Just a Taste

by Deirdre Martin

  She pulled out the milk, tipping it into Natalie’s cup. She longed to yell at her, but how could she? The poor woman’s mother had just had a heart attack. What kind of a bitch would yell at someone in that situation? No; they would make small talk, gossip about this and that, and then, when Natalie seemed a bit more relaxed, Vivi would casually slip in a question about contacting Theresa.

  “I’m surprised you’re back,” Vivi said, noticing how spotlessly clean the kitchen was. She wondered how much Natalie was paying her cleaning lady to mop these floors, or polish these marble counters to such a high sheen. Money was just pouring out…

  “I wanted to stay longer,” Natalie was saying, “but my mother put up such a fuss that, in the end, I did what she wanted. My aunt came up from Toulouse to look after her. That’ll be a comedy! My aunt will try to tell my mother what to do, and my mother will tell her to go straight to hell.” Natalie sighed, looking at Vivi worriedly. “Are all families this mad?”

  “It certainly seems that way.” Vivi sipped from the tall glass of the water she’d poured for herself. “Do the doctors know what caused the heart attack?”

  “Bitterness, if you ask me.” She looked uncomfortable. “My mother claims it’s a broken heart.”

  “Perhaps so,” Vivi said stiffly. Though if that were the case, her own mother would have died hours after her father.

  “She’s just being dramatic,” said Natalie. “As always.”

  Vivi didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know Natalie’s mother; perhaps she truly was cold and critical the way Natalie was always making her out to be. Even so, Natalie’s lack of sympathy baffled her; that is, until it dawned on Vivi that, once again, Natalie was doing her “devil may care” act to cover up her feelings.

  “You must have been terrified of losing her,” said Vivi.

  Natalie tucked her hair behind her ear, staring down at the floor for a long moment. “Yes.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Natalie lifted her head. “Raise Papa from the dead?”

  “I would if I could, believe me.” Pain wrapped itself around Vivi’s heart like a pair of murderous hands and squeezed. What she wouldn’t give for one more day, one more hour, in her father’s presence.

  She followed Natalie back out into the sumptuous living room, momentarily enchanted by the sight of the tiny snowflakes twirling past the solid wall of windows. How bad could life be, really, when a quiet snow was falling?

  “How is Anthony?” Natalie asked. The interest in her voice drew Vivi’s eyes away from the window. She fought her impulse to spill her guts simply because there was another woman present to confide in, and with restraint answered, “Wonderful.”

  “I’m glad. It’s nice one of us is having a romance.”

  “Maybe you will soon, too. I’m going to invite Quinn O’Brien to the opening of Vivi’s.”

  “Not if you ever want me to speak to you again, you’re not!”

  “We need as many people there as possible, people who will give us good reviews and spread the word. Speaking of which”—Vivi took another small sip of water to steady herself—“I ran into Theresa Dante this morning.”

  “Oh, yes?” Natalie replied distractedly.

  “She said she hasn’t heard from you at all about doing PR for Vivi’s. Not a word.”

  “Yes, I meant to speak with you about that.” Natalie dabbed delicately at her mouth with the back of her hand. “I was speaking with Bernard Rousseau about it, and he thought we should go with a bigger-name firm.”

  Vivi blinked, confused. “When did you discuss this with Bernard?”

  “A while back,” said Natalie. “I can’t remember the exact date.”

  “And you’re just telling me now?”

  Natalie looked at her crossly. “I’ve had a lot on my mind, Vivi, in case you haven’t noticed!”

  “I know that, but this is something we discussed before your mother got ill.”

  “I’m sorry. It slipped my mind.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Vivi said curtly. Any idiot could see things were not right. “Is there something you’re not telling me, cherie? Something I need to know?”

  “Of course not,” Natalie scoffed. “Honestly, you’re going to add wrinkles to your face with all this worrying!”

  That’s because I’m worrying for two, Vivi thought. “Natalie, this puts me in a very awkward position. Theresa thinks her firm is going to be doing the PR, and frankly, I want them to do it. She did the PR for Dante’s. She knows the area. She knows the New York food world.”

