Just a Taste

by Deirdre Martin

  “Not at all. It was usually just the two of them. Or, if I was around, the three of us.”

  Natalie looked pained. “Did they fight a lot?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  Natalie looked away. “He and my mother fought all the time.” There was a long pause. “I think, in the end, your mother was the one he loved.” Natalie turned back to her. “I don’t care, of course,” she said breezily. “I mean, what is love, anyway? I would much rather have money than love any day.”

  Vivi didn’t know what to say. Her impulse was to put her arm around Natalie’s shoulders, tell her she needn’t get defensive. Vivi knew that her parents had loved one another, and her, but that didn’t mean Papa didn’t love Natalie. She was struck by the irony that while Natalie was the one who grew up with every comfort, the child of a true two-parent household, she was the one who’d known a calm, loving atmosphere, despite her parents’ unconventional arrangement.

  “I have something for you,” she told Natalie, hurrying to get Theresa’s card from where she’d left it in her purse.

  “I have something for you, too.” Natalie dug into her large leather shoulder bag and held out a small wrapped box to Vivi.

  “Natalie.” Vivi’s voice was reproachful and she didn’t care.

  “I felt awful about the other night at Plutonium. Drinking too much and getting maudlin and all that. I wanted to apologize.”

  “The words ‘I’m sorry’ will suffice perfectly well. You didn’t have to buy me a gift.”

  “But I wanted to,” Natalie said softly. “You’re my sister.”

  Tears filled Vivi’s eyes. “Then you’ll understand why I’m refusing.” She took Natalie’s hand. “You don’t have to buy my affection. You already have it. Nor do you have to feel guilty about how I grew up. I turned out perfectly fine, didn’t I? Please, Natalie.”

  Natalie was silent as she stuffed Vivi’s gift back in her bag. Oh, God, have I insulted her? thought Vivi nervously. But when their eyes briefly caught, Vivi could see Natalie wasn’t upset, she was moved. Vivi’s words were the most honest they’d ever exchanged. It was a relief for her say them, and it seemed it was a relief for Natalie to hear them, too.

  “What’s your present for me?” Natalie asked, breaking into a smile. Vivi handed her Theresa’s card. “What’s this?”

  “Anthony’s sister-in-law runs a PR firm. They did publicity for Dante’s a while back. Remember we chatted a bit about this at Plutonium? About you and I working together more closely on getting the restaurant ready?”

  “I seem to remember something about that,” Natalie said evasively.

  “Good. Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind calling her and finding out what they might be able to do for us?”

  “Of course.” Natalie regarded the card distastefully as she slipped it into her purse. “Anything else?”

  “I was going to go down to the candy store to see how the DiDinato brothers’ work is coming along. Do you want to come?”

  Natalie rose. “To be honest, Vivi, I’m not feeling very well. Would you mind terribly if I just went home?”

  “Of course not,” Vivi answered, concerned. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Non, non. I just feel a little cold coming on, is all.” She kissed Vivi on each cheek. “I’ll phone you later tonight; we can talk about ‘coordinating our efforts’ then, all right?”

  “Of course.”

  Watching Natalie leave, Vivi couldn’t shake a sense of unease. All was not well, that much was obvious. But until Vivi knew what the trouble was, there was nothing she could do to fix it.

  “Vivi!”

  Vivi had just rounded the corner of Twentieth Avenue and was walking toward her bistro-in-progress when she heard her name called. She glanced across the street. Michael Dante was standing behind a baby stroller, waving at her. Vivi hurriedly crossed to him, smiling down at the curly haired little cherub who seemed so content to just be sitting still, looking out at the world.

  “Hello, Michael.” Vivi kissed him on both cheeks, beaming down on the baby. “I thought this angel might be yours. I remember seeing her in the playpen in Dante’s once.”

  Michael looked mildly embarrassed by her recollection. “I forgot about that.” He smiled down at his daughter. “This is Angelica.”

  “Appropriate name,” Vivi noted.

  “Not last night it wasn’t.” They both chuckled.

