“It’s a restaurant. It’s always a bad time.”
They shared a chuckle as Vivi held the tart out to him. “A peace offering. I’m sorry we parted badly the other day.”
“That was my fault.”
“Yes, it was. What you said about my coffee wasn’t very nice.”
“I wasn’t referring to the coffee,” Anthony replied testily. “I was referring to the thoughtless way I told you my wife was dead.”
“No, the thoughtlessness on that count was mine. I—”
“You didn’t know,” Anthony interrupted, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.
Vivi longed to know more, but sensed she had to tread carefully. “Has she been gone long?” Such polite euphemisms people used when speaking of death, she thought. Gone. Departed. Crossed over. But what was the alternative? To say, “Has she been dead long?” That sounded awful. Heartless.
“She died a little over a year ago,” said Anthony.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Vivi murmured.
Anthony glanced away. “Yeah, it was a shock.”
Vivi held her breath, hoping he would elaborate further, but he didn’t. A shock…well, that ruled out battling a long illness. Vivi was itching to ask him how she died, but if ever there was a rude question, that was it.
For a second, he seemed lost in thought…lost to her, his wife. But then he seemed to remember where he was, giving the pie plate in his hand a little shake. “What have we got here?”
“Apple tart. My own recipe.”
“Oh yeah?” Anthony seemed intrigued. “Can I try it now?”
“After you tell me what contractor you used when you renovated Dante’s,” Vivi reminded him sweetly.
Anthony frowned. “Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. You owe me in exchange for my telling you about Natalie, remember?”
“It’s the DiDinato brothers.”
It was Vivi’s turn to frown. “Their estimate was the highest.”
“Do you want the best or not?”
“Of course I do,” she bristled.
“Then the double Ds are the go-to guys.” He pointed to the pie plate. “May I?”
“Of course.” Vivi couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face when he took the first bite and his eyes glazed over with sheer pleasure. And sheer envy.
“Let me just grab a plate.”
Vivi nodded, sitting down at a nearby table as Anthony fetched a plate and some cutlery. By the time he joined her, her heart was restless in her chest, obeying its own beat.
“Looks great,” said Anthony, peeling back the foil and cutting into the pie. The sweet aroma of apples and sugar rose up. “Smells great, too.”
Vivi watched as he cut a piece of pie for each of them. “No, none for me,” she said quickly. She was actually nervous, so much so that she wasn’t sure she could manage even the smallest bite. But Anthony wasn’t having it.
“My mother always told me, ‘Never trust a cook who won’t sample their own creation in front of you.’”
Seeing no way out, she accepted the plate he slid across the table to her. “You first,” she insisted.
“If you say so,” said Anthony, taking a forkful of pie. Vivi’s breath froze as she watched him chew slowly and deliberately, savoring the taste before swallowing. “Nice.”
Vivi snorted. “‘Nice’?”
“Nice,” Anthony repeated mildly. He broke off a piece of the pastry, studying it. “This is really good. Sweet. How do you make it?”
“How do you think I make it?” Vivi shot back. Nice indeed.
Anthony popped the pastry into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “There’s sugar in it.”
“What kind?” Vivi pushed, folding her arms across her chest. He thought he was Mr. Hot Chef? Let’s see how good he was at pinpointing ingredients in French pastry.
“Confectioner’s sugar.”
Bastard.
“Very good.” She tensed as he took another bite of pie. “How’s that piece you’re chewing on now?” she asked tartly. “Nice?”
“Very nice. But I think it would be better if you used a little more brown sugar, you know?”
Vivi contemplated picking up the pie plate and marrying it to his face. Instead, she picked up her fork and speared a bite of pie from his plate. “What you’re saying is, you can do better.” She popped the morsel into her mouth, raising an eyebrow. “Right?”
“Well…”
“Go on, then. I dare you. I dare you to do better.”
Anthony reared back in his chair. “You’re challenging me?” He seemed affronted. He was a raving egomaniac!
“Yes, I am,” Vivi replied fiercely. “Bake me something better. Bake me a pie that will leave me drooling and begging you to share the recipe. I’ll bet you can’t.”
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.”
“Anthony 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 i
s 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.”
Chapter 5
“This 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 re
commended 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.
Just a Taste Page 5
