Just a Taste (11 page)

P
repare to be
dazzled.

Anthony’s expectation echoed in Vivi’s head as she followed him through the Dante’s dining room into the silent, silver kitchen. Though she’d barely slept a wink thanks to Natalie, adrenaline was beginning to pump inside her, giving her more than enough energy for the culinary challenge ahead. Dazzling Anthony Dante would be easy; the hard part would be making sure he didn’t interfere.

“Coffee?” Anthony proffered a foam cup, which Vivi accepted gratefully. She would have brought her own thermos, but she didn’t want to be teased.

“Where do you get coffee so early in the morning?” asked Vivi.

“There’s a deli up the street. They open at five.”

Vivi shook her head in silent amazement. No one could ever accuse Americans of being lazy. Open for business at five a.m. on a Sunday morning? Only the occasional
boulangerie
did that in France.

“Have you been up since five?” she asked.

Anthony nodded.

“To be here for the deliveries?” That was the one aspect of owning her own place Vivi was not looking forward to: the pre-dawn deliveries from suppliers.

“Something like that,” Anthony mumbled.

Vivi gave him a puzzled look. How he spent his Sunday mornings was certainly none of her business, though her curiosity was piqued.

Vivi moved to one of the kitchen’s long stainless steel tables and began unpacking her groceries. She wasn’t surprised when Anthony came to stand right beside her, rubbing his hands together like an eager child. “What are you making?”

“
Poulet Basquaise
, or chicken with onions, ham, tomatoes, and peppers. The famous French gourmet Brillat-Savarin once said, ‘Poultry is for the cook what the canvas is for the painter,’ so prepare for the culinary equivalent of a Picasso, my friend.”

“Mmm, nothing like eating dinner first thing in the morning.”

Vivi laughed. “Tell me you’ve never eaten your own leftovers the next day.”

“You don’t want to know how many times I’ve had lasagna for breakfast, okay?”

“Exactly.”

Vivi could feel the pull the recipe’s ingredients were exerting over Anthony as he casually asked, “Need help with the prep work?”

Vivi looked at him stonily.

“Well, you have to give me something to do. I can’t just stand here in my own kitchen and watch you cook.”

Vivi brusquely rolled two heads of garlic toward him. “I need twelve cloves, cut paper thin.” She knew this was going to happen; she should have made him come over to her place. Her kitchen might be “poky” as Natalie so bluntly put it, but at least it was hers.

Anthony began working on the garlic, while Vivi reached for a large stockpot, filling it with water before setting it atop a high flame on one of the burners.

“What’s that for?” Anthony asked.

“To prep the two pounds of tomatoes that need to be peeled.” She took hold of the apron he handed her, tying the strings briskly around her waist. “Listen to me: If you’re going to question every little thing I do, I’m going to go mad, do you hear?”

Anthony looked offended. “Pardon
moi
, but it’s just curiosity, not criticism.”

Vivi stood her ground. “Just let me cook, all right?”

“Fine,” said Anthony with displeasure. “I’ll chop the garlic and keep my lip buttoned.”

“Yes, please.” His dramatic streak amused Vivi. All chefs had a penchant for the melodramatic—herself included, according to her mother.

Anthony brooded silently over the garlic while Vivi set about slicing the onions. As she and Anthony worked side by side, she thought she felt a certain sense of camaraderie. They weren’t adversaries, they were two soldiers together in the trenches, united toward a common goal: culinary perfection.

“I never minded doing prep work,” Vivi confided.

“Me either, though sometimes my old man could be a pain in the neck about it.”

Vivi glanced sideways at him with interest. “I forgot you’ve been in this kitchen since you were a small boy.”

“Yup.” Anthony’s fingers flew, slicing the first clove of garlic in seconds. “You grow up in the biz?”

Vivi shook her head. “My mother ran a small grocery store. But she always loved to cook.”

“She still alive?”

Vivi nodded.

“Your dad?”

Vivi swallowed hard. “He passed away a little over a year and a half ago.” Even now, just saying it made her feel as if there were sand in her blood, dragging her down. Did grief feel that way for everyone?

“So, you grew up with your mom and Natalie grew up with your dad?”

