by Shirley Jump
Mamma wagged a finger at her. That makes them worse, you know."
Papa came trundling into the house, heading straight for the recliner and the remote. "Mamma won," he told Maria.
"I know. I heard."
"She's the big spender now. She keeps winning like that, I can quit my job." He added a shake of the remote for emphasis.
"And do what?" Mamma said. "Sit around my house and get dusty?" She swatted at him with an imaginary feather duster.
"Keep you happy all day." Papa caught her hand, pulling her into his lap for a loud, dramatic kiss.
Mamma laughed, the sound of it tinkling like wineglasses at a party. "Oh, you old fool, you already do."
Maria dove for Arnold like a drowning woman after a life preserver. "Arnold, I need help."
She'd stopped by the Chubby Chums meeting before she went over to Vita to face the mother of all temptations. There was nothing she could do about her weight tonight, but she could change the future and get an extra dose of willpower before heading into the restaurant. Arnold had thankfully been outside on the stairs, talking to a new member.
He turned now and beamed at her, giving her a tight one-armed squeeze. A few of the others were milling around, discussing the merits of tofu in meat loaf. "What's up, Chubby Chum Maria?"
"My scale. By about ten pounds in the last week."
He waved a hand at her figure. "Oh, honey, you'd never know it."
Always count on Arnold to be nice. "Lycra is a gift from God."
"Oh, don't I know it." He patted his stretch jeans rump.
She drew him to the side as Bert and Audrey filed in. Bert carried a bag of Burger King contraband that he scooped from regularly as he walked. Audrey was lecturing him about the cholesterol level in a single French fry.
"Listen," Maria said, "I can't seem to stick to my diet no matter what I do. And I really need to. I have this class reunion coming up in a month. I need to lose weight fast. I have to fit my dress."
Arnold wagged a finger at her. "You know what Stephanie says. If you lose weight for your attire, it won't improve your inner fire."
"Arnold, I really don't want a platitude. I want some real help. Advice. Support. Anything. I'm desperate." She grabbed the front of his shirt and gave it a little shake. "I ate an entire Sicilian ricotta cake yesterday."
"Oh, wow." Arnold blinked. "You have strayed, Chubby Chum."
Maria closed her eyes for a second, releasing Arnold. "More than you know."
"Why are you asking me?"
"Frankly, you're the only normal person in this group."
He laughed and drew her into a second hug, nearly suffocating her this time before releasing her for oxygen. "I don't know about that, but I'll support you if you'll be my Chubby Chum, too. I need a little help getting off my plateau." He patted his stomach. "Right now, it's one big cliff."
"You've got a deal."
"Chubby Chum Maria, you are my rainbow," Arnold said, stepping back to beam at her. "You take my blue and make it into yellow."
Dante's The-Only-Thing-That's-Simple-is-the-Fettuccini Alfredo
12 ounces fettuccini
2 tablespoons butter
1-1/4 cups heavy cream
1 cup Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley, for garnish
When everything else is going wrong, cook something simple like fettuccini. Anything more complicated, and your brain will go into overload, because it's working so damned hard trying not to think about her.
Cook the pasta in boiling salted water until it's al dente. Meanwhile, melt the butter, alternately adding 1/3 each of the cream and Parmigiano, then another third, and the final third. Finish with the nutmeg, salt and pepper. Stir until the cheese has melted and the sauce has thickened. It really doesn't get any more basic than that. Stir in the drained pasta, add the chopped parsley.
Eat the whole damned thing and ignore the thoughts of the woman sitting right outside your kitchen, breaking your heart with the precision of a ball peen hammer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Franco's smile of satisfaction would have put a well-fed cat to shame. "She returns."
Dante tasted the Alfredo sauce the new line chef had made. Not quite Vita material. Not yet. He scooped in some more Parmigiano Reggiano. Then he sprinkled in a dose of nutmeg and whisked the ingredients into the cream sauce. When Franco didn't elaborate, Dante turned to him. "They do better puzzles in the Sunday Globe, Franco. Who do you mean?"