  “You are the one who stays home with the children?” Vivi asked curiously.

  “Yeah,” Michael said, almost sounding apologetic. “Like I told you once before, I was a professional hockey player, but once your skills diminish to a certain point, it’s best to retire.”

  “Athletes retire so young,” Vivi observed. “I’ve always wondered about that. About them having to reinvent themselves.”

  “We wonder about it, too, believe me,” Michael said ruefully. He jerked a thumb behind him at Dante’s. “I’m half owner, you know. I plan on getting more involved in the day-to-day operation.”

  “Anthony will appreciate that, I’m sure.” She felt envious that Michael actually wanted to help his brother out.

  Michael gestured toward the candy store, where a symphony of saws and hammers colored the air. “They do good work, the DiDinatos.”

  “They did your expansion, yes?”

  “Yeah. Anthony screamed about the money, but—” He stopped. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s not cheap, it’s just—”

  “Believe me, I understand,” Vivi interrupted. “My sister was displeased because they were so much more expensive than the other bids. But your brother told me they were worth it, so…” She shrugged.

  “Theresa and I had a good time with you and Anthony the other night.”

  “Yes, it was a wonderful time,” Vivi agreed. “Your wife is lovely.”

  “She is. Works too hard, but what are you gonna do?” Michael looked upward, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. “So, you like my brother?”

  Vivi puffed up her cheeks, exhaling softly. There it was again, that Dante rudeness. “He’s very nice.”

  Michael looked down at her, his gaze unnervingly direct. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “What you’re asking is not appropriate, I think,” Vivi replied politely.

  “I’m being pushy, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I’m sorry.” Michael looked contrite as he absently pushed the stroller forward and back over the same patch of sidewalk. “It’s just that I think Anthony likes you, but he’s not the most aggressive guy in the world when it comes to these things, you know?”

  “He’s certainly aggressive with his opinions,” Vivi snorted.

  Michael looked amused. “You both are.”

  “Yes, well, it comes with the territory, I suppose.”

  “If you like him, you might have to nudge a little, know what I’m saying?”

  “Nudge,” Vivi repeated to herself.

  “Yeah. He’s a little gun-shy.” Michael groaned. “Ugh. Bad choice of words, cafone,” he muttered to himself.

  Vivi cocked her head questioningly. “I don’t understand.”

  “Anthony’s wife was a police officer. She was shot and killed,” Michael explained quietly.

  “How awful!”

  “It was. A drug bust gone wrong.” Michael’s eyes began getting glassy. “She kissed him good-bye, went to work, and two hours later he gets a phone call she’s been killed. Shouldn’t have happened.” Michael pulled a pair of gloves out of his coat pocket. “Ant was pretty much toast for about a year.”

  Vivi wrinkled her nose in confusion. “Making toast helped his grief?”

  “No, no,” said Michael, the sad look on his face lifting. “What I meant was, he was devastated by her death.”

  “Of course.”

  “But now, enough time has passed, and he seems ready to get back on the horse—I mean, get on with his life, not, you know, rent a horse and ride it
around so he doesn’t get sad.”

  “I see,” said Vivi, even though she really didn’t.

  “I guess what I’m trying to say, Vivi, is that he’s a great guy. Don’t let his gruffness or bullheadedness put you off; underneath, he’s a pussycat. And like I said, I can tell he likes you.”

  Vivi nodded and said nothing, thinking back to Anthony holding her in his arms. She already knew he was “a pussycat.” A pussycat whose wife was killed. Dear God, it was beyond awful. No wonder he was so tightlipped about it. Every time he thought of her death, his mind must have been in an agony of “What if?” Poor Anthony.

  “How long has she been dead?” Vivi asked, just out of curiosity.

  “A little over a year.”

  “Was she beautiful?”

  “Um…” Michael seemed surprised by the question. “I’m not really sure how to answer that. She was earthy. Do you know what I mean by ‘earthy’?” Vivi shook her head. “She was very strong. Big hips, big—you know. Big laugh. Maternal.”