  “So does the firm Bernard recommended,” Natalie said haughtily.

  Vivi was back to feeling incredulous. “How could you speak with him without consulting me first?”

  “It was a casual conversation, Vivi. I mentioned you were hounding me about the PR and he asked whom we were planning to use. When I told him, he recommended someone else.”

  “Well, who are they? What’s their name? How much do they charge? Do they specialize in restaurant PR? Have you bothered to call them?”

  Natalie was staring at her like she was raving. “Vivi, calm down.”

  “No! I’m sorry, but something isn’t adding up here. I feel it in my bones. I see it, too. You try to talk me into cheaper goods for the store, and then I open your fridge and see stacks and stacks of caviar!”

  “So what?” Natalie challenged. “As long as there’s enough money to cover anything, what business is it of yours what I spend the rest on?”

  “Is there enough?”

  Natalie’s face began turning red. “Of course there is! Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No, of course not! I just—”

  “What? You just what? Want me to account for every dollar I spend? Let’s remember who’s putting up most of the money here, shall we?”

  “How could I possibly forget? You remind me at every turn,” Vivi snapped. “I thought we were partners. I guess I was wrong.”

  “We are partners!” Natalie insisted.

  “Then keep me abreast of what you’re doing in regard to the bistro!” Vivi practically yelled. “Theresa said we should be putting the PR together now! Did you know that?”

  “I’ll call the firm Bernard recommended right away,” Natalie promised.

  “Now. Call them now, right here, right in front of me.”

  Natalie’s lips pressed together primly. “I don’t have the information with me just now. But I can assure you—”

  “Enough.” Vivi finished her water and stood up. “I can’t listen to this right now. I don’t have the energy.”

  “Vivi?” Natalie sounded nervous.

  “Now that, then this,” Vivi muttered to herself. “I should have stayed in Avignon. I never should have come to Paris. Or come here. Everyone around me—foufou!”

  “Vivi.” Natalie rose from the couch, following at a safe distance as Vivi strode toward the door. “Are you mad at me?”

  “Mad at you?” Vivi repeated with an incredulous laugh. “I don’t know what the word is for what I’m feeling. Truly.”

  Natalie wrung her hands. “Please don’t be mad at me. I don’t think I could bear it.” She opened her mouth as if to speak then quickly closed it.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Natalie seemed to shrink as her voice got small. “Just promise you’re not mad at me. Please.”

  “I’m through with making promises,” said Vivi, walking out the door.

  Chapter 22

  “Quit lickin’ the spatula, Little Ant.”

  Anthony tried not to sound like too much of a scold. Three days earlier, Theresa had come bursting into the restaurant in a tizzy on her way to work, a flyer for the hockey team’s bake sale in her hand. She didn’t have time to bake, and Little Ant, a purist after Anthony’s own heart, balked at the idea of getting store-bought cupcakes and passing them off as homemade. Little Ant wanted to bake them himself, but his father vehemently nixed the idea. That’s when Theresa cam
e up with the idea of begging Anthony to do it on his day off. In reality, having Little Ant do it while Anthony “supervised.” In other words, deceive Michael. Speaking of whom…

  “Where does your dad think you are?” Anthony asked Little Ant.

  “At my friend Julio’s soccer game.”

  Anthony pulled another batch of cupcakes out of the oven. Little Ant had insisted on baking five trays of twelve. Anthony thought that was way too much, but he indulged the kid anyway. If they all sold, great. If they didn’t, Little Ant would go home with a ton of leftovers that Anthony knew his brother would devour, even if it meant Michael was initially clueless that his son baked them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Anthony saw Little Ant moving to take another lick of frosting off the spatula, but he halted when he felt Anthony watching him. Pouting, he pressed the spatula to a naked cupcake instead.

  Anthony addressed his nephew. “It’s not good that we’re lying to him, you know. He’s gonna be really pissed if he finds out.”

  Little Ant lowered his eyes. “I know. But he wouldn’t let me bake! He said the adults are supposed to make the stuff for the bake sale, not the kids.”