"Maria. Your intended."
His hand stilled for a second like the whisk had a stutter, then went back to work. "She's not intended for anything with me."
She'd made that damned clear. Why had he ever been stupid enough to think differently?
"Then why is she here again?" Franco pointed toward the swinging door that led to the dining room. "And she brought her friends. Maybe to show her prize stallion to the herd?"
The whisk skipped against the pan, spattering Alfredo on his apron. "I am not her stallion."
"Hey, Franco. Did you say there's a whole table of women out there?" Vinny asked.
"All bella donnas, too," Franco said with a nod.
Vinny abandoned his pasta making and dashed over to the swinging doors. "Hey, Boss, come here. You gotta see this."
Only for curiosity's sake, Dante crossed to the oval glass on the kitchen door. He didn't want to see Maria. She was clearly done with him and he was definitely done with her. She'd given him the message—by not returning his calls.
Then why did he peer through the glass, anyway?
"That one with the tiara's quite the looker, huh?" Vinny said.
"Which one?"
"You know, the bride-to-be." Vinny gestured through the window at a woman wearing a rhinestone crown. "Hot as a butane flame, that one."
"I hadn't noticed." Dante supposed, looking at her now, that the woman at the head of the table could be considered pretty. If a man liked his women as shapeless as a stick of angel hair pasta and with a face that had the pinched look of someone who needed a good meal and a good laugh.
Maria, on the other hand—
She looked as she had the last time he'd seen her. Like she enjoyed everything. Her life. Her body. Her food. She sat at the other end of the table from the bride, her face animated, full of expression. She laughed at something the blonde woman beside her said and something in his gut reached out, as if he could taste that laughter. Bottle it for later.
For those nights when he came home after a long, draining day to an empty, silent apartment.
He missed her. Damn it all. More than he wanted to acknowledge. She'd been avoiding him since their night together. It had to be fear. Because he knew—he knew— she'd had a damned good time.
He'd heard how good in his ear. Many times over.
But there'd been more to it than that. The way she curled into his arms that night and slept there, as vulnerable as a hummingbird. When Maria Pagliano let down the barriers between herself and the world, she became a woman filled with more dimensions than perfect Waterford crystal.
She was smart, funny, beautiful. What had Sal said about Ada? The only one with a leash strong enough to keep him in line. And that leash was wrapped right around his heart.
Too bad she'd left the other end flapping in the wind.
Rochelle pushed through the opposite door with a tray of dirty dishes in her hands. "If you two gawk any more, you'll harden into salt. Just like in Sodom and Gomorrah."
"Hey, I don't get into that kind of kinky stuff," Vinny said.
"It's busy out there again. Not as busy as last week, but good for a Friday night."
"Busy is good for tips," Dante told her. He stepped away from the door, and reluctantly brought his attention back to his kitchen. Rochelle was right. It was busy. He had a restaurant to run. He couldn't stand there staring at Maria all night like a teenager with an unre
ciprocated crush. With that new restaurant garnering the elusive five-star review, he couldn't afford to take his eyes off Vita for a second.
As she left the kitchen with two salads, Rochelle muttered something about men and their inability to function when a few pheromones were in the air.
Dante dragged Vinny back to the pasta and returned to his Alfredo sauce.
"Why is Maria here, I wonder?" Franco said to no one in particular.
"Don't look at me for the answer," Dante said. "She hasn't returned any of my calls. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was trying to dump me. But then, she shows up here?" Dante shrugged. "Women speak a whole 'nother language."
Franco shrugged. "I go out there. Talk to her. Find out her intentions."
Dante dropped the whisk to the counter with a clatter. "You'll do no such thing. I'll go."
Franco's smile widened.
He'd been had. "Damn you, old man. You're good."
"When it comes to amore, Franco is always right." His maître d' bustled around him, removing the apron, patting at a wrinkle in Dante's shirt.
