“I was hurt when Papa died and left Natalie much more money than me, but I understood; his wife would have been very upset if we’d received the same amount.” Vivi put down the knife in her hand as tears welled up, blurring her vision. “Damn.” She turned away from Anthony. “Excuse me a minute. These onions…” She clenched her jaw, but it didn’t work; a tear broke free and trickled down her cheek.
“Vivi.” Anthony’s voice was kind as he turned her back to him, awkwardly enveloping her in his arms. “It’s okay.”
“It’s ridiculous.” Vivi sniffled against his large, warm chest. “I know my father loved me! But it still hurts, and with Natalie holding the purse strings for the restaurant, I feel as if I have to be careful about everything I say or do or she’ll change her mind about the bistro.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Sometimes, I feel like I have to prove I even have a right to exist.”
Anthony squeezed her tighter. “Of course you have a right to exist.” He paused. “I’m glad you exist.”
Vivi erupted into sobs. “I’m sorry. I—I’m getting your shirt wet.”
“Big effin’ deal,” said Anthony. “Clothing doesn’t matter. People do.”
Vivi slowly lifted her eyes to his. “You’re so kind,” she whispered. She reached up, cupping her hand to his cheek and holding it there. A small flint of desire sparked in his eyes, and she wondered: is he seeing the same thing as he looks at me? The feeling took her by surprise. Worried his penetrating gaze meant he could read her thoughts, Vivi gently pulled away from their embrace, blotting her eyes with the hem of her apron.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” Vivi said brusquely. She picked up her knife and resumed chopping onions. Anthony paused, then picked up his own knife and resumed mincing garlic. Neither said a word.
“Well?”
Anthony tried to ignore Vivi’s nervous hovering as she waited for him to taste her chicken dish. Ever since holding her, it felt as if God had given him an extra sense, and he didn’t know what to do with it.
As Vivi held her breath, Anthony put a forkful of food in his mouth, waiting until long after he’d swallowed to make his pronouncement. “Pretty damn good.”
Vivi looked pleased. “Thank you.”
“You could use less garlic, though.” Anthony laughed as she stomped her foot in outrage. “I’m just kidding.”
“You better be.” Vivi wore a slight frown as she helped herself to a plate of food. “I’m sorry about before,” she said, not quite looking at him. “About falling apart and all that.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me. Please, promise me you won’t say anything to anyone about what I told you.”
“Who am I going to tell?”
“Your brother, perhaps?” Vivi took a taste of food, chewing slowly. “Merde, I think you’re right. A little too much garlic.”
“The master is always right,” Anthony boasted. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell my brother anything.”
“And you can’t let Natalie know you know. And—”
“Anything else you want to tell me not to do?” Anthony interrupted.
Vivi blushed. “I’m sorry.”
“Does Natalie know how you feel?” Anthony asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “About you feeling like she lords it over you?”
“No.”
“Don’t you think you should tell her?” He knew from experience with his own brother that you shouldn’t let things like this fester. Not only was it unhealthy, it was dangerous—likely to explode in a war of words that couldn’t be taken back.
Vivi considered the question. “I don’t know,” she said carefully. “It’s not as if we’re outwardly battling. It’s my issue.”
“Yeah, but it’s interfering with enjoying what you’re trying to build here. I think you need to get it off your chest, or at some point you’re going to pop your cork.”
“Another wonderful expression,” Vivi said with a soft laugh.
The sound of her laugh…Anthony immediately wanted to say something witty, just so he could hear it again. And yet, the mere recognition of that urge made him uncomfortable. He jumped up. “I really need to get my day started. The staff is going to start straggling in soon.”
“Of course. Let me do the dishes and I’ll be on my way.”
“I’ll take care of them. It’s no sweat.”
“That hardly seems right.”
“Seriously, it’s not a big deal.” The sooner she left, the better. He desperately needed to get his head on straight before his day properly began.
“If you say so.” Vivi rose slowly. “I was wondering,” she said shyly, “if you would like to go to a new restaurant in New York with me.”
