Dinner at Fiorello’s (28 page)

The light outside the window had changed, telling a tale of late afternoon. Outside the door, the dogs had become restless. Henry could hear them pacing and realized they needed to go outside, be fed, or both. Both, yes, indeed.

“We have to get to work soon.” Henry swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Vito pulled him back down. “We have a little time. There’s something I want to say to you.”

“Are you gonna tell me you love me?” Henry asked.

“Oh, you kid. No, that wasn’t what I was going to say. And even if I did feel that right now, I wouldn’t say it for fear of it sounding like I was coerced into it. So let’s wait on that, shall we? What I wanted to tell you was just as important, though.”

Henry looked at Vito, knowing there was a question on his face.

“You know what I said about hope?”

Henry nodded.

“
You
should take it to heart. You told me about your family and, in particular, your dad.”

Henry turned his head away, and he found himself staring intently at the wall. He wasn’t sure he wanted to listen anymore.

Vito’s hand on his shoulder forced him back. “I know it’s hard to hear this now. But there
is
hope—for you too. And for them.” Vito took a breath and said, “Family is everything. Be patient. Be there.
Wait.
Love.
”

“Yeah, but your family loved
you
. They didn’t love some idea—”

Vito cut him off before he could say any more. “For one, my family of origin, the one I grew up with, wasn’t always crazy about me being gay. When my mom first found out, she went to church and lit a candle, praying the gay would be ‘ripped out of me.’” Vito flopped Henry’s penis from one side to the other. “We both know how well that worked out. My point is, people change. It sounds like your mom has her own issues. You need to remember that our parents are people too. They don’t exist solely as parents, you know? And your dad? I think he’ll come around. He loves you.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“All I’m saying is, keep an open mind, give him a little time.” Vito gently turned Henry’s face until he was forced to confront Vito’s dark-eyed gaze. “We never know how long those we love will be with us.”

All at once, Henry understood. He didn’t know how or when or even if the rips in his family could be mended, but they might be. One day. In the meantime, he had this man who had more depth than he ever imagined, lying here beside him, naked and full of hope for the two of them.

Things weren’t so bad after all.

Henry put his arms around Vito and whispered, “Do we have time for one more round?”

Vito chuckled. “My, you
are
young.”

“And so are you,” Henry said, pulling Vito closer, closer. “Come on.”

And Vito did.

Four Months Later

H
ENRY
STANDS
next to the table where his father and Maxine are seated. In each of Henry’s hands is a plate. The aromas wafting up from them just about eclipse the nervousness Henry’s feeling because, well, the
braciole
just smells so damn good, it’s hard to think about anything else.

And yet it’s not enough.

He sets the first plate down before Maxine, who looks up at him with tears in her eyes.

“What? Food makes you cry now?” Henry says to his parents’ housekeeper and his surrogate mother. He says the words in a mocking way because the expression on her face—the pride, the love, the joy all jumbled together in her damp eyes and crooked smile—is making him want to cry and this is the only way he can think to stop from shedding a few tears himself. And he wants to be professional.

“No, Henry,” Maxine says. “I’m just so damn proud of you.” She touches his hand and looks up at him. Her eyes say a lot, but what they’re mostly saying is
You did the right thing.

And then there’s his dad. Henry hasn’t spoken to him since the summer, since his father said he was no longer his son and threw him out. Little did Henry know, back then, his father was doing the best thing he ever could have done for him. He doubted his father knew it either.

His father doesn’t say anything right away. He looks down at the plate of food before him. The
braciole
—flank steak rolled up and stuffed with a mixture of breadcrumbs, garlic, parsley, and Romano and provolone cheeses—sits, perfectly rolled, in a pool of steaming marinara sauce, redolent with garlic and sweet basil. There’s a dusting of Italian parsley and shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano. His father picks up his fork, puts it back down. He takes a sip of wine, a very nice Sicilian import Rosalie helped Henry pick out.

“You made this?” his dad asks.

“Yeah, Dad. First time I’ve been allowed to cook in the kitchen by myself.”

Henry watches as his father lifts his knife and fork, slices off a piece of the tender beef, and puts it in his mouth. As Henry absorbs the expression on his father’s face, he feels a little relief. It’s the
look
, what all cooks dream of when someone takes a bite of their food. It’s a kind of ecstasy, born of pure delight and sensation. His father has the
look
.

“Oh my God,” his father says softly. “Damn. That’s good.”

Henry beams. “The head chef here, his name is Vito….” He glances over at Maxine and winks. He has told her all about Vito, a long time ago. “Vito says it’s even better than his own version. He doesn’t know why, since we use all the same ingredients, but he says mine just has more flavor, more layers, more intensity.”

“It’s magic,” Maxine says, taking another bite.

Henry nods.

His father laughs. “God. My son!” He looks at Maxine. “Full of himself.”

Maxine smirks. “He takes after his dad. And—” She takes a sip of wine and closes her eyes for a moment, savoring it. “—he deserves to be full of himself.”

Henry steps back from the table. “I need to get back to the kitchen.” This is the first time he’s spoken to his dad since that terrible night four months ago, and Henry knows they have a lot more to talk about than food, but duty calls. He’s been in touch with Maxine, though, during this period and she’s sort of become his father’s unlikely friend and Henry’s tireless advocate.