  Anthony snorted. “So why isn’t he baking them?” The thought of Michael in the kitchen amused him immensely. The guy could barely turn on the stove without setting the house on fire.

  “He said you’d do a better job.”

  Lazy bastard, Anthony thought.

  “He’s not home today, anyway,” Little Ant continued, frosting the next cupcake with the precision and care of an artist. That was one thing Anthony had already inculcated in him: never rush. Never do a half-assed job.

  “No? Where is he?”

  “In the city. At Met Gar.” Little Ant swiped a taste of frosting when he thought his uncle wasn’t looking, but Anthony let it go. “He’s been going in a lot.”

  “Yeah? What for?”

  Little Ant shrugged. “I dunno. Nana Falconetti watches us. She says we live in a sty.”

  Anthony chuckled, tipping the most recent batch of cupcakes from the baking tin onto the cooling rack. It figured Theresa’s mother would say that; the woman had never met a vacuum cleaner she didn’t like. He pondered Mikey spending time at Met Gar. It wasn’t good. Anthony had this pathetic image of him hovering around the locker room, boring rookies with tales of his glory days in the NHL, driving the new assistant captain, Jason Mitchell, crazy. He wondered if Theresa knew.

  Still watching Little Ant out of the corner of his eye, Anthony put the final tray of cupcakes in the oven. “You had a chance to test out any of those recipes in those cookbooks I gave you?”

  “I haven’t had time,” Little Ant mumbled, head down. “With homework and hockey and stuff.”

  “How’s hockey going?”

  “It blows,” Little Ant confessed miserably. “But Dad won’t let me quit. He says I have to finish the season.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph,” Anthony muttered under his breath. Michael was a great father, but Little Ant and hockey was his blind spot, the one area where Mikey put his own needs ahead of that of his kid. Anthony didn’t know what else he could do to help. He’d talked to him. Theresa had talked to him. But the stubborn SOB wouldn’t budge.

  “Your dad doesn’t mean to be a hard-ass, you know,” said Anthony, hating the idea of Little Ant resenting his father. “He just loves hockey so much, he wants you to love it, too. He wants it to be something you guys can share.”

  Little Ant huffed with frustration. “I’d rather cook.” He frosted the last cupcake before him, then reached for another on the cooling rack. Anthony gently nudged his hand away.

  “Still too warm. Wait until they’re room temperature. Otherwise, the frosting will melt right off.”

  Little Ant nodded solemnly as if Anthony had just imparted the wisdom of the ages to him. Sometimes the kid reminded him so much of himself it made him laugh. So unnecessarily solemn. So intense, too, though that was something both he and Michael shared, a trait inherited from their father.

  “Anthony?”

  He glanced behind him. Vivi’s head was peeking around the back door of the kitchen, her expression tentative. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” he said in his best neutral voice, not wanting to sound anxious, or anticipatory, or hopeful, even though he was all those things and then some. “You can meet my nephew, Little Ant.”

  Vivi smiled warmly at the boy as she entered the kitchen and approached the cupcake assembly table. Anthony’s heart was in his throat. Not a minute had gone by since they’d last spoken that he didn’t fantasize about her coming to him and sweetly cupping his cheek, telling him she understood everything and was more than willing to be patient. That she was smiling was a good omen.

  “Hello.” Vivi extended a friendly hand to Little Ant. “I’m Vivi.”

  Little Ant, ever the gentleman, wiped his hands on his apron before taking Vivi’s hand, prompting an approving nod from his uncle. “I’m Anthony Dante,” he said.

  “Two Anthony Dantes!” Vivi exclaimed. “I’m not sure the world is ready for that!”

  “Are you Uncle Ant’s girlfriend?”

  Vivi’s smile turned uncertain. “Little Ant,” Anthony rebuked in a low voice, “that’s personal stuff.”

  Vivi reached for the large silver bowl of frosting and tipped it toward her, inspecting the contents. “This looks a little runny,” she said to Anthony. “Too much milk, maybe?”

