Anthony felt a bite of jealousy. He didn’t like her use of the word “lovely,” or her seeming belief that if it weren’t for this guy, they would have been screwed.
“How come you never mentioned him before?”
Vivi shrugged. “There was never any need to.”
“Who is he, exactly?”
“He used to work with my father. They were old friends.”
“And you know him well?”
“Well enough,” Vivi said with a hint of defensiveness. “Natalie knows him better.”
“Huh,” Anthony grunted, wondering if she was telling the truth. He didn’t trust the way this guy had just appeared on the scene to rescue Vivi and her sister. He was obviously French. Probably loaded, too.
Anthony put the pencil back behind his ear. “What does he do now?”
“He’s a diplomat.”
Definitely rich, definitely French, thought Anthony.
The glow returned to Vivi’s face. “He was telling me the other night how much I remind him of my father. It was wonderful.”
“That’s nice,” Anthony forced himself to say, trying not to sound like a total curmudgeon.
Maybe something was up between Vivi and this guy. It would certainly explain her pulling a one eighty on him. Maybe she had to decide between the two of them, and Jacques Cousteau won.
“I gotta go,” Anthony said abruptly.
“Oh.” Vivi seemed taken aback. “All right, then.” She put her hat back on her head. “Did you see across the street?” she asked eagerly. “They’re going to be painting ‘Vivi’s’ on the window soon.”
“Yeah, I saw,” said Anthony with a yawn. “What color is it going to be?”
“White.”
“I hate to tell you, but that’s not going to pop.”
“Pop?”
“Stand out. Draw people’s eye. No offense, but white’s totally ho-hum.” Which was fine with him, not that he’d ever tell her so.
Vivi scowled. “What would you suggest?”
“Red.”
“Red?” she snorted. “It’s a bistro, not a bordello.”
“You know best,” Anthony murmured under his breath sarcastically. He put the pencil back behind his ear. Vivi was glaring at him.
“You’re just saying white is boring to upset me. Here we were, having a perfectly nice conversation, and you had to ruin it.”
“How? By telling the truth? You asked what I thought and I told you. End of story.”
Vivi’s movements were tense as she buttoned up her coat and swung her leather satchel back up onto her shoulder. “You think you know everything! But you don’t.”
“Neither do you,” Anthony said pointedly.
“I’m leaving now.”
“You want a medal?”
“God, you’re maddening!” Vivi spat. “Here I’ve been feeling badly about hurting you, and all along I’d forgotten what an arrogant jackass you are! I’m very grateful to you for helping to save my ham—”
“Bacon—”
“—but perhaps we should try to steer clear of each other as much as possible from now on.”
“Whatever you want,” Anthony said, affecting a bored voice. “You know your way out. See you around.”
He walked away and heard the door slam behind him. For a moment, he actually felt a twinge of regret at being so sarcastic. He also felt mildly provoked by the casual yet oh-so-timely appearance of Bernard Rousseau. He didn’t like the reverence in her voice when she talked about this guy, whoever he was. He intended to find out.
Anthony had never before set foot in the office of FM PR. He was impressed at how big and spare the space was, with three walls so white they blinded him. Entering the suite, he immediately felt himself being sized up by the small, prim man behind the reception desk, peering at him over the top of his frameless spectacles.
“Good morning,” the man said, looking annoyed at having to close the issue of GQ in front of him. “I’m Terrence. May I help you?”
“I’m Theresa’s brother-in-law, Anthony.”
“Michael’s brother.” The man’s mood seemed to lighten, though his stare was as coolly appraising as ever. “I can see the resemblance—though it looks to me like you should have been the hockey player, you’re so…big.” The man smiled coyly, and Anthony frowned. He’d never had a man flirt with him, and it disturbed him.
“Is Lady Dante expecting you?”
“No.”
“An early morning surprise, then. That’s nice. Let me buzz her.”