“Mmm,” said Vivi noncommittally, reaching for another onion. To her surprise, Anthony’s hand shot out to still hers.

“Why so mysterious?” he asked, his expression serious as he studied her face.

Vivi gently pushed his hand away. “It’s complicated.” She began chopping the next onion, grateful for the busy-work.

“We’ve got time.”

Vivi chopped faster. “You’re very pushy.”

“In some things. C’mon, Vivi. Spill.”

Vivi put down her knife, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. The truth was, she wanted to tell him. She’d been longing to tell someone about it for a long time.

“I’m my father’s illegimate child,” she said softly. “Natalie is the child of his marriage.”

Anthony looked like he didn’t know what to say. “And you—the two of you—you’re friends? I mean—”

“I’ll explain,” said Vivi, picking up her knife to briskly resume her chopping. It would be so much easier to talk about if she could concentrate on work as she spoke and didn’t have to see Anthony’s face. She was afraid she would see pity there. Or worse, disapproval.

“I grew up in Avignon with my mother. Ever since I could remember, my father would only be with us intermittently. I didn’t understand why he was always coming and going, until one day my mother explained that he worked in Paris, and it was easier for him to stay there for work, coming to see us on the occasional weekend. I accepted this.

“Then one day, I turned on the TV and there was my father on the news, accompanied by another woman and a little girl.” Vivi’s face felt hot. “Needless to say, I was very confused.”

“No shit,” Anthony blurted. Vivi scowled at him. “Let me rephrase that: wow.”

“That’s when my mother explained to me—she was my father’s mistress, and the woman and the girl on the TV were his wife and daughter.”

Anthony’s mouth fell open. “Your mother knew about them?”

“Oh, yes,” Vivi replied matter-of-factly. “At first, I was upset. I remember asking my
maman
, ‘Why doesn’t Papa divorce that woman and come marry you?’ But my mother just laughed. She liked her freedom! Besides, my father was a very well-respected politician. Breaking up his family for his mistress would have been frowned upon.”

“And having an illegitimate kid wasn’t?”

Vivi’s brows knitted in frustration. “You don’t understand. In my country, extramarital affairs are considered private. It’s no one’s business how someone conducts their personal life; it has nothing to do with the professional sphere unless it affects work somehow, like in Natalie’s case. The nuclear family is considered sacred, which is why a divorce would have been frowned upon, but I wasn’t. When my father died, my mother and I were both at the funeral, and no one blinked an eye.”

Anthony’s gaze shifted uneasily. “What about Natalie’s mother?”

“She knew about my mother.”

“Did her mother know about
you
?”

Vivi hesitated. “Not at first. But when I was accepted at Le Cordon Bleu and went to Paris, I made contact with Natalie.” She smiled sadly. “I’d always wanted a sister, so I reached out. My father was furious; at that time, Natalie and her mother hadn’t known about me, and they were quite shocked. But once things settled down, Natalie and I slowly got to know one another.

“I was hurt when Papa died and left Natalie much more money than me, but I understood; his wife would have been very upset if we’d received the same amount.” Vivi put down the knife in her hand as tears welled up, blurring her vision. “Damn.” She turned away from Anthony. “Excuse me a minute. These onions…” She clenched her jaw, but it didn’t work; a tear broke free and trickled down her cheek.

“Vivi.” Anthony’s voice was kind as he turned her back to him, awkwardly enveloping her in his arms. “It’s okay.”

“It’s ridiculous.” Vivi sniffled against his large, warm chest. “I know my father loved me! But it still hurts, and with Natalie holding the purse strings for the restaurant, I feel as if I have to be careful about everything I say or do or she’ll change her mind about the bistro.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Sometimes, I feel like I have to prove I even have a right to exist.”

Anthony squeezed her tighter. “Of course you have a right to exist.” He paused. “I’m glad you exist.”

Vivi erupted into sobs. “I’m sorry. I—I’m getting your shirt wet.”

“Big effin’ deal,” said Anthony. “Clothing doesn’t matter. People do.”

