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.”
“Thank you,” said Vivi, carefully folding up the jacket and putting it back in the box. It was beautiful, not a piece of clothing she would ever dare buy for herself. She glanced uneasily at Natalie, with her scarf, alligator purse, and pearl earrings, and again a small jab of pain came to her. Did Papa love Natalie so much more that he flooded her with riches?
Natalie glanced around the empty store with a frown. “Where are those thieves we hired?”
“Late, just as you were,” Vivi teased.
“Yes, but I’m not being paid an exorbitant fee for ‘quality craftsmanship.’”
“True.” Vivi took a sip of the store-bought coffee. Tahari, the present from Saks—it was beginning to gnaw at her, the mystery of Natalie’s days. “Are you enjoying living in the city?”
“Oh, God, yes. There’s so much to see and do. When are you going to come join me for a weekend? I’m getting tired of calling you!”
Vivi glanced away guiltily. Natalie had called her a number of times to come into Manhattan to see this film or that Broadway show, or go to this or that art exhibit, but Vivi always turned her down. Not because she didn’t want to spend time with Natalie but there always seemed to be something demanding her time. Plan out her menus. Call distributors to see what they charged. Apply for a liquor license. There were so many facets to preparing to open a restaurant that sometimes Vivi felt overwhelmed. She supposed she could ask Natalie for help, but part of her resisted, since she wanted to do as much as she could on her own. Their agreement was that Natalie would front the money, and Vivi would take care of the details. She didn’t want to change the rules now and risk inducing another “maybe we made a big mistake” attack in Natalie.
Still, how hard was it to spare a night or two to join Natalie in Manhattan? “You know what I would love to do?” Vivi mused aloud. “Check out different restaurants.” That interested her much more than going to see a play or a film.
Natalie looked noncommittal. “We could do that.”
“Good. It will be fun. Why don’t you pick a restaurant, and I’ll come into the city once a week to join you?”
“Only once a week? What do you do at night, Vivi? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“I cook,” Vivi said simply. Every night she cooked dinner for herself, and sometimes, afterward, she would experiment with different dishes, whether it be a new dessert or a twist on one of her standards. She was an alchemist, transforming simple elements into culinary gold. The kitchen was where she was her happiest. Why wouldn’t she want to spend as much time as possible there?
She had a brainstorm. “Why don’t you come out here a few nights a week and let me cook for you?” Cooking for herself was fun, but really, the joy of it was in cooking for other people.
Natalie hesitated. “I suppose I could do that.”
Vivi deflated. “You don’t sound very enthused.”
“It’s not that I don’t think you’re a fantastic chef,” Natalie hastily assured her. “It’s just, well, after we eat, what is there to do in Bensonhurst?”
“Why do we have to do anything? Why can’t we just sit and talk, catch up on lost time?” There was so much she still didn’t know about Natalie, so many gaps in her imagination she wanted filled. Hours of conversation could fix that.
Natalie laughed softly. “If there’s one thing you should know about me by now, it’s that I like to be out doing, doing, doing. Papa always called me his Little Sparrow—always flitting here and there, never still.”
“Did he?” Vivi could imagine him saying it. Their father loved to tease. Ironically, he teased Vivi about the opposite, calling her his little House Mouse, thoroughly amused by what a homebody she was.
“Did he ever say anything like that to you?” Natalie asked shyly.
Vivi told Natalie the nickname their father had given her. Natalie clapped her hands in delight. “Perfect! It suits you, you know.”
“And Little Sparrow suits you!” Vivi took another sip of her coffee. “So, will you come for dinner? At least once? We could take a nice walk afterward.”
That was another thing Vivi enjoyed—strolling around Bensonhurst every chance she could. She was a firm believer that the best way to get know a place was to walk it. She loved walking different neighborhoods, wondering what was going on in the lives of the people in their small brick homes. All the homes had tiny front yards, many of them boasting a religious statue or some carefully sculpted topiary. There was a real sense of community here, a close-knit feeling that seemed to come from people remaining true to their roots.
Vivi also enjoyed that people were getting to know her. Both Cuccio brothers greeted her when they saw her on the street, and she was on chatting terms with the butchers at Santoro’s. Even her neighbors in the apartment building were becoming a little more friendly, one woman on her floor stopping her one morning to ask about the mouthwatering smell coming from Vivi’s apartment the night before. It was hazelnut cake, and Vivi brought a piece to her neighbor, whose name was Roberta, later that night. Slowly but surely, her new life was beginning to take shape.
Natalie still seemed to be considering the dinner offer. “I’ll come and go for a walk if you promise to come into the city and spend a night out on the town with me.”
“Done. We can also explore some restaurants here in Brooklyn.”
“Perhaps we should pay a visit to the widower’s establishment across the street,” Natalie suggested slyly. Vivi clicked her tongue disparagingly, an action that wasn’t lost on Natalie. “What? Did he say something about your coffee again?”
Vivi considered whether to tell Natalie about the apple tart, the fritters, and the kiss. She decided to skip the kiss and stick strictly to dessert. Natalie seemed suspicious.
“You’re cooking for each other?”