While Terrence buzzed Theresa, Anthony studied one whole wall lined with photographs of some of Theresa and Janna’s more famous clients: actors, athletes, businessmen, musicians, even a few politicians. Mikey was damn proud of the work Theresa did, and Anthony could see why. She and Janna had quite a client base, all of it hard earned.
Terrence hung up the phone with a sigh. “Her highness says to come on back to her office. It’s the first door on the left. Be forewarned: they were out of cinnamon bagels at the deli this morning, so she’s a bit cranky.”
“I think I can handle it. Thanks.”
Theresa was waiting for him behind her cluttered desk. He was surprised to see she hadn’t put on any makeup yet. Her expression wasn’t cranky; it was worried.
“Is something wrong?” she asked as Anthony closed the door behind him. “With Michael? With the kids?”
Anthony blinked. “No.”
“Oh, thank God.” Theresa heaved a sigh of relief as she pulled her long, curling hair behind her into a ponytail. “What brings you into the wilds of Manhattan, then?”
“I need your help with something.”
“That works out well,” said Theresa, “because I need your help with something, too.”
She reached into the briefcase sitting on her desk and pulled out an elementary school worksheet, which she handed to him. “Write about your hero,” the worksheet instructed across the top. Then, below it, in childish scrawl:
My hero, by Anthony Dante.
My hero is my uncle Anthony. He runs a restaurant and is a chef. I want to be a chef when I grow up. He shows me how to cook things and even the right way to frost cupcakes. His wife is dead but he’s nice anyway. When I grow up I want to run the restaurant with him and be a good cook just like he is. The End.
“Shit,” Anthony murmured, even though he was immensely moved.
“I found it when I was tidying up his room. He didn’t show it to me or Michael.”
Anthony unzipped his jacket. It was hotter than a sauna in there.
“I need you to talk to Michael,” Theresa implored.
Anthony opened his mouth to protest but Theresa silenced him with pleading eyes. “He won’t listen to me. It’s ‘a guy thing,’ he says, this insane need of his to make Little Ant continue to play hockey. Last night he was talking about sending him to hockey camp over Easter break. Little Ant looked like he was going to burst into tears.”
“Theresa, I’ve tried talking to him—”
“Try again,” Theresa begged, looking like she was going to burst into tears herself. “He respects you, Anthony. You’re his big brother. You can make him see reason. Pound it into him if you have to. Whatever it takes.”
“Did you ever think of showing him the worksheet?”
“I think it might be more effective coming from you.” There was a hiccup of emotion in her voice as she said, “I’m worried it would really hurt him. I’m really concerned about him. He’s been hanging out at Met Gar.”
“I know,” said Anthony quietly.
She looked anguished. “Do you think he’s having a nervous breakdown?”
“Nah, he was always nuts.”
Theresa ignored the joke. “He won’t talk to me about it.” She began to weep. “Do you think he’s having an affair?”
“With who? The girl who drives the Zamboni? Are you insane? He worships you, Theresa. He would never do that.”
“Then why is he acting so f
urtive?” she lamented, reaching for a tissue with which to blow her nose.
“I don’t know. I mean, I know some of the time at Met Gar was spent securing a job for that hostess we had working at the restaurant for a while.”
“Thank God. What the hell were you thinking when you hired her, Anthony? I mean, honestly.”
“What the hell was I thinking?” Anthony retorted. “Mikey’s the one responsible for that brilliant idea! That’s why I made him find her another job.”
Theresa blew her nose again. “Wasn’t she your high school girlfriend or something?” she asked vaguely.
Anthony drew himself up to his full height, insulted. “Excuse me? You think that’s the best I could do in high school? You’ve got your facts mixed up, lady; she wanted to be my girlfriend.”
“Speaking of which,” Theresa ventured with a small, sympathetic wince, “I was really sorry to hear about you and Vivi.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here.” Anthony rubbed his chin thoughtfully, trying to think of the best way to put what he wanted to say. “I need you to go on a fact-finding mission for me, since you’ve got a gazillion connections all over this city.”
