.

  Now, sitting smack in the middle of twelve people, all of whom except me were talking at once, I realized just how different my experience had been. In my family, everyone took turns talking. We asked questions, and then we waited for the answer. We had conversations with measured and rational give and take.

  This didn’t happen at the DiMartino table. It had taken me by surprise, the suddenness of it; sure, there had been a little chaos as everyone came to the table, all of the women carrying food. They’d even let me bring in the bread, which made me feel like less of a loser, less of a guest, and more like someone who belonged. The men wandered in, talking about baseball and scores and bases. Frankie danced around the chairs until Vincent directed her to sit down. Carl settled the baby into a high chair that looked as though it had held generations of babies. Everyone except Mrs. DiMartino, who was still bustling around, doing last-minute fixes, began to pull out chairs to sit down, with Vincent’s father taking the head of the table. It seemed as though the whole family knew where to sit except for me, so I stood uncertainly on the periphery of things.

  “Amanda. Babe, come sit.” Vincent stood behind a chair and pulled it out, smiling at me. “Don’t just stand around, or Carl will eat everything before you get a chance.”

  Mrs. DiMartino tsked. “Vincent, don’t pick on your brother. Ava, you didn’t put a spoon in the caprese. Run grab one, please. Ange, where’s the parmesan? Ma, sit
down, sit down, I got all this. Daddy, do you have a napkin? Frankie, did you wash your hands, sweetie?”

  “Yes, Nonna.” The little girl lifted the hands in question. “With soap. Can I sit next to Amanda?”

  “No, you sit where you are. Okay, then. I think we’re set.” She untied the apron that covered her skirt and sat down to the left of her husband.

  “Did you all hear your mother? Hush up now.” Vincent’s father raised his voice to be heard over the chattering.

  Quiet fell over the table, and Mr. DiMartino cleared his throat. “In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.” He crossed himself, and around the table, nine others followed suit. Only the baby and I refrained; I assumed he didn’t have the muscle control yet, and I wasn’t Catholic. Even Liam did it. I frowned, wondering when my WASP friend had gone Italian Catholic on me.

  “Bless us, oh, Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

  “Amen,” everyone echoed, and then they all began moving. Hands reached for bowls, spoons clattered against plates and the loud talking started up again.

  “Hey, Amanda.” Liam leaned around Ava to catch my attention. “Are you gearing up for your last go-round with finals?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, and I’ll be ready to see it end. I’m just so—”

  “Ava, pass the gravy so I can let the baby have a little.” Carl held out his hand.

  “Carl, you heard the baby’s doctor. She said we have to introduce one food at a time, so if there’s a reaction, we know what it is.” Angela frowned at her husband.

  “Bah!” Vincent’s grandmother waved her hand. “A little taste is good for him. We all started our babies on gravy. It’s not going to hurt nobody.”

  “Ma, he’s her baby, Ange knows what she’s doing.” Mrs. DiMartino shook her head. “But Ange, there’s nothing in my gravy that would hurt my grandson. You know that. Just my own tomatoes that I can myself, and good meat from the Albertsons’ farm, and garlic. Olive oil. No sugar, nothing that isn’t pure and good.”

  “Yeah, I know, Ma.” Angela looked torn. “It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with your gravy, it’s just—what if he’s allergic to tomatoes? Or garlic?”

  Mrs. DiMartino lifted one shoulder. “You breastfeed him, and you eat all that. He’s strong and healthy. I understand being careful, but there’s such a thing as too careful.”

  “What the doctors say today, they’re too cautious. If we did what they did, our kids would be wrapped up in cotton all day long.” This time, it was Vincent’s grandfather who spoke up. “Kids need to run around outside. They need to play in the dirt and eat some worms.”

  A collective groan went up from our end of the table, making the rest of the conversation all over pause for a moment. “Pop, since when did you ever let us eat worms? Since when did any of us let our kids do that? It’s crazy talk.” Mrs. DiMartino threw up her hands.

  “He’s just making a point.” Vincent’s grandmother laughed, and then she turned to me. “I heard them say you’re a lawyer? That’s a very good job to have.”

  “Not quite yet.” I smiled. “But soon, I hope. I graduate next month, and then I have to pass the bar and find a job. But . . . we’ll see.”

  “She’s going to crush it.” Vincent squeezed my hand and smiled. “Amanda’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, and she can win an argument with anyone.”

  I laughed. “I don’t know. You give me a pretty good run for my money when it comes to arguing.”

  “That’s Vincent,” his mother remarked. “From the time he could talk. I say do something, he says, why? I say something is green, he swears that it’s blue. We used to say he was on the wrong side of every debate, that one.”

  Vincent’s mouth tightened, and I scrambled to think of something to say, a way to change the subject. “Vincent is excellent at bringing up points even I hadn’t considered. I think that’s a very good thing.”

  His eyes met mine, and some of the tension melted from his face.

  “Taking up with a lawyer is a good idea, Vince.” Mr. DiMartino’s voice carried over the rest of the talk. “Someone sues you for a bad meal, you got legal counsel on your side already. Don’t let her go.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes. “Like I need that. You’ve been cooking for longer than I’ve been alive, Pop. Anyone sue you yet?”

