by Nic Tatano
“Thank God for that.” Harry leaned back in his chair. “First, I don’t want you to worry, because it will never leave this room.” He studied my face for a moment. “Second, you take the rest of the week off.”
“That’s not necessary, Harry.”
“Yes it is. I’ve never seen you look like this. It’s obvious you’re not yourself and you’re not thinking clearly. You’re hurt, kiddo. As far as I’m concerned, you still have the flu.”
“But I don’t.”
“That’s the only way to send you home without everyone wondering why the hell you broke a big story and aren’t here to front it.”
Why didn’t I think of that? Because Harry’s right, I’m not thinking clearly.
It made sense. And to be quite honest, I was a basket case and probably wouldn’t be worth much to the newsroom anyway.
“You’re right, Harry. I’ll go.”
“Take her home, Frank.”
“I can grab a cab—”
“No,” said Harry. “Frank will take you.”
Frank got up and extended his hand. “C’mon, Cupcake. Lemme run you home and then I gotta get back and edit this.”
“Okay. Thank you, Harry. I really appreciate this.” Frank opened the door and I headed out into the newsroom. Frank and Harry followed. There weren’t too many people around at that hour, most being out on stories, but Harry took care of those who were in a loud voice as I headed for the door.
“Cupcake, you go home and get well. And don’t come back until the doctor says you’re done with this flu thing.”
I looked back at him and gave him a soulful look that only a daughter can give a father, thanking the broadcasting gods for giving me such an understanding softie as a boss.
Old school, my ass.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
I was in hour two of what passed for a full-scale Brass Cupcake booze-and-chocolate bender and had just cracked my second bottle of wine as I crumpled up the foil from a demolished Cadbury bar. I hadn’t even called Ariel, Serena or Roxanne yet to let them know what happened. I knew Roxanne would be thinking about her bullshit detector and kicking herself that she should have given me a stronger warning, but she cared about me too much to say I told you so and she’d be the first to comfort me. Since the story had already aired it was only a matter of time before they knew and showed up at the door.
The television wasn’t even on. I didn’t have the heart to watch it and the last thing I wanted to see was Scott’s face, which would be plastered over every front page in town tomorrow. All I could see was that sickening grin of his, hear that comment comparing me to a prostitute. Ten minutes with him wiped out the good memories of our time together. Ten minutes that killed my dreams.
I never felt anything for you.
I thought I was finally all cried out with no tears left when the intercom buzzer from the doorman rang. I pushed the button and talked into the speaker. “Yes?”
“Ms. Carson, you have a soup delivery here from Martino’s. Shall I send him up?”
I released the button for a moment.
And then it dawned on me that Vincent had dropped by with the leftover soup I left in his apartment. I hit the intercom button. “Sure, send him up.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to see Vincent, or anyone for that matter. But the idea of comfort food did sound appealing, and I needed to put something in my stomach besides alcohol and chocolate. At that point if a serial killer had shown up with meatball soup I would have let him in.
Two minutes later there was a gentle knock on my door. “You decent?”
That brought a slight smile for the first time in hours. I opened the door and found Vincent standing there, holding a large plastic container filled with soup.
“C’mon in, Vincent,” I said, with very little life in my voice.
“What, no snappy comeback?”
“Sorry. Not today.”
“Aw, I love those.” He held up the soup container in front of me. “You should know you have to finish the whole prescription if you’re gonna get well,” he said, smiling. He stepped in and looked around, spotted the kitchen to the right. “I didn’t notice you’d forgotten this until an hour ago.” He walked to the kitchen and placed the container in the refrigerator, then turned to look at me. “Hey, I just saw your story and you weren’t in it—” He stopped, as he studied my face. “Belinda, are you sick again?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s … it’s kind of a long story, Vincent. But here’s the short version because I don’t feel like telling it and it’s too embarrassing. That guy you saw in my story who was stealing all the money … ”
“Yeah?”
“He’s the guy I’ve been dating for a few months.” I slumped into a chair and grabbed my glass. “You want some wine, help yourself. But you might have to hurry to catch up with me.” Vincent bypassed the wine and sat down across from me, then looked into my eyes, his filled with concern. And for some reason I knew I could tell him, I knew he’d understand. “He used me, Vincent. He tapped my phone, tried to keep me from pursuing the story. He was so nice to me, took me everywhere.” My voice was quivering badly now, the emotion spilling into it, and I was unable to control it. “We seemed to have everything in common, though that turned out to be a complete lie. I was falling … ” I bit my lower lip as my eyes welled up again. And I had thought I was all out of tears.
“Geez, Belinda, I don’t know what to say. That must have been horrible for you to find out, especially while you were in the middle of a story.”
I nodded and looked down at the floor. My body began to tremble as I felt the waterworks about to blow. I was actually losing it. For the first time in my life.
Vincent took the wine glass out of my hand, put it on the end table, got up and extended his hand. “C’mon. Get your coat.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out to get something to eat.”
I looked up at him through my tears and shook my head. “Vincent, I appreciate the thought, but I’m in no condition—”
“You’re in no condition to be alone.” He took my hands and pulled me up out of the chair. “I’m not letting you sit at home by yourself like this. What you need when you’re depressed is good food, good company, and something to make you smile. We’re going out to dinner and a movie. And don’t argue with me.” He picked up my coat, which was draped over a chair, and handed it to me.