Vivi blinked. “It was only once.”
“I don’t like this, Vivi. There’s a certain animation in your voice when you talk about him that I’ve never heard before.”
“Oh, please,” Vivi scoffed. “He’s a baboon. Do you know he actually had the nerve to say he’d be irked if the construction we’re doing here impacts the traffic at his restaurant?”
“When was this?”
“Earlier. I ran into him on the street.” She did not want to tell Natalie the dessert competition had extended beyond Dante’s.
“Who cooked for whom first?”
“I did,” Vivi admitted reluctantly. “I felt bad for blind-siding him about his wife, remember?”
Natalie looked alarmed. “Don’t go down this road, Vivi. I beg you.”
Vivi checked her watch. If the DiDinatos didn’t show up soon, she would…what should she do? Perhaps this was what people meant when they talked about being held hostage by their contractor. Merde.
“Did you hear me?” Natalie pressed. “He’s damaged goods. You’ll always be second to the dead wife, no matter how hard you try to make it otherwise. You can’t
fix him, nor do you have time to.”
“I don’t want to fix him. I don’t want to do anything with him, apart from trying to figure out a way to peacefully coexist as neighbors.”
“Your mouth says one thing, but believe me, your eyes say another.”
What do my eyes say? Vivi wondered uneasily. Natalie had pursed her lips expectantly, clearly waiting for Vivi to mount a defense.
“You read too many romance novels,” Vivi said to Natalie in a brisk voice. “You needn’t worry about me and Anthony Dante. We share a common love of food, that’s all. Nothing is going to change that.”
Chapter 9
“What do you think is in this?”
Anthony dragged his attention away from the on-ice action to see Little Ant holding aloft a hot dog. As promised, Anthony had accompanied his brother and nephew to Met Gar to watch the Blades play Boston. It was clear Little Ant cared more about the ingredients in the frank than the game, and that Michael was oblivious to his son’s lack of interest.
“You don’t want to know, trust me,” said Anthony.
Though Anthony preferred football, a lifetime of watching his brother play had led to an appreciation of hockey. He shot a quick, sidelong glance at Michael, who was watching his former teammates with unabashed longing. Madonn’, talk about masochism. The nonstop cavalcade of fans stopping by to say hi to “Mikey D” didn’t help, either.
It sometimes embarrassed Anthony to think back on how resentful he’d been of his brother’s pro athlete status. Growing up, Michael had been the one who’d been marked as having a unique talent. It wasn’t until Anthony was much older that he began shining in the kitchen, but by then, it was too late. He and Mikey were frozen in their roles as jock and chef, each envious in some way of the other. Michael envied the special closeness Anthony had with their parents, the result of his cooking side by side with them for years. Anthony envied Michael his fame and adulation. Even now, with people still asking for his brother’s autograph, Anthony was capable of feeling the slightest prick of resentment.
Little Ant gobbled down his last piece of hot dog, eyeing Anthony eagerly. “Can I have another?”
“Ask your father,” said Anthony. “I don’t want to be the one responsible for you puking all over the car on the way home.”
“Dad, can I have another hot dog?”
“What?” Michael seemed annoyed. “No.” He pointed at the ice. “Okay, now watch the left winger, Jason Mitchell. Watch how when the puck is dropped, he rushes ahead to where he thinks the puck is going to be.”
Little Ant dutifully did as he was told. It was as if Jason Mitchell knew he was being watched; the puck flipped to him and he snapped it off his stick, scoring. The crowd went crazy.
“You see that?” Michael bumped his shoulder against his son’s affectionately. “You could do that if you tried. You’re good enough.”
Little Ant nodded mutely, but his agonized eyes sought Anthony’s. Anthony winked at him, hoping to alleviate the kid’s obvious stress. It seemed to work. Little Ant winked back, his mouth curving into the smallest hint of a smile.
“Hey, Mike, how come we’re not up in a skybox?” Anthony wondered aloud.
“Too high up,” said Michael. “Center ice, halfway up, is where you get the best view.”
Anthony rolled his eyes, passing his soda to his nephew. The kid was back to looking forlorn. Was his brother oblivious or what? “When are you coming over to cook with me again, Little Ant?” Maybe the prospect of another cooking lesson could revive his nephew’s spirits for the remainder of the game.
Little Ant tugged excitedly on his father’s sleeve. “Dad, when can I—”
Michael waved his hand away. “Shhh, one minute, Ant, okay?”
Little Ant slumped in his seat. “Fine.”
All of Met Gar watched as Boston’s first line center, Bickie White, broke away and started racing toward Blades goalie David Hewson. Bickie deked and tried to go wide to his backhand, but Hewson stacked his pads and made a sliding stop.
“Yes!” Michael was on his feet with the rest of the roaring crowd. “Way to go, Hewsie!”
“Their nicknames are sooo dumb,” Little Ant said to Anthony.
“Tell me about it.”
Michael sat back down, finally focusing on his son. “Now, what did you want to ask me?”
“When can I go over to Uncle Anthony’s to cook?”
“That’s up to you and Uncle Ant. Like I’ve said before, as long as it doesn’t interfere with hockey, you can go whenever you want.”
