“Whew! That’s a relief because I went shopping yesterday and bought a ton of groceries so I’d be prepared if you did come over.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me yesterday before you went to the supermarket?”
Gregory sticks his tongue in the side of his cheek as he realizes I’ve just busted him.
“Ah . . . I just like to wing it as much as possible.”
Deciding to let him off the hook, I change the subject.
“So my third interview with Queen Francesca is tomorrow when the rooster crows.” I roll my eyes.
“You’re not a morning person at all.” Gregory squeezes my hand playfully.
“No, that’s not it. Making me show up so early is just another one of her manipulative ways to exert control over the situation. There’s no reason why she can’t meet later in the day. Our last interview was late morning because she had another sucker meet her at the crack of dawn. Get real! What does she have to do? She’s been cooped up in the Mussolini Mansion since she arrived—oh, except for the time I ran into her at Castello Jewelry and our last impromptu lunch meeting.”
“Just be patient, Pia. At least she did call you to return.”
“True. After I angered Francesca by asking about her numerous nicknames during the first interview and then asking at our second meeting how long it had been since she and Signora Tesca had last seen each other, I thought I had blown it for good.”
“I wouldn’t test her again. You’re right. She does need to feel like she’s in control but not because she’s trying to be a bitch.”
I nod my head and think about how Francesca surprised me by saying she hadn’t seen her sister in thirty years. I haven’t told Gregory about how she opened up.
“Have you ever noticed, Gregory, that Francesca rarely uses contractions when she’s talking? It just makes her sound snootier.” I roll my eyes.
“I never really noticed, but yeah, you’re right now that I think about it.” Gregory laughs. “It must be because English isn’t her first language. I know when I was learning Italian, and I would practice it on native Italians, they always told me I spoke so formally. Of course that was because in school we were taught the proper way of speaking a language rather than slang. They should cover both.”
I’m secretly annoyed that Gregory had to find such a plausible reason for Francesca’s hardly ever talking in contractions when she speaks English. I’d much rather believe she’s omitting the contractions to sound far superior to everyone else.
“Pia, I know it’s still early, but what do you say we head back to my place? I’m going to need all the energy I can muster for the feast I’m preparing.”
Gregory’s eyes are filled with hope and a hint of something else—lust.
My own eyes feel heavy as I anticipate what might happen.
“Okay.” My voice comes out huskier than I intended.
He kisses me again but with a sense of urgency this time.
“So, you completely place your trust in my culinary skills. You’re one brave woman.”
“Who says I trust you?” I cock my eyebrow.
The 7 train stalls on our way to Long Island City. Gregory can’t stop tapping his foot as we wait for the train to resume service.
“The next stop is Vernon Boulevard.” The automated voice announcing the next station is a balm to both our ears.
“Finally!”
“You know we can just eat out, Gregory, if you’re too tired. You can cook for me another time.”
“Nah! Cooking is therapeutic. I need it after the stress of sitting on that train for so long.”
We turn off Vernon Boulevard onto 46th Road. Gregory’s house is all the way down the block, the second to last house on the corner. It’s one of the older two-family row houses that are commonly seen in Long Island City, although quite a few have now been demolished to make way for modern apartment complexes. Gregory’s house doesn’t look as dilapidated as many of the other houses in the neighborhood. I can tell that he and his parents have maintained it over the years.
We climb up the stairs. Gregory pulls out his keys and inserts one into the lock. I feel nervous, but it’s a good kind of nervous.
“Voilà! Welcome to Maison Hewson.” Gregory bows deeply, extending his arm out for me to enter first.
“I had no idea you lived in such palatial quarters, Monsieur Hewson!” I giggle.
“Are you saying my estate does not meet your very fine standards?” Gregory speaks in an ultra-nasal tone as he attempts a French accent.
“Fa schifo! This will not do for Signorina Donata!” I do my best imitation of an Italian accent. Thrusting my chest out and standing as erect as Francesca does with her perfect posture, I place my hands on my hips and strut into his living room.
“That’s pretty good!” Gregory laughs as he walks over to me and takes my hands in his. “I especially like your posture.” His eyes immediately dart to my chest, which is still thrust out, making my average B-cup breasts appear larger.
My anxiety gets the better of me and I pull away, pretending to examine his living room. I stop in my tracks when I see the large canvas hanging over the couch. The portrait features the exposed back of a woman who is sitting on a chair. A drape is wrapped around her waist, but threatens to collapse, giving a peek of her derrière. The subject’s dark curly hair is piled up onto her head, but as a few of the cascading curls show, it’s also about to come undone. The woman’s figure has beautiful curves. I take a few steps closer to better examine the stunning painting.
“Francesca?”
Gregory stands behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist and places a light kiss on my earlobe. I place my hands around his.
“Yup. In all her glory. That’s one of my father’s paintings of her.”
“Why does he have it?”
“It was a gift from Francesca.”
“Does your father have any other paintings of her?”
“No.”
“I wonder why she gave him this one.”
“My father said she wanted him to have at least one of her portraits. She used to always tell him it was a shame that he had to part with his creations or his ‘children’ as he liked to call them.”