I didn’t take the coat. “Vincent, you’re very sweet, and I know you mean well, but—”
“Take it. You’re a damsel in major distress. So shut up and put your coat on. I’m rescuing you.”
***
As it turned out, comfort food was much more comforting than wine. Though the combination of the two had definitely improved my mood.
The Italian restaurant was an old-fashioned mom-and-pop in Little Italy, complete with the requisite red-and-white checkered tablecloths. An empty Chianti bottle, the old kind with the bottom wrapped in wicker, sat in the center of each table topped by an unlit candle. A full bottle of olive oil was next to it. The place was fragrant with spices and freshly baked bread, loud with laughter and Sinatra tunes actually recorded by Ol’ Blue Eyes and not some American Idol copycat wannabe.
Ariel and Serena called, having seen my story. Both wanted to get together immediately, but I told them I was in good hands for the time being and would call when I got home. It was Roxanne’s day to take care of Vincent’s mother, so I planned to talk to her later. Vincent did his best to calm me down, and it was working. He hadn’t asked about what happened, hadn’t brought up my job, kept the conversation locked on baseball and science fiction, while tossing in some hilarious stories about bizarre goings-on in his cab over the years. The events of this morning were fading into the background, my hurt was slowly melting away.
You might think a girl can’t get over something so traumatic this fast, but let’s be honest here. The guy I thought I was falling in love with didn’t really exist
. He was simply a creation, woven from my desire for a relationship and Scott’s quest for money. Remember, I’m a girl who sees things in black and white, and Scott was simply a criminal who toyed with my emotions. The way he looked at me in the FBI office was the way I now thought of him. Like a stranger.
Meanwhile, by now you’ve realized the other route to my heart that does not require a GPS is through my stomach. And as comfort food goes, fettuccine Alfredo was hard to beat, with all that cream and butter and parmesan cheese, but this version was topped with huge shrimp and hunks of crabmeat, which took it to another level.
Vincent had ordered the linguine with clam sauce, so heavy with garlic that I could smell it across the table.
The hot bread dipped in olive oil and spices was wonderful. Meanwhile, I was trying my best to get the fettuccine in my mouth without dripping the wonderful sauce in my lap, but I wasn’t having much luck. Thank goodness for the large napkins. I was getting jealous watching Vincent, who was expertly twirling his pasta and popping forkful after forkful into his mouth without so much as a drop on his starched white oxford shirt.
Finally, I put my fork down with half my plate empty.
He noticed. “Full?”
“You’ve seen me eat. What do you think?”
“Nah, you’re taking a breather. It’s just halftime. You’ve got a hollow leg or something. I don’t know where a little thing like you puts it all.”
“Teach me to twirl, Vincent.”
“Huh?”
“To twirl. Pasta. The way you do it with your fork and never get a spot of sauce on that white shirt. I can’t figure out how the hell you can do it. Teach me.”
“Oh, sure. Italian life skill. It’s easy. Grab your fork and spoon.”
I picked up both, poised and ready. (By the way, I found it refreshing that you only got one fork in this restaurant.) “Okay.”
“Now, watch.” He took his fork and spoon and demonstrated. “You line up a few strands of the pasta with your fork, lift them, place the fork into the middle of the spoon, and twirl the fork around until all the pasta is nice and neat in a little ball. You try.”
And here we go again, as Wing Girl learns to feed herself.
I carefully zeroed in on three strands of pasta, lifted it with the fork, placed the fork in the spoon and twirled it. “Am I doing it right?”
“You got it. Now pull the fork away.”
I did and looked at a perfect little nest of fettuccine. “I did it!” I smiled as I popped it in my mouth.
He looked right into my soul for the first time. “It’s good to see that beautiful smile again.”
I finally knew what warm and fuzzy meant.
***
I patted my full belly and wished I was wearing my old stretch pants as we headed across the street to the multiplex. “You proud of me?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“I cleaned my plate. You didn’t think I could do it, did you?”
“I’m beginning to think we need to trace your ancestry and find the Italian somewhere in your past. What nationality are you, anyway?”
I held up my red hair. “I’ll give you one guess.”
“Uh, I’ll take a wild stab and say Irish.”
“Very perceptive, sir.” We reached the back of the line for the theater ticket booth and scanned the list of eighteen movies currently playing. A few blockbusters, some sci-fi, the ubiquitous vampire and zombie flicks, and some other stuff I hadn’t heard about. “So, what are we seeing?”
“A movie.”
“Ah, so you’re the smartass tonight. Which one?”
“You’ll find out shortly.”
“Don’t I get to pick?”
He shook his head. “What did I tell you when I handed you your coat?”
“I know, I know. Shut up, you’re rescuing me.”
***
The romantic comedy had been a perfect choice. Hilarious with a happy ending, it was just what I needed.
We headed out into the chilly night air and I pulled my coat collar tighter around my neck. The movie had been a short one, maybe an hour and a half, so it was only quarter to nine. “I can’t thank you enough for tonight, Vincent. You really cheered me up.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Night’s not over.”