"I'm not meeting the queen of England, you know."
"Ah, no. Someone more important and with a nicer—" Franco made the outline of an hourglass with his hands.
Rochelle swung into the kitchen again, clipping a new order onto the stainless steel board above the counter. She turned and began loading a tray with finished meals marked table twenty-eight.
"Here, let me help you," Dante said, grabbing a second tray and putting half the plates on it.
Rochelle stopped what she was doing to cock a hip in his direction. "I can handle this. I'm no wimp like those new waitresses you hired. They cry if they have to carry more than one glass of wine."
Dante grinned. "No one is as good as you, Ro."
"You know it." She hefted her tray onto her shoulder, then directed a glance toward the tray in his hands, pretending she didn't care one way or the other if he helped. "If you insist on helping, you better keep up with me." She wagged a finger at him. "And no flirting with the women at table nine."
"I had no intentions—"
"Don't bullshit me. You never help carry out orders. A dozen pretty women come in and boom, you're busboy of the year. Just keep your eyes on the tray and head straight for twenty-eight."
He put up one hand, three fingers extended in the hand movement he'd learned back in grade school. "Scout's honor."
Rochelle snorted. "I saw you and Vin mooning over those women like a couple of mutts at the poodle show. And I could hear Franco concocting some matchmaking scheme all the way in the dining room." She headed toward the door, pushing it open with her hip in a practiced move that said she'd done it a hundred times before. "Table twenty-eight. No detours."
Dante chuckled. "I should make you manager. And give you a whip."
Rochelle grinned at him over her shoulder. "Now that just might make this job fun."
Dante followed behind her, laughing.
"Uh, Boss?" Franco said.
He pivoted back. "What?"
Franco patted his head.
His chef hat. Dante removed it and sent it sailing Franco's way. "You're in charge of the kitchen while I'm out there."
Franco beamed, then sobered and eyed Vinny. "You. No funny business with the matches or Franco will put you out."
"Boss! Don't leave me with him. Last time you did, he hosed me down—"
But Dante had already left.
Together, he and Rochelle placed the dinners before the customers at table twenty-eight. Dante introduced himself, staying a few minutes to chat then turned back toward the kitchen. Rochelle had already picked up the trays and the tray stands, disappearing back into the kitchen.
He had every intention of going back to work. The restaurant couldn't run itself, after all. But then, from across the room, he heard the throaty sound of Maria's laughter. And he stopped.
He pivoted and saw her, sitting at table nine in a red dress with a daring V-neck that set off her hair and made everything about her seem more vibrant.
God, he wanted to kiss her. To pull her to him and pick up where they'd left off, to taste the warmth of her skin, the hollows of her neck, the tender flesh along her belly. He wanted to smell the sweet perfume of her hair, feel the light caress of her hand against his skin.
He wanted, quite simply, as many parts of her as he could have. Again.
He should go over to table nine. Make sure everything was up to par. It was one of the tables one of the new waitresses was handling. She could be falling down on the job. Keeping the guests undersupplied with water. The last thing he wanted was to be a disappointment to—
The customers.
Yeah, that was it. He didn't want to go over there to see if he could turn—what had Vinny called it?—the butane flame in his gut from simmering to scorching.
And set off a four-alarm inside her, too. Once and for all.
Mary Louise's How-to-Be-the-Center-of-Attention Zabaglione
4 egg yolks
1/2 cup confectioners' sugar
1/2 cup dry Marsala wine
Biscotti or butter cookies, to serve
First, sit at the head of the table and wear a crown so everyone knows it's your party and you are queen for the day. Be sure you have had your diamond polished and your nails done. Wouldn't want anyone to miss the gleam of the new jewel.