  “It’s fine, Vivi.” He rolled his eyes at Little Ant as if to say, “Women!” then stifled a laugh when Little Ant nodded knowingly.

  “Vivi and I are going to talk in the dining room,” Anthony told his nephew. “You keep frosting. Call me when that last batch in the oven is done so I can take it out. I don’t want you burning yourself.” He glanced surreptitiously at Vivi, trying to read her face as he escorted her out into the empty dining room. Her expression was impassive, almost blank. So much for omens.

  Vivi knew it was silly, but she hated that Anthony picked a table beneath an autographed picture of a stern looking cardinal. The holy man’s gaze was disapproving and harsh, and she found it hard not to take it personally. She was already feeling exposed, and the empty dining room didn’t help. They’d sat alone in here like this before, but today it felt different. Today it was different.

  Vivi saw no point in delaying what she’d come to say. “I think we should just be friends,” she told Anthony quietly. How was it that hours of agonizing could be distilled into one devastating sentence? She was ashamed of the way her eyes were darting to and fro, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t bear to look at the face of a man upon whom she was inflicting pain.

  At first Anthony said nothing. But then Vivi saw the hard look that came to his face, an expression designed to camouflage anger, and she knew he wasn’t going to meekly accept her decision. Whatever made her expect he would?

  “Care to explain?” Anthony asked caustically.

  “I can’t do it,” said Vivi, still not quite looking at him. “You’re a wonderful man. A good man. But I must have been mad, thinking I could have a relationship while trying to get a new life for myself off the ground. I can’t, especially when the other person thinks he has released his past, but he really hasn’t.”

  Anthony’s stare grew more intense. She could feel it on her face, needle sharp. “You know what? Up until now, I found your stubbornness admirable, even adorable. But I’m beginning to realize what a liability it can be. Did you listen to anything I said the other day, Vivi?”

  “Of course I did!”

  “Then what do I need to do to convince you that I love you? I took off my wedding ring. I explained why I’ve been so obsessed with your safety. I asked for your patience. Saying you can’t open the restaurant and have a relationship at the same time is bullshit. It’s just an excuse.”

  “You don’t understand.” Vivi half hoped his nephew would emerge from the kitchen to interrupt them so she didn’t ha
ve to continue. “I don’t have the time to help you wrestle your demons while making sure my restaurant is a success.”

  “You mean you don’t want to make the time.”

  Vivi sat very still. “Yes,” she admitted. “I don’t want to make the time.”

  “Well, that’s a whole different issue, then, isn’t it?”

  “Anthony, listen to me.” She moved to take his hand, but his cold stare froze her and she retreated. “Do you remember, before Christmas, when you told me you didn’t want to commit until you were sure you could give me the attention I deserved? Well, this is what I’m telling you now: that I can’t give you the attention you deserve. I wish with all my heart that I had figured this out before we got intimate. But I didn’t, and for that I’m very, very sorry. I hate that I’m hurting you. But isn’t it better that I had this realization now, before we became more deeply involved?”

  Anthony was glaring at her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Would we even be having this conversation if we’d gone into my bedroom and made love?”

  Vivi swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah? Well, I do. The answer is no, we wouldn’t. Everything would be great.”

  “You don’t know that. There were many obstacles we were ignoring.” She hesitated. “My sister pointed this out to me early on. She said not to get involved with a widower, especially one who happens to be my competition. She said a relationship would divert my attention from the thing I should be devoting my every waking hour to: Vivi’s. And she was right.”

  “Your sister?” Anthony exploded. “You’re taking advice from your goddamn sister? What the hell does she know about you, me, or even having a decent relationship? She’s a snooty bitch who was banging her boss!”

  Heat swam to Vivi’s face.

  “Uncle Ant? The cupcakes are done.”

  Vivi breathed a sigh of relief as Anthony whipped his head around to look at his nephew, who was hovering now by the kitchen doors.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” Anthony barked, turning back around to face Vivi. “I’m sorry for what I said about your sister,” he said, though his expression indicated otherwise.