“I though we were just going for dinner and a movie.”
“We didn’t have dessert at the restaurant, remember? And I know damn well you have a sweet tooth and won’t turn down dessert.”
“Hey, bring it on. Still got some room in my hollow leg. Where are we going?”
“Nick’s pastry shop. You know, about four blocks from your place.”
“Not sure I’ve ever been there.”
“Really? Wow, you’re in for a treat. It’s right next to my garage so we can drive over there, ditch my cab, and I can walk you home.”
***
Nick’s pastry shop was a beehive of activity considering the late hour. A long, narrow place lined on one side with glassed-in cases of goodies, while the other side was filled with a dozen or so bistro tables lined up single file on old cracked black and white tile. The high chairs were black wrought-iron with candy-apple red upholstered seats, like something out of a fifties malt shop. Several other couples were sharing dessert and coffee while a few customers picked out cookies, pastries and other Italian delicacies I’d never seen. The walls were covered with autographed photos of celebrities, all shown eating something in the shop.
Vincent apparently was on good terms with the owner, Nick, a short pudgy fiftyish guy with thick white hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. He waved as we came in, took off our coats, slung them over the backs of two chairs and grabbed a table. The air was thick with the smell of sugar and freshly brewed coffee.
“Cute place,” I said. “Like stepping into the past.”
“Yeah, it’s been here about sixty years. Nick’s grandfather started the place. They do a helluva business here,” said Vincent. “People come from miles around for the Italian cookies.”
I surveyed the glassed-in case across from our table. “Everything looks wonderful. And very fattening.”
“Like you need to worry. By the way, the coffee here is to die for, if you like coffee.”
“I love it. You know, I drink the stuff all day, but I don’t even own a coffee-maker. The newsroom has free coffee and I buy it on the weekends. Kind of a waste of money at five bucks a cup when I could make my own. I’m just too lazy.”
“Well, maybe Santa will bring you one for Christmas.”
I heard the old brass cash register ring and saw the owner head around the corner of the case toward us. “Hey, Vincent,” he yelled, “who’s this pretty girl?”
“This is Belinda,” he said, as Nick arrived at our table.
“Nice to meet you, Nick,” I said. He extended his hand and I shook it.
“Sure, I know you from television. What’re you doin’ hangin’ out with this guy?” He slapped Nick on the shoulder.
“She wants me for my food,” said Vincent, who then looked at me. “You wanna split some tiramisu, or you want your own? I’m guessing it’s the latter.”
“I want my own.” Hey, the FBI agent said I needed sugar.
“Okay,” said Nick. “The usual times two. Coffee?”
“Two cappuccinos,” said Vincent, who then looked at me. “Oh, sorry. Is that okay?”
“Sounds great.”
“Be out in a minute,” said Nick.
Nick turned and headed back toward the counter. “So, tiramisu is your usual?” I asked.
“I’m hooked on the stuff. Sometimes I have ‘dessert for dinner night’, and just come here and eat two pieces.”
“That sounds adventurous. I may have to try that sometime when I don’t feel like cooking, which is every day.”
I heard hissing coming from a coffee machine, and knew our cappuccinos were already being made. Then I saw Nick heading back to our table with a small plate in one hand and a camera in the oth
er.
He slid the simple white plate in front of me, which held a single cupcake. “I was hoping I could get a photo of the Brass Cupcake eating an actual cupcake for my wall. It would be a unique picture.”
“Ah, you know my nickname.” I couldn’t help but smile. “I’d be honored.”
“Okay. Hold on.” He backed up a bit, crouched down, aimed the camera, and then gave me a thumbs up. “Any time. And if you could smile while you taste it.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.” I looked at the camera, gave my face a shot of animation like I do for television, and took a bite of the cupcake. He snapped the photo as the butter cream icing atop the red velvet cupcake sent me into a sugar rush. “Oh my God, that is sinful.”
“No calories, either,” said Nick. He took one more picture as I licked the icing off my lips. “Thank you. I’ll have you sign it next time you’re in.”
“That means I’ve got to bring you back here,” said Vincent.
“It’s a date,” I said, so fast I didn’t realize it.
***
We took our time walking back to my apartment. The night was chilly but pleasant, a far cry from the rain and cold of the previous week.
My mind was filled with unanswered questions. How had I ended up here, when twenty-four hours ago my life was going in a totally different direction? How did I go from expecting a roll in the hay with Scott to seeing him in leg irons, to nearly breaking down on the job, to having a wonderful evening with Vincent? How had I moved on so quickly when I had been devastated a few hours ago?
It didn’t matter. The past, as we say in television, had “gone to Pluto”. Like television signals beaming out into deep space, never to return, my memories of Scott had faded fast. The sheer realization that he was a thief sent them at warp speed out of my life. It would have hurt more if he’d dumped me for another woman, but discovering his true nature turned the hurt quickly to anger, which didn’t seem to linger as much. Besides, Karma was about to have a field day with him in a federal prison. And much as you’re not supposed to take pleasure in getting even, the bastard deserved it. I hoped they’d throw the book at him.