Second, have someone working in the kitchen because you are far too busy with gifts and well wishes to do it yourself. Whoever the kitchen person is should whisk together the egg yolks and sugar. Then they need to carefully put the bowl over a saucepan of simmering water (but don't let the bowl touch the water or you'll get scrambled eggs instead and that will ruin everything). The kitchen person has to beat with a handheld mixer until the eggs and sugar are pale and creamy. Add the Marsala, and beat until it reaches 160 degrees. About the same temperature as everyone's jealousy that you are getting married and they are not.
Have the kitchen help bring out the zabaglione in one big bowl with little bowls and biscotti so you, as queen, can dispense to the others. It is, after all, your party. You must remain the focus of the gathering.
No matter what it takes.
Chapter Thirty
"Oh, look, here comes the chef," Mary Louise said.
Oh, no, not him, Maria thought. Not yet.
"How do you know it's him?" Carla Romano asked. "He's not even wearing the pork chop hat."
"My father thoroughly checks out every eating establishment before we dine anywhere. Food poisoning and all that." Mary Louise said. "He downloaded all the past articles about Vita off the Internet. One of them had Dante Del Rosso's picture with it."
"I can see why." Carla sighed. "He's a hunk."
"Ladies," Dante said, arriving at the table, looking as good—no, better—than he had the last time she'd seen him. His blue button-down shirt and gray slacks were a perfect compliment to his dark brown hair and eyes. She busied herself with her Diet Coke instead of looking at him. "I hope you are enjoying your meal?"
"Oh, yes, very much," Angela Renaldi piped up from the corner seat.
"Even more so now," Mary Louise added. With a smile.
Maria noted Dante ignored the obvious flirt from Mary Louise. Instead, he turned all his attention on Maria. "It's nice to see you again, too."
She gave him a polite smile. "You, too."
"I've been trying to reach you."
Every woman at the table fell silent, watching the exchange between her and Dante. Mary Louise's mouth dropped open.
Apparently not everything about Dante could be found on the Internet.
"I've been ... busy."
"Busy? Or avoiding me?"
She swallowed. "Busy."
From the look in his eyes, it was clear he didn't believe her. "You look beautiful tonight."
The air hung between them, heavy and still. For a moment, Maria wanted to chuck her plan out the window and reach out, ending the agony of wanting and
resisting Dante. She raised her hand to grasp his and—
"That's my Maria, always the prettiest one at the party." Antonio swooped into the area, laying a proprietary kiss on Maria's cheek. "Hello, bignole. Sorry I'm late. I-95 was a mess."
When she'd concocted this idea, it had seemed so smart. Meet Antonio here and kill two relationships with one bachelorette party stone—she'd finally send a clear message to Dante that she wasn't interested and broadcast to Mary Louise that twenty pounds didn't make a woman a hippo.
But when she glanced at Dante's face, she didn't see resignation. Or anger. Or giving up on her.
She saw hurt.
Oh, God. What had she done? All she wanted to do now was undo it. Take it back. Turn the clock around and erase that look in Dante's eyes. The regret inside her became a heavy, burdensome thing she couldn't seem to shake.
"Hi, Antonio," she said, because she knew she had to say something.
He reached behind him, stole a chair from a nearby table and pulled it up to sit beside Maria, draping his coat over it. Then he rested his arm over the back of her seat, clearly conveying possession. Antonio's gaze went to Dante's. Two wolves, squaring off over territory.
"I have a kitchen to run," Dante said. "I hope you enjoy your meal," he said to Maria. She got the feeling he hoped she'd choke. "Ladies, I'll be sure to whip up a special treat in honor of the bride." He sent a smile Mary Louise Zipparetto's way, then left.
Maria sat back in her chair. She needed some stuffed shells. Immediately.
So she could shove them in her mouth and stop herself from ever doing anything so stupid again.
Mary Louise had finally started on her gifts. This torture event would come to an end soon. Maria itched to be out of her seat, but with Antonio's arm over her shoulders, she was pinned to the cranberry cushion.
"Oh, thank you, Maria, for the... uh, what exactly is this?" Mary Louise said.
Maria smiled. "Edible underwear."