  In other words, nothing like me, Vivi thought. “Could she cook?”

  Michael laughed uproariously. “God, no, she sucked in the kitchen! I think that’s one of the reasons Anthony enjoys talking shop with you, Vivi. For the first time in his life, he’s spending time with a pretty, vivacious woman who actually cares as deeply as he does about the issue of butter versus shortening.”

  Vivi smiled with pleasure, more at Michael’s description of her as pretty and vivacious than anything else. “That’s an important question, Michael.”

  “Apparently.” A breeze kicked up, and Michael leaned over to zip up his daughter’s jacket. “Well, I should run along.” He gave Vivi a friendly peck on the cheek. “We’re glad you came to Bensonhurt, Vivi. All of us.”

  “Let me guess, the baby wants some leftover scungilli on top of her Cheerios.”

  Anthony knew Michael would turn up at Dante’s at some point after the Zusi’s dining experience. He just didn’t expect it to be the next day. Yet there Michael stood in the dining room, grinning like a circus clown, with little Angelica in her stroller right next to him. Jesus, his brother was predictable.

  “I just saw Vivi on the street,” Michael informed him as he unstrapped Angelica from the stroller. Pulling up the nearest chair, Michael put her on his lap, unzipping her out of her jacket.

  “Gee, that’s surprising. She has no business in this part of town,” Anthony said dryly.

  “She said she had a good time last night.”

  “That’s great, Mike.”

  “Theresa and I had a good time, too. We like her a lot.”

  “That’s great.”

  “You had a good time last night, right, Ant?”

  Anthony slowly ran a hand down his face. “Is this why you’re here? To talk about last night?”

  “Pretty much. And a few other things.”

  Anthony pulled up a chair for himself. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “You can deny it all you want, but I’m sorry, last night the vibe between the two of you at the restaurant was intense. Just ask Theresa.”

  “We’re both chefs, Mikey. Intensity is a given.”

  “Oh, so you’d let Lenny Dinuzzi from Lucatelli’s in Sheepshead Bay feed you from his spoon? Is that a given?”

  Anthony felt a deep heat flash to his face. “That didn’t mean anything.”

  “Bullshit, Anthony. It shows how comfortable you are with each other.”

  “I don’t need you explaining this stuff to me, okay? I know how it works,” Anthony said gruffly. Madonn’.

  “She likes you.”

  Anthony just shrugged.

  “Look, you cafone, she’s smart, she’s sweet, she’s pretty, she cooks, she’s got a cool accent…How long do you think it will be before someone else figures out she’s a catch? Go for it now, Ant.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Anthony grumbled. Michael made it sound like Vivi was a prize to be won. It didn’t surprise him that a jock like his brother would think in those terms, but that wasn’t Anthony’s MO. Still, he had never thought about the possibility of someone else pursuing Vivi.

  “What else did you want to talk about?” Anthony asked his brother. He was itching to get back into the kitchen, where he belonged.

  “Do you have any ideas for the cook-off?” Michael asked eagerly.

  “A few.” Anthony didn’t like the chirpiness in his brother’s voice.

  “Like what?”

  Mother o’ God, did his brother have concrete for brains or what? “Mike, I don’t really have time to sit here and go over menu choices with you, all right? I have a restaurant to run.”

  “It’ll take two minutes.”

  Knowing his relentless brother was not going to leave until he’d gotten what he’d come for, Anthony resigned himself to sitting in the empty dining room and being interrogated.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Anthony began. “For the appetizer? Arrosticini abruzzesi—marinated, skewered lamb tidbits.”

  Michael nodded slowly, a smile of approval spreading over his face. “Go on.”

  Surprisingly, Anthony found himself warming to the topic. “For dinner, stuffed flank steak with a side of mushroom timballo.”

  Michael licked his lips. “Is that the steak you make with the roasted red peppers and prosciutto inside?”

  “Yup.”

  “Perfetto,” Michael murmured dreamily. “And for the grand finale?”

  “Hazelnut risotto pudding.”

  “That’s the one Mom made, with the raisins, right?”