Anthony peered at her apprehensively. “What kind of restaurant?” Was she asking him on a date?
“American nouvelle, I think.”
“Huh.” He hated these stupid labels that were put on cooking styles: American nouvelle, fusion, fill-in-the-blank. They were pretentious as well as limiting.
His lack of an immediate, enthusiastic response wasn’t lost on Vivi as she quickly untied her apron, thrusting it at him. “I just thought it might be fun to go with another chef, that’s all.”
Anthony balled up her apron in his hand. “It could be interesting. Tell me what day you have in mind, and I’ll talk to some people, see about getting someone to cover for me.”
“Shall I call you?”
Anthony shrugged. “Just pop over when you get a chance.”
“All right, then.” Vivi edged toward the kitchen doors. “Thank you for letting me demonstrate which of us is truly the better cook. I must say, you accepted defeat very gracefully.”
They both laughed.
“You ever hear the expression, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over’?” Anthony asked as he held the kitchen door open for her.
“No.”
He patted Vivi’s shoulder. “Find out what it means; then we’ll talk about defeat.”
When Anthony told Vivi he’d “talk to some people,” he saw no reason to mention that one of them happened to be his dead wife. For the first time since Ang had passed, he felt the need to go speak to her during the week.
He wasn’t surprised to find the cemetery completely deserted. Most people were at home getting ready for their morning commute. Anthony had been up for hours, unable to sleep, unable to concentrate. It was only through a tremendous act of will, coupled with fear of being picked up by the cops as some kind of lunatic, that he hadn’t come here in the middle of the night.
He stood in front of the grave, hands shoved deep in the front pockets of his jeans. He hadn’t brought his folding chair with him because he hadn’t planned on staying too long. He knew she’d understand; it was a workday, after all.
“I need to talk to you, Angie.” How many times had he said that to her, both in life and in death? She’d always been his guiding star, the angel who always knew the right thing to say to steer him in the right direction. Yet he doubted there’d be any advice forthcoming from beyond after what he had to say.
“There’s this woman who’s opening a restaurant across the street. Her name’s Vivi.” He pictured Angie nodding. Go on, she’d say, buttoning the front of her uniform. Some of their best conversations were had when they were both getting ready to start their day. “And she’s…nice.”
Nice. Christ, talk about lame. Nice explained nothing. He could do better than that. “What I mean is, she and I—there’s this tension—shit.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, slicking back his hair. “She came to Dante’s to cook something for me yesterday morning, and in the course of talking, she told me something that was very upsetting to her, and she started to cry. Well, you know me; a woman starts to cry, it’s like a knife in my heart. So I took her in my arms to comfort her, and I felt something, Ang. A stirring.” He struggled to find the right words. “It was like my heart has been frozen in a chunk of ice and all of a sudden, it’s beginnin
g to thaw. Does that make any sense?”
A cold wind shook the trees, heralding fall. Anthony turned up the collar of his denim jacket, hunching his shoulders. “I’m not saying I’m in love with her or anything. But I do like her, even though she’s kind of the enemy, you know, what with opening her place across the street.
“Anyway, she kind of asked me on this date. I think. And I think I want to go, but”—he swallowed—“it makes me feel kind of disloyal.”
There. He’d said it. He fell silent, trying to imagine what Angie might say to him now, were she here to talk to him. She would say, You gotta keep on living, Ant. Wouldn’t she? See, that was the thing: Was that just what he wanted her to say, or what she really would say?
Anthony began buttoning his jacket. “I need a sign, Ang. Anything you could give me would be great.” He leaned over and patted the top of the headstone. “See you Sunday, cara.”
“Anthony?”
He turned.
There stood Angie’s mother.
Chapter 12
Anthony stood frozen in place, staring in astonishment at his mother-in-law. What the hell was Philomena doing here at this hour? Then he remembered: Angie’s mom went to the early Mass at Saint Finbar’s every weekday morning, the same one his late grandmother used to attend. Philomena must be on her way to church.