  His father grunted. “Didn’t have to. I know what I’m doing. I pay attention. I listen to when other people make suggestions. I’m not some thick-skulled hot head who tears off and does whatever the hell he wants.” He spoke matter-of-factly, and somehow, that made his words sharper. More stinging.

  I could practically feel Vincent’s tension like a tangible presence next to me. Ava glanced down the table and met my eye, her own expression sober and worried. The older generation, though, apparently remained oblivious to the effect of what they were saying.

  “That reminds me, Vince.” Mrs. DiMartino speared a couple of rigatoni on her fork. “That cassata you made for the DelMarcos to try for the anniversary party—Mrs. DelMarco didn’t care for it. She said it’s too fancy. They want a regular cassata, not all the bells and whistles. Not the new-fangled stuff you made.”

  Vincent scowled. “Ma, what I made was the traditional cassata. What the hell did she not like about it? It’s sponge cake soaked in rum, with the ricotta in the middle, and then marzipan and the candied fruit. It took me a long time to make it, just for her to try it. It was perfect. Delicious.”

  “I’m just telling you what she said. She didn’t want that. She said just the cake with chocolate in it. Like her grandma used to make. That’s what she wants.”

  He scoffed. “What her grandma made wasn’t cassata, then. It was probably the al forno version, which isn’t correct. It needs to have marzipan. If she wants the other, she can make it herself.” He folded his arms over his chest, which I’d learned was a Vincent-tell for bring it on.

  “Vincent, we give the people what they ask for. They’re the customers. What they want, we make. You want to be some kind of pastry artist, you go do it in your own time. Or work some other place.” Mr. DiMartino tore off a chunk of bread and sopped up some of the red sauce on his plate.

  “Funny you should say that.” Vincent’s eyes glittered, and a small thread of dread worked through me. I wanted to grab his arm and beg him not to say anything he was going to regret, but I didn’t think it would have stopped him. He was pissed, but more than that, I felt his hurt. I laid one hand on his arm, more so that he could feel my presence and concern than anything else.

  “Vincent—” I whispered.

  He went on speaking, either not noticing my touch or ignoring it. “Because it turns out that there are people who want me. People who appreciate what I do and how I do it. People who don’t criticize me every time I turn around or tell me I’m no good.”

  “Vincent, when have we ever told you that you were no good?” Mrs. DiMartino’s face was a mix of shock and anger. “Never. We would never say that to any of our children.”

  “Maybe not in so many words, but every single time you make it clear that I’m not quite as good as Carl, who cooks the real food. Every single time you make it clear that I’m not as smart as Ava, who has an important job. Or even as Antonia, who probably was the best of all of us, but we’ll never know because she was taken away too soon.”

  Panic made my heart pound. As much as I appreciated a good argument, I hated confrontation and tension and drama, and they were all three swirling around us now. Ava leaned forward again, her eyes round as she stared at her brother. Across the table, Carl had set down his fork and was watching the interchange between his father and his brother with a carefully neutral expression on his face. Angela bit her lip, and even Frankie’s small face was clouded.

  “Vincent, how dare you? How could you? You bring up your sister who died—” Mrs. DiMartino’s gaze darted to Frankie. “And you try to say your father and I
somehow treat you badly? That we think more of some of you than of others? When have we ever done anything but support what you want? We don’t judge. You decide you want to go to school a little longer, learn the pastry arts, we aren’t thrilled, maybe, but you came back and put your skills to good use, and you can still handle the real cooking, too. You don’t settle down, you take home strangers from bars, women you meet God knows where, and everyone around knows you’re some kind of crazy playboy, with all the—” Again, she glanced at her granddaughter. “All the shameful things. But we don’t say anything, do we? We just figure someday, you’ll grow up and pull yourself together.

  “Today we were so happy, that you’re bringing Amanda here to dinner. First time you bring home a girl, and she’s a good one, a smart woman with a good future and a strong family, and we’re hopeful. Maybe Vince has finally pulled his head out of his ass. And then you jump over your father, and you say terrible things to him and to me, in front of everyone. How can you do that?”

  Mr. DiMartino leaned his folded arms on the table and glared. “Who’re these people who like you so much and treat you so much better than your own family? Huh? Are you making something up because you’re mad just now? Or have you been doing something behind my back, setting up plans without talking to your own father?”

  Vincent drew himself up, both of his hands gripping the edge of the linen-covered table. “I’m not making up anything. I don’t have to.” He paused, and for the first time, he seemed to remember that I was next to him. He hesitated, his eyes lingering on me before he went on. “I had an interview a couple of weeks ago, with people who own a hotel in Philadelphia. They were here, back last fall, and they liked my pastries and wanted to talk to me. I figured, what did it hurt? So I saw them, and they want to make me an offer. They want me to come over and work for them.”

  The silence was deafening around the table that had been filled with happy chatter just minutes before. Mrs. DiMartino sighed and dropped her head into her hands, covering her eyes. Mr. DiMartino’s expression was a mask of fury and hurt.