He starts to turn away.

His father reaches out and tugs on his apron to stop him. Henry is in full chef garb tonight, even though it will be a long time before he can call himself chef. But because he’s actually cooking tonight and not just assisting Vito, he’s worn the chef’s clothes he bought for his nights cooking in the kitchen at Big Shoulders Culinary Institute, where he’s been enrolled full time since, well, two weeks ago, when classes began.

Henry turns to look back at his dad.

“You look good, son.” His father smiles.

The words are simple, as simple as Henry’s outfit of black-and-white checked pants, white smock, and black Crocs—shoes he wouldn’t have been caught dead in when he was in high school, but they’re practical—but his father saying them means so much. Henry takes them as an acknowledgment that maybe he was right in following his dream.

“Thanks, Dad.”

He hurries back to the kitchen.

Vito grins at him from the stove, then barks, “You got about half a dozen orders for your
braciole
! Get busy!”

Henry moves toward his station, smiling. Later, his mother has promised to come in with John. She’s been to the restaurant many times, and Henry’s made his peace with her over the past several weeks, coming to understand that she, just like him, needed to find love and acceptance for who she was and not some idealized image. Her husband, over the years, lost the capacity to do that.

She’s met Vito, and she too saw the resemblance between Vito and her own beloved. In a weird sort of way, it helped mother and son come back to one another and to bond.

T
HE
NIGHT
’
S
over. It almost seems like an illusion, like some sort of time warp, the evening went by so quickly. Henry shouldn’t be surprised. It’s always this way when they’re slammed in the kitchen. They’ll be deep in the weeds, thinking it’s never going to end, and then, all of a sudden, four or five hours have passed like minutes.

And Henry should be exhausted. Not only has he cooked, chopped, and cleaned, he’s also had an emotional catharsis, serving both of his parents.

Instead, Henry feels exhilarated. He waltzes over to Vito, who’s putting away his knives in their case, and takes a look around to make sure Rosalie is nowhere in sight. He gives Vito a deep kiss and smiles. Rosalie knows about their relationship, but she still doesn’t permit any “PDAs” in the kitchen. “I don’t need to see that!” she says.

“You wanna go out?” Henry asks.

Vito shakes his head. “What I want to do is go home, walk the dogs, then put my feet up with a glass of wine.”

“Wildwood has wine,” Henry says, referring to one of the few gay bars this far north, in their Rogers Park neighborhood.

“Wildwood has swill.” Vito closes the case. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Not a bit. Isn’t that odd?”

“No. Not really. I get that way sometimes too. Everybody does. Working like we do, I think we get an extra hit of adrenaline.”

“So does that mean we can go out for a drink? I mean, come on, what was the point of you getting me that fake ID if we’re never gonna use it?”

Vito smiles. “Sometimes I have to remind myself that only ten years separate us.” He chucks Henry under the chin as he would a baby. “But yes, if it will make you happy. But we have to stop by home and take care of the girls first.”

“Of course. And change.”

“And change.”

They step out into the autumn night, and Henry thinks they’ve both changed a lot in a short time.

The air has a snap to it, almost a note of iciness that portends frost by sunrise.

Vito takes Henry’s hand in his own. Henry revels in the heat and strength of the hand and interlaces his fingers with Vito’s, squeezing. He looks up at Vito and says, “Maybe just staying in will be okay after all.”

“You sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure. But don’t get any ideas about going to sleep anytime soon.”

The wind coming toward them from off the lake holds the promise of winter. Leaves rustle in the trees, sounding dry. A shower of them falls to the earth before Vito and Henry as the pair heads south, toward
home
.

R
ICK
R. R
EED
is all about exploring the romantic entanglements of gay men in contemporary, realistic settings. While his stories often contain elements of suspense, mystery, and the paranormal, his focus ultimately returns to the power of love. He is the author of dozens of published novels, novellas, and short stories. He is a three-time EPIC eBook Award winner (for
Caregiver
,
Orientation
, and
The Blue Moon Café
). Lambda Literary Review has called him, “a writer that doesn’t disappoint.” In his spare time, Rick is an avid runner, loves to cook, and reads voraciously. Rick lives in Seattle with his husband and a very spoiled Boston terrier. He is forever “at work on another novel.”

Rick always enjoys hearing from readers and answers all e-mails personally. Contact Rick at:

E-mail: [email protected]

Website: http://www.rickrreed.com

Blog: http://rickrreedreality.blogspot.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/rickrreedbooks

Twitter: @RickRReed

Bashed

By Rick R. Reed

It should have been a perfect night out. Instead, Mark and Donald collide with tragedy when they leave their favorite night spot. That dark October night, three gay-bashers emerge from the gloom, armed with slurs, fists, and an aluminum baseball bat.

The hate crime leaves Donald lost and alone, clinging to the memory of the only man he ever loved. He is haunted, both literally and figuratively, by Mark and what might have been. Trapped in a limbo offering no closure, Donald can’t immediately accept the salvation his new neighbor, Walter, offers. Walter’s kindness and patience are qualities his sixteen-year-old nephew, Justin, understands well. Walter provides the only sense of family the boy’s ever known. But Justin holds a dark secret that threatens to tear Donald and Walter apart before their love even has a chance to blossom.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com