Anthony leaned over, awkwardly kissing the older woman’s cheek. “Good to see you, Mrs. P.”
Philomena Passaro had always been small, and age was making her even smaller. Anthony was shocked at how much she’d aged since Angie’s death. It made him wonder: were there bags beneath his own eyes that he’d never noticed? Did he carry himself in a sad, stooped way? He’d like to think Michael would tell him if that was the case, but you never knew.
“It’s good to see you, too, Anthony, though it would be even nicer if it wasn’t at the cemetery, eh?” She looked tired.
Anthony nodded uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. He watched as Angie’s mother bowed her head in silence for a moment in front of the gravestone. Was she talking to God or to Angie? Anthony supposed it didn’t matter, as long as she derived some peace and comfort from it. Mouthing a quiet “Amen,” Philomena made the sign of the cross and turned back to him. “How often do you come here?”
“Every Sunday morning.”
She looked baffled. “But it’s Monday.”
“I was convening an emergency meeting of the board,” Anthony joked feebly.
Philomena smiled affectionately and reached out to squeeze Anthony’s hand. “Anthony, Anthony. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped coming to the cemetery so often?”
Anthony blinked. “What?”
“You’re a young man. You need to move on. It’s not healthy.” Before Anthony could protest she asked, “Tell me. Why do you come?”
Anthony paused. There wasn’t one answer to that. In the beginning, it was because his grief was so unbearable, the only way he could cope was by being as physically close to Angie as possible. As his grief slowly became more livable, coming to visit Ang was a way of honoring her memory. But even that started to fade as time wore on. Now he came because it was what he did; it was part of his life.
“Truthfully? I come out of habit,” he quietly admitted to Angie’s mother. “Habit and guilt.”
“What guilt? That you’re alive?”
“I guess.”
“She’d kick your ass if she heard you say that.”
Anthony laughed.
“I’m serious,” Philomena said sternly. “She worshipped you. The last thing she’d want would be for you to feel guilty. She died doing a job she loved. And she’s still here.” Philomena patted the spot over her heart. “And here.” She patted the same spot on Anthony’s chest. “God willing, you’ve still got years and years left to live. Promise me you won’t waste them.”
Anthony coughed to cover his discomfort. “I promise.” He checked his watch, making an apologetic face. “I should run.”
“You’ll stop by one of these days for some coffee and sfogliatelle?”
“You got it.” Anthony gave her another peck on the cheek. “Give my love to Mr. P?”
“Of course.”
Walking back to his car, Anthony glanced skyward with a chuckle. “Real subtle sign, Ang.”
“Do I look like crap?”
Anthony’s question stunned Michael into a rare silence as he ushered Anthony inside. Unable to stop thinking about Mrs. P’s perfectly timed appearance at the cemetery, Anthony decided to drop in unannounced on Michael, the way Michael so often dropped in on him. Anthony wasn’t surprised Theresa had already left for work. But he hadn’t expected to find Little Ant and Dominica lolling on the couch in their pajamas, both of them sneezing and coughing at what seemed like synchronized intervals.
“Hi, Uncle Anthony,” Little Ant croaked, wiping his runny nose on his pajama sleeve.
“You’re disgusting,” Dominica pronounced in the phlegmy voice of an old woman with a five-pack-a-day cigarette habit. She’d no sooner gotten the words out than she erupted into a very unladylike coughing fit.
“Easy, easy,” Michael urged, patting his daughter on the back until she stopped coughing. “Better?”
Dominica nodded, burrowing deeper beneath the comforter she was sharing with Little Ant. “Uncle Anthony said ‘crap’ when he walked in,” she pointed out in a tattletale voice.
“Sorry ’bout that, sweetie,” said Anthony. He looked at his brother. “You runnin’ General Hospital here today or what?”
Michael shot him a look that said, Don’t even start. “Head colds and coughs.” Disappointment shadowed his tired face. “Little Ant here’s gonna have to miss his hockey game this afternoon.”