Vivi slowly lifted her eyes to his. “You’re so kind,” she whispered. She reached up, cupping her hand to his cheek and holding it there. A small flint of desire sparked in his eyes, and she wondered: is he seeing the same thing as he looks at me? The feeling took her by surprise. Worried his penetrating gaze meant he could read her thoughts, Vivi gently pulled away from their embrace, blotting her eyes with the hem of her apron.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” Vivi said brusquely. She picked up her knife and resumed chopping onions. Anthony paused, then picked up his own knife and resumed mincing garlic. Neither said a word.

“W
ell?”

Anthony tried to ignore Vivi’s nervous hovering as she waited for him to taste her chicken dish. Ever since holding her, it felt as if God had given him an extra sense, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

As Vivi held her breath, Anthony put a forkful of food in his mouth, waiting until long after he’d swallowed to make his pronouncement. “Pretty damn good.”

Vivi looked pleased. “Thank you.”

“You could use less garlic, though.” Anthony laughed as she stomped her foot in outrage. “I’m just kidding.”

“You better be.” Vivi wore a slight frown as she helped herself to a plate of food. “I’m sorry about before,” she said, not quite looking at him. “About falling apart and all that.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me. Please, promise me you won’t say anything to anyone about what I told you.”

“Who am I going to tell?”

“Your brother, perhaps?” Vivi took a taste of food, chewing slowly. “
Merde
, I think you’re right. A little too much garlic.”

“The master is always right,” Anthony boasted. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell my brother anything.”

“And you can’t let Natalie know you know. And—”

“Anything else you want to tell me not to do?” Anthony interrupted.

Vivi blushed. “I’m sorry.”

“Does Natalie know how you feel?” Anthony asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “About you feeling like she lords it over you?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think you should tell her?” He knew from experience with his own brother that you shouldn’t let things like this fester. Not only was it unhealthy, it was dangerous—likely to explode in a war of words that couldn’t be taken back.

Vivi considered the question. “I don’t know,” she said carefully. “It’s not as if we’re outwardly battling. It’s my issue.”

“Yeah, but it’s interfering with enjoying what you’re trying to build here. I think you need to get it off your chest, or at some point you’re going to pop your cork.”

“Another wonderful expression,” Vivi said with a soft laugh.

The sound of her laugh…Anthony immediately wanted to say something witty, just so he could hear it again. And yet, the mere recognition of that urge made him uncomfortable. He jumped up. “I really need to get my day started. The staff is going to start straggling in soon.”

“Of course. Let me do the dishes and I’ll be on my way.”

“I’ll take care of them. It’s no sweat.”

“That hardly seems right.”

“Seriously, it’s not a big deal.” The sooner she left, the better. He desperately needed to get his head on straight before his day properly began.

“If you say so.” Vivi rose slowly. “I was wondering,” she said shyly, “if you would like to go to a new restaurant in New York with me.”

Anthony peered at her apprehensively. “What kind of restaurant?” Was she asking him on a
date
?

“American
nouvelle
, I think.”

“Huh.” He hated these stupid labels that were put on cooking styles: American
nouvelle
, fusion, fill-in-the-blank. They were pretentious as well as limiting.

His lack of an immediate, enthusiastic response wasn’t lost on Vivi as she quickly untied her apron, thrusting it at him. “I just thought it might be fun to go with another chef, that’s all.”

Anthony balled up her apron in his hand. “It could be interesting. Tell me what day you have in mind, and I’ll talk to some people, see about getting someone to cover for me.”

“Shall I call you?”

Anthony shrugged. “Just pop over when you get a chance.”

“All right, then.” Vivi edged toward the kitchen doors. “Thank you for letting me demonstrate which of us is truly the better cook. I must say, you accepted defeat very gracefully.”

They both laughed.

“You ever hear the expression, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over’?” Anthony asked as he held the kitchen door open for her.

“No.”

He patted Vivi’s shoulder. “Find out what it means; then we’ll talk about defeat.”

W
hen Anthony told
Vivi he’d “talk to some people,” he saw no reason to mention that one of them happened to be his dead wife. For the first time since Ang had passed, he felt the need to go speak to her during the week.

He wasn’t surprised to find the cemetery completely deserted. Most people were at home getting ready for their morning commute. Anthony had been up for hours, unable to sleep, unable to concentrate. It was only through a tremendous act of will, coupled with fear of being picked up by the cops as some kind of lunatic, that he hadn’t come here in the middle of the night.