“That was kind of her, especially since she’s such a narcissist. I would’ve imagined her to want every single portrait painted of her along with every magazine whose cover she graced.”
“I think a lot of people would assume that, but as I keep reminding you, there’s more to her than meets the eye.”
“I have to admit, Gregory, I did get a glimpse of a different side during our last interview.”
“Holding out on me, I see.” Gregory leans his face over my shoulder so that I’m forced to look at him. He’s smiling.
“She told me something personal, and I was just respecting her privacy.” I shrug my shoulders.
“That was very thoughtful of you, but of course, I’m not surprised.”
Gregory kisses my neck. I’m about to completely melt when he stops and walks away.
“Must prepare my culinary masterpiece.”
He’s actually going to cook? I can’t help thinking.
“Let me help you,” I yell out. But before I even make it to the kitchen, Gregory is back with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and two wineglasses.
“You’re my guest. I just want you to relax.”
He pours the wine into a glass and hands it to me.
“I’ll have mine when I’m done cooking. Wouldn’t want to screw up the food.” He winks.
“You’re absolutely spoiling me!”
“You deserve it.” Gregory strokes my cheek before returning to the kitchen. I kick off my mules and lie on his couch.
He’s so good to me. I want to reciprocate. I start mulling over ideas of how I can surprise Gregory, but nothing solid comes to mind. Francesca’s portrait is distracting me as I repeatedly glance over. Even when she’s not looking at you, as in this painting, she still manages to ca
ptivate. The way her head is tilted slightly down so that her full, sensuous lips and her long thick eyelashes are all one can see of her profile. And the way Francesca holds her body shows she’s very aware of her power and beauty. Yet there is a certain vulnerability, too, which is illustrated by the hair that is escaping its pins and the fabric that is slowly, but surely, falling from her waist. The way she looks down it seems almost as if she knows she’s losing control and rather than fight, she surrenders.
Perhaps that is why she gave this painting to Gregory’s father? She did not want to be reminded of her vulnerability.
My eyelids are getting heavy. I knew I shouldn’t have had any wine to drink before eating. Relaxing fully, I give in to sleep. Dinner probably won’t be ready for a while anyway. As I begin dreaming, I find myself to be the woman in the painting. But unlike Francesca, all of my inhibitions are dropped as I blatantly stare back at the painter.
I awake to the aroma of peppers and garlic. My stomach rumbles as I realize I’m absolutely famished. Glancing at my watch, I see that I was out for almost an hour.
“Did you have a good nap?” Gregory walks in wearing a plain white apron. He looks incredibly sexy.
“Yes. Sorry.” I grin sheepishly.
“Stop it! I said I wanted you to relax.”
He pours Cabernet for himself and refills my glass.
“To your burgeoning career interviewing celebrities.” He holds his glass up in a toast.
“To your burgeoning career painting pain-in-the-ass stars!”
Gregory laughs as I clink my glass with his. We take a few sips.
“Ready?”
“For what?”
“I’ve been toiling away for nothing! You’ve already forgotten that I’m preparing a culinary experience like none you’ve ever had.” Gregory shakes his head incredulously.
“Sorry! I’m quite out of it when I first wake up from a deep slumber. Of course I haven’t forgotten. The aromas coming from the kitchen are what woke me up. It smells heavenly!”
“Let’s go eat then.”
Gregory takes my glass and places it on the coffee table. He then takes my hand and leads me to the dining room, which is small but still holds a formal table and six chairs comfortably. Lit candles flank either side of a beautiful centerpiece of orchids. He really has gone out of his way to make this dinner special. I lean over and inhale the orchids’ sweet fragrance.
“Those are yours to take at the end of the night, by the way.”
“Orchids are one of my favorite flowers. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble, Gregory.”
“I know, but I wanted to.”
I turn around and place my arms around his waist. Leaning my face up, I kiss him. Immediately, the kiss becomes heated. I suddenly realize this is what I’m hungering for, not his cooking. We keep kissing. I know I should pull away, but I don’t want to. Gregory is the one to finally break the kiss. He looks into my eyes as he holds the sides of my face.
“I promise we’ll pick this up later.”
A jolt shoots straight to the pit of my belly. Swallowing hard, I nod my head and whisper, “I’ll hold you to that.”
Gregory can’t resist the impulse to kiss me again. I don’t hold back. I kiss him as aggressively as I did a moment ago. If it were up to me, I’d skip straight to the dessert. But I know he’s slaved over this dinner. He wants to impress me. So with much effort, I pull away.
“Let me help you serve the food.”
“Princess Pia, this is your night. When you cook for me, you can do all the work and I’ll sit back.”
“What makes you so sure I can even cook?”
“I can feel it.”
We stare at each other for a moment before Gregory heads back into the kitchen.
He returns with our salads.
My first bite of the salad surprises me. It’s warm, and, upon closer inspection, I see pieces of scrambled egg and salami in the salad.
“Wow! This is really good. I rarely have warm salads. And I would’ve never thought to add eggs and salami to a salad.”
“It’s actually not salami. It’s soppressata.”