Anthony looked at his nephew, whose determined gaze was riveted to the cartoon on TV. Little Ant was refusing to make eye contact with him. The kid was probably thrilled not to have to play today, but there was no way he was going to let anyone see it, even Anthony.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Michael asked as he led Anthony out of the living room. “And at this hour?”
“What, you can drop in on me, but I can’t drop in on you?” He noticed Angelica’s playpen was empty. “Where’s the bambina?”
“In her high chair in the kitchen, probably with a bowl of oatmeal over her head. I left her there when the doorbell rang. C’mon, follow me.”
Anthony hated to be critical, but the house was a friggin’ mess. There were piles of laundry waiting to be folded, toys strewn on the floor, and enough ground-up Cheerios crunching beneath his shoes to sustain a colony of ants for weeks. “I thought you had someone who comes to clean for you.”
“I do. Wanda. She’s got a cough and head cold, and has been out for over a week. Passed it on to the kids, obviously. Now shut up and get yourself a cup of coffee, and tell me why the first thing you said when I opened the door was, ‘Do I look like crap?’”
“Do I?” Anthony grabbed himself a cup of coffee. That was one of the pluses of his brother’s house, he always had a pot brewing, all day. And unlike Vivi, Michael knew how to make a decent cup of coffee.
“Define ‘crap,’” said Michael, who looked profoundly relieved to have found Angelica without food in her hair, babbling happily to herself in her high chair.
“Since Ang died,” Anthony clarified, “have my looks, you know, dwindled?”
“Dwindled?”
“Don’t bust my chops here, Mikey,” Anthony said, yanking open the fridge door with a frustrated tug. “Just answer me.”
“When Ang first died, yeah, you looked like total crap. Of course you did. Not eating, not sleeping…” Michael spooned some cereal into Angelica’s mouth. “Now you look like your old self, pretty much.”
“Which is?”
Michael shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
Anthony nodded. That was a good enough answer.
“Why you want to know?” Michael continued.
“I just ran into Angie’s
mom at the cemetery and she looked awful, Mike. Like someone attached a vacuum cleaner hose to the base of her skull and sucked all the life out of her face, you know?”
Michael winced. “You were afraid you might look like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you don’t,” Michael assured him, jaw tightening as Angelica playfully smacked away the oatmeal-filled spoon in his hand, sending it clattering to the floor.
“That’s good.”
“Is it?” Michael’s eyes remained fixed on Anthony’s even as he bent down to pick up the baby’s spoon. “What were you doing at the cemetery this morning, Ant? I thought you went on Sundays.”
Anthony hesitated. “I had something I needed to talk to Ang about.”
“Vivi?” Michael asked delicately.
Anthony hesitated again. He was in no mood to be ragged on by his brother about talking to his dead wife, visiting her grave, Vivi Robitaille, any of it. Yet the way Michael had just said Vivi’s name—so carefully, so respectfully, even—led him to think that maybe Mikey wouldn’t give him such a hard time if he let him in on the latest development.
“She asked me to go with her to check out a new restaurant in the city,” said Anthony.
“And you’re going, right?” said Michael, poised to feed the baby another spoonful of cereal before Anthony intervened.
“Madonn’!” Anthony pulled the spoon from his brother’s hands. “That was just on the floor! You can’t put that in her mouth!”
“Don’t change the subject,” Michael shot back as he went to get another spoon. He sat down, made a show of waving the clean spoon in Anthony’s face, and resumed feeding his daughter. “So? The restaurant? You’re going?”
“I don’t know. I want to, but…”
“But what?” Michael guided the spoon into his daughter’s mouth. “Good job, cara mia.”
“I don’t want her to think it’s a date.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not.”
“Why not?”
Anthony’s shoulders tensed. “Because my dating days are behind me. Look, what Angie and I had only comes around once in a lifetime, okay? I met a woman, we fell in love, we got married, she died, and now, I live my life the way I did before she ever came into my life: working at my restaurant, spending time with family and friends. I’m fine with it. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, Mikey.”
Just a Taste Page 12