Anthony held his tongue, dumbstruck by his brother’s priorities. Weren’t there more important things than hockey—like Little Ant’s studies, for example?
“How’re you doing in school?” Anthony asked.
“Good,” said Little Ant.
“Good,” Anthony echoed, nodding approvingly. “That’s the most important thing,” he whispered into Little Ant’s ear. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“I think cooking’s more important,” Little Ant whispered back, delighted that he and his uncle were sharing a secret.
“Nope, you’re wrong. One of my biggest regrets is goofing off in school. You can get good grades and still cook. Okay?”
Little Ant looked disappointed. “Okay.”
Poor kid, Anthony thought. He’s got his father on one side shoving hockey down his throat, and me on the other telling him that the one thing he loves to do should come second. No wonder kids think adults are nuts, or worse, confusingly inconsistent. Most adults had their heads so far up their asses they didn’t know what the hell they were saying half the time.
Boston was whistled for icing. During the break in the action, Anthony found his attention wandering. Looking around at the crowd, he marveled that some of these fans had been coming here for years, decades even, himself included. He was scanning the nosebleed section directly across the arena when he gave a start. Three rows down from the top—was that Vivi? He thrust his head forward, squinting. Couldn’t be. No way. Grabbing the binoculars Little Ant had insisted on bringing, Anthony raised them to his eyes. It wasn’t her. This woman had a long blonde braid like Vivi’s, but her face was kind of pink, nothing at all like Vivi’s pale, delicate skin. She was medium height, too, not willowy like a ballerina the way Vivi was. Surprisingly disappointed, Anthony lowered the binoculars.
“What ya lookin’ at?” Little Ant chirped.
“Nothing,” said Anthony, handing back the binoculars. “Here, drink some soda.”
“So, Little Ant, what was your favorite part of the game?”
The jauntiness in his brother’s voice made Anthony cringe as he, Mikey, and Little Ant drove back to Brooklyn following the New York Blades’ 4–0 rout of Boston. Michael had spent the third period dissecting every on-ice move for his son, who looked so bored he wanted to cry. Anthony wondered, do all parents see only what they want to see? If he and Ang had had a kid, would he have bought the kid a little chef’s hat and insisted he learn to make the gravy? Anthony liked to think otherwise, but his brother’s behavior was giving him serious pause. Michael was no dummy—except, apparently, when it came to reading his own kid’s emotions.
Anthony’s eyes shot to the rearview mirror. His nephew was squirming in the backseat.
“My favorite part was the hot dogs,” said Little Ant after a long pause.
Anthony stifled a laugh. Out of the mouths of babes, he thought. Michael, however, seemed less amused.
“That’s all you can think of?”
“Leave the kid alone, Mike,” Anthony chided good-humoredly. “Maybe he got the Dante cooking genes rather than the Dante hockey genes.”
“Yeah!” Little Ant chimed in from the back.
“I’d like to think he’s got both,” Michael grumbled.
Anthony shrugged. “Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Does it matter?”
Michael didn’t answer.
“Please tell me we’re here to check out the competiti
on, and not because of your unhealthy fixation on the brooding widower.”
“You’re the one who suggested we try dining here,” said Vivi to Natalie as Aldo led them to their table at Dante’s.
She was gratified the distinguished old waiter recognized her when she walked in, just as she was warmed by the hearty hello Anthony’s brother, Michael, gave her, though he did seem mostly distracted as he taught a nervous-looking woman with deep circles under her eyes how to work the phone system.
Vivi quickly sized up her surroundings. Six p.m., and not an empty table in the place. The clientele ranged from families with children to young couples making eyes at each other over a bottle of wine. The latter made her realize there could be some crossover between Dante’s and Vivi’s. The thought sparked her competitive side.
Persuading Natalie to come out to Bensonhurst for a meal, Vivi’s first instinct had been to cook something for the two of them. But then she thought, why not take up Natalie’s suggestion and see if Anthony Dante’s arrogance was justified? Obviously he could make wonderful fritters. But did his talents extend beyond that?
“The head chef will be out soon to tell you of our specials,” said Aldo, pulling out their chairs for them before handing them their menus with a flourish.
Natalie raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps he can do more than make ‘gravy.’”
Vivi smiled nervously, her eyes magnetically drawn to the swinging doors of the kitchen. She’d had no doubt she might catch a fleeting glimpse of Anthony over the course of the evening, but she hadn’t counted on actually having to interact with him. She had to admit, she was impressed by the personal touch of presenting the specials himself. It made good business sense. She decided she would do the same at Vivi’s. If he wanted to accuse her of copying him, let him.
The busboy had just finished filling their glasses with ice water when the kitchen doors swung open and Anthony stepped out into the dining room. Had she not known what a jackass he actually was, Vivi would have been impressed by his stature and handsome face. Anthony’s eyes locked on hers, and for a split second, she thought he might turn right back. But Anthony was a professional; he squared his shoulders, and by the time he reached their table, there was a charming smile on his face. Vivi was impressed once again.
Just a Taste Page 9