Theresa looked intrigued. “What?”
“I want you to find out about Bernard Rousseau. Apparently, he’s some French diplomat or something.”
“And I’m doing this because…?”
“Because I think Vivi might have a thing going with him. The guy just appeared out of nowhere to help her and her sister out of a jam, and the way she talks about him, you’d think he was Napoleon.”
“Maybe it’s just gratitude, Ant,” said Theresa, opening up a small mirror on her desk. She pulled one of her eyelids taut and began to line it.
“Or maybe something’s up,” Anthony grumbled, watching Theresa’s careful ministrations to her face. He remembered the few times he’d watched Angie put on makeup. It seemed awfully complicated to him, all those creams and powders and colors. Unnecessary, too. Angie had looked gorgeous without her makeup. So did Vivi. In fact, so did Theresa. Did women really think makeup made them more attractive to men?
“What kind of money jam were they in?” Theresa asked, lining her other lid.
“I don’t know all the details. I just know it was the sister’s fault, until this guy showed up and—voila!—everything’s back on track.”
“Well, at least I know why Vivi looked at me like I was nuts when she asked about Natalie setting up a meeting, and I told her Natalie never even called here.”
“She’s a piece of work, the sister. Believe me.”
“Not too much of one, I hope,” said Theresa, picking up her lipstick. “She and Vivi are meeting with me on Friday to start discussing a PR campaign.”
“Traitor.”
Theresa looked up sharply. “Hey. Business is business.”
“Yeah? And what happens if her business cuts into my business? Blood is thicker than water. Dante’s could be Little Ant’s one day. Don’t forget that.”
Theresa clucked her tongue. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: it’ll be nice to have a little French bistro to go to. You’re crazy to feel threatened. If anyone should be sweating a bit, it’s Vivi. As you of all people should know”—she gave him a penetrating look—“people in Bensonhurst don’t like things to change too much. But with the right PR, she should be able to flourish.” She winked at him.
“Anyway,” Anthony said, changing the subject, “if you’re going to be meeting Vivi, find out what you can about Rousseau. Use your intuition to get a sense of whether she’s interested in this guy or not. Or seeing him.”
Theresa frowned. “And what if she is? What will have been accomplished?”
“Then at least I’ll have someone to blame.”
Theresa put away her lipstick. “Can I give you a word of advice?”
Anthony squirmed in irritation. “Shoot.”
“Just let it go for now. If her sister is really a whack like you said, then that must be sucking up a tremendous amount of Vivi’s energy. Couple with that the stress of opening a new restaurant, and it’s easy to understand why she feels a relationship might be too much right now.”
“That’s all fine and dandy, but her reasons for breaking up had less to do with Vivi’s and more to do with some idea she pulled out of thin air that I’m not over Ang.”
Theresa raised a perfectly penciled eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Jesus Christ.” Anthony rubbed his hands over his face. “Yes.”
“Are you still going to the cemetery?”
“No. I haven’t been in months—only to lay a wreath at Christmas.”
“Michael told me you were having dreams,” Theresa said with concern.
“Yeah,” Anthony admitted reluctantly, swearing he’d never speak to Mikey again as long as they both lived.
“Well, don’t you think you should go talk to someone about that? It’s not going to fix itself, you know.”
Anthony’s eyes grazed the carpet uncomfortably. Mikey had told him a shrink had helped Theresa immensely in the aftermath of her sexual assault by one of his former teammates. Maybe he should talk to someone, and make sure he told Vivi about it. Where he was supposed to find the time for it, God only knows. But if it gave him something he could bring back to Vivi, something that said, “Look, I’m working to get over this crap you think I need to get over, because it’s you that I want,” it might impress her and make her reconsider her abrupt (and in his opinion, insane) decision to end things.
Fully made up now, Theresa stuffed her mirror and makeup bag into one of her desk drawers and switched on her computer. “I hate to be rude, but—”
“You’ve got an empire to run,” Anthony finished for her with a smile. He pointed at the worksheet. “May I?”