“Supper-what?”
“You don’t know what soppressata is?” Gregory asks me in disbelief.
“No, is that a crime?”
“Yes, for someone of Italian heritage. How can you not know?”
“I’ve never had it. You also forget that I live in California. Italian imported food products aren’t as readily available as they are in New York.”
“Let me instruct you then in soppressata. You can buy it either sweet or hot. They’re both good, but I usually buy the sweet one, especially when my recipes call for it. Soppressata is in the same family as salami, but as I’m sure you noticed, it’s saltier.”
“It’s really good.”
“You can get it at most delis in New York City. You should try it sometime in a hero with provolone and tomatoes.”
“So who taught you to cook?”
“My parents. Both of them have always loved cooking, and I helped them as a kid.”
“Does it ever bother you that you’re an only child?”
“A little when I was growing up. I wondered what having a sibling would have been like.”
“I can’t imagine not having siblings.”
“I know you were close to Erica, but how about your brother?”
“We’re not as close, but that’s mainly because there’s more of a gap in years than there was between my sister and me. He’s a good guy though. He’s helping my parents out a lot while I’m here.”
And for the first time since I’ve left California, I begin to miss my family. The guilt returns. I should be there to help Kyle with my parents. Gregory must notice the change in my mood. He reaches over and places his hand over mine.
“Pia, I don’t want to tell you what to do, but it’s still very apparent you haven’t fully come to terms with Erica’s loss. I don’t mean to pry, but did you ever talk to anyone about her death?”
“Not really. I talked to my doctor a little bit when I began having . . .” I let my voice trail off as I realize I’m about to confess to my panic attacks. That’s all I need—for Gregory to think I’m some basket case.
“Having what?”
“Gregory, thank you for your concern, but I really need to deal with this my way. Okay?” I stroke his hand, signaling to him that I’m not mad.
Gregory sighs, but adds, “Of course. But please know that I want to be here for you. And I am. You can talk to me whenever you’re ready.”
“I appreciate that. Now what awaits me next?” I rub my hands together and say, “Yummy!”
“My cooking’s not that great. You don’t need to overact.”
I can tell Gregory is just being modest and is fishing for more compliments.
“What’s this I hear? You go from calling your cooking a ‘culinary masterpiece’ to ‘it’s not that great’! You so know you’re good.”
“I humbly thank you.” Gregory bows before taking our salad plates to the kitchen.
“Ratatouille for dinner.”
I remember the fragrance of sweet peppers that awakened me from my nap.
“I haven’t had ratatouille in ages!”
“I’m relieved you’ve heard of it!”
“Ha! Ha! You’re so funny!” I stick my tongue out at him.
“You can eat the ratatouille straight with some plain Italian bread or you can place it in these rolls that have a pesto spread on the inside.”
“Hmmm! Pesto! I love pesto! Gregory, you truly have gone above and beyond! Thank you!”
Gregory grabs a roll and stuffs it full with the shimmering caramelized peppers, onions, eggplant, and tomatoes that make up the ratatouille. He hands me the plate.
If I hadn’t already admitted to myself that I’m in love with this man, his extraordinary cooking is all it would have taken to make the admission.
After we eat the ratatouille along w
ith a side of spinach and sautéed mushrooms, my stomach is ready to burst.
“Please, don’t tell me you also made dessert. While I’d love to see what you came up with for dessert, I don’t think I can get any more food down my throat.”
“You’re in luck. There’s no dessert. I didn’t want to keep you waiting for more than an hour.”
“So, in addition to cooking you also know how to bake?”
“Guilty as charged. Next time I’ll just make something light so that I can wow you with my baking.”
“Next time, I’m going to do the cooking! But now, I insist you let me help you clean up or else I’m going to fall asleep again and you might not get me up.”
“That wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” Gregory’s eyes travel lazily down the length of my body.
“For my aunt, it would be. She’d have your head on a platter, and my ass would be shipped back to California.”
I help Gregory clean up; it is good he’s accepted my help since like most men he doesn’t wash his prep dishes and pots while he’s cooking. After we’re done, we both collapse onto the couch.
“That dinner was really amazing, Gregory. Thank you so much!”
“My pleasure. Come here.” Gregory turns me away from him and begins kneading my shoulders.
“Hey! I should be giving you a massage after all the hard work you did!”
“I’ll gladly take the massage when you cook for me.”
“Okay,” I sigh, giving up instantly.
Gregory’s expert hands are performing their magic on my usually tight shoulders. The stirring I felt earlier in my abdomen is back, gradually increasing until I can’t stand it any longer. Opening my eyes, I catch Gregory staring at me before he lowers his head and kisses me softly.
“I should get you back home,” he says, pulling away. “It’s getting late.”
Turning around to face him, I say, “I wouldn’t say ten p.m. on a Saturday night is late, Gregory.” I strain my neck forward to kiss him again, but he holds his hand up, stopping me.
“I don’t want you to think this is why I had you over tonight.”
“I know it’s not. And you’ve been nothing but the utmost gentleman with me in the past month that we’ve been dating. I want you, Gregory.”
Carissima Page 22