  “Yes, it’s Mom’s. But I use dried currants, not raisins.”

  “Mom always used raisins.”

  Anthony felt his temper coming on. “It’s better with dried currants.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Ant, but it’s better with raisins.”

  Anthony glowered at him. “You’re saying my pudding sucks?”

  “No.” Michael’s voice was resolute. “I just think the way Mom made it was better.”

  “Excuse me, but who’s the chef here?”

  “That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Anthony just stared at him. His brother wanted to talk to him about chef stuff? Oh, this was gonna be good. He couldn’t wait to hear this.

  Anthony lifted his eyebrows expectantly. “Yes?”

  “I’m gonna help you cook this sucker.”

  “Excuse me?” Anthony leaned forward so the baby could grab his nose, which she’d been reaching for. “Say that again?”

  “I’m going to help you in the kitchen during the cook-off.”

  Anthony gently removed the baby’s hand from his face. “Um, no.”

  “What do you mean, no?” Michael seemed offended. “My kid can help you out, but I can’t?”

  “Exactly. Your kid has an interest in cooking. You don’t. It’s gonna be bad enough sharing the kitchen with the competition. I don’t want you in there, too, putting in your two cents where it doesn’t belong. You’re going to be out here in the dining room, doing what it is you do best: schmoozing the guests, encouraging them to vote for me. Capisce?”

  “But—”

  “This issue is closed, Mike.”

  “You know—”

  “Zip it,” Anthony warned with a glare. “And just so you know, there’s no way Little Ant is going to be in the kitchen while dinner is in full swing. It’s too dangerous. He can help me prep stuff, but that’s it.”

  “I’m sure that’ll be fine with him,” Michael muttered.

  “Anything else?”

  “Do you have any idea what Vivi is planning to cook?” Michael asked uneasily.

  “Nope.” Anthony kissed Angelica on the top of the head. “But we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

  Chapter 14

  Vivi stared into one of the mirrors in the ladies’ room, trying to decide whether her wide-eyed “I’m shocked I won” face or her humble “This is a great honor” face wo
uld be better. In five minutes, she and Anthony would each begin their cook-off. Every table at Dante’s was filled with eager patrons who had paid for the privilege to vote, the proceeds going to Loaves and Fishes, a charity responsible for feeding the poor. Vivi had no doubt her tomato and zucchini gratin appetizer would eviscerate Anthony’s lamb kebabs, regardless of whatever fancy name he’d chosen to give them. From that point on, the issue of who was the superior chef would never be in doubt.

  Vivi knew she’d made the right menu choices. After days of agonizing indecision, she’d settled on the gratin appetizer, turbot in cider vinegar sauce with a side of roasted red pepper for the entrée, and for a real dazzler of a finish, fresh pineapple flan. Vivi was annoyed when she learned Anthony was also making some kind of pudding for dessert, but then she realized this could actually work to her advantage; the similarity in concept and texture would make the superiority of her flan’s flavor all the more obvious.

  “Vivi?”

  Startled, Vivi turned. Natalie had poked her head in the ladies’ room door. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I just needed to collect myself.” She prayed Natalie hadn’t seen her making faces at herself in the mirror.

  “Bernard Rousseau is here. He would like to meet you. Do you have a moment?”

  In truth, Vivi didn’t. She really should get back to the kitchen. She was also mortified by the thought of meeting a friend of her father’s in her already spattered chef’s whites, no makeup on her face and a plain blue bandanna twisted around her head to keep her hair back. Still, she could tell from the hopefulness in Natalie’s voice this was important to her.

  “Yes, of course,” said Vivi, following her sister out of the restroom as she tightened her apron, which had gone slack. “I would love to meet Bernard. But I can only stay for a moment.”

  “Vivi.”

  Now that she had Bernard Rousseau standing right in front of her, Vivi indeed recognized him from her father’s funeral. He was tall, swarthy, and handsome enough to be egotistical about it, yet she got the sense he wasn’t. His smile was warm as he embraced her, his delight in seeing her genuine.