“Please do.”
Anthony folded the ditto and put it in his back pocket, then zipped up his coat. “I promise I’ll try to finally get through to Mikey.”
“And I promise I’ll try to find out about Bernard Rousseau. Now hurry back to Brooklyn before you turn into a pumpkin.”
Chapter 26
Perhaps it was underhanded, but Anthony’s way of luring Michael into a chat about Little Anthony was to ask him to come to Dante’s to discuss menu changes. At first he thought he’d tag along with Michael to a Blades game, but then he realized a rink was the wrong place to discuss letting Little Ant ditch hockey. Next he thought of asking Mikey if he wanted to go grab a beer on Anthony’s night off, or even bring in some Chinese food and watch Monday Night Football, but both seemed too contrived. He and Mikey had never been big on going out drinking, and they had a hard time watching football together. Anthony liked to concentrate on the game, while Michael yakked from the opening kickoff to the final whistle.
Michael had made overtures about becoming more involved now that he was retired, but so far, apart from the Insane Lorraine debacle and showing up unannounced, he’d pretty much obeyed Anthony’s “hands off” edict. Asking for input would definitely lure him in.
“Hey, big guy.” Michael seemed cheerful as he breezed through the back door of the kitchen, no Angelica in tow.
“Where’s the bambina?” Anthony asked.
“With Nana Falconetti.” Michael greeted the kitchen staff, pausing at each station to ask after everyone personally. He was as smooth as a politician, but Anthony knew his interest was genuine. Anthony had seen Michael in action at enough Blades parties held at the restaurant over the years to know his brother couldn’t rest until he’d talked to everyone, making sure they were happy. It was just his way.
Even so, Anthony couldn’t help but grit his teeth when Michael tipped open one of the oven doors where focaccia was baking. “How many times have I told you not to do that, Mike?” he snapped.
Michael hastily closed the oven, looking embarrassed. “You’re right. It just smells so good.”
“C’mon,” said Anthony, picking up menus and recipes, new and old, as he walked tow
ard the swinging doors of the kitchen. “We’ll talk in the dining room.”
Michael followed him out of the kitchen, pointing to a four-seater in the corner where he, Theresa, and the kids always sat. “Let’s sit there.” He glanced around nostalgically. “Jesus, Ant. Remember when it was just Dad and Mom selling ices and slices to go on wax paper?” He shook his head in wonder. “We’ve sure come a long way.”
“We sure have,” Anthony agreed. “A lot of blood and sweat went into making this place what it is.”
“A labor of love, though, right?”
“Why do it if you don’t love it?”
Michael seemed to ponder this as he sat down while Anthony detoured to the bar to get them some bottled water. His brother looked so thrilled to be here and somehow be part of things that Anthony felt bad that he was about to, in effect, bludgeon him.
“You see they painted Vivi’s logo on the window?” Michael said, twisting in his chair to look at him. “It looks great.”
Anthony scowled. “Why don’t you just drive a stake through my heart?”
“What, you two are back to being feuding chefs now?” Michael chuckled, taking a sip from his bottle of water.
“Kinda.” Anthony rubbed his forehead worriedly as he sat down opposite his brother. “I don’t know.”
Michael seemed not to hear, or care, as he spread out the menus and recipe cards, perusing them eagerly. “So what are we doing here?”
“I’m thinking of changing things up a little. Not too much!” Anthony warned, in case Michael had any ideas about going totally upscale. “Just shake things up a bit, you know.”
“Well, give me some idea of what you’re talking about.”
“I’m thinking of ditching the eggplant patties and reintroducing the wedding soup.”
Michael made a sour face. “Boring.”
“To you. The last time it was on the menu, we couldn’t keep up with the demand.”
“What else?”
Anthony glanced down at his notes. “Ditch the risotto with zucchini—go with sautéed scallops with garlic and parsley on the appy menu.”
Just a Taste Page 27
