Just a Taste (12 page)

He stood in front of the grave, hands shoved deep in the front pockets of his jeans. He hadn’t brought his folding chair with him because he hadn’t planned on staying too long. He knew she’d understand; it was a workday, after all.

“I need to talk to you, Angie.” How many times had he said that to her, both in life and in death? She’d always been his guiding star, the angel who always knew the right thing to say to steer him in the right direction. Yet he doubted there’d be any advice forthcoming from beyond after what he had to say.

“There’s this woman who’s opening a restaurant across the street. Her name’s Vivi.” He pictured Angie nodding. Go on, she’d say, buttoning the front of her uniform. Some of their best conversations were had when they were both getting ready to start their day. “And she’s…nice.”

Nice. Christ, talk about lame. Nice explained nothing. He could do better than that. “What I mean is, she and I—there’s this tension—
shit
.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, slicking back his hair. “She came to Dante’s to cook something for me yesterday morning, and in the course of talking, she told me something that was very upsetting to her, and she started to cry. Well, you know me; a woman starts to cry, it’s like a knife in my heart. So I took her in my arms to comfort her, and I felt something, Ang. A stirring.” He struggled to find the right words. “It was like my heart has been frozen in a chunk of ice and all of a sudden, it’s beginning to thaw. Does that make any sense?”

A cold wind shook the trees, heralding fall. Anthony turned up the collar of his denim jacket, hunching his shoulders. “I’m not saying I’m in love with her or anything. But I do like her, even though she’s kind of the enemy, you know, what with opening her place across the street.

“Anyway, she kind of asked me on this date. I think. And I think I want to go, but”—he swallowed—“it makes me feel kind of disloyal.”

There. He’d said it. He fell silent, trying to imagine what Angie might say to him now, were she here to talk to him. She would say,
You gotta keep on living, Ant
. Wouldn’t she? See, that was the thing: Was that just what he
wanted
her to say, or what she really would say?

Anthony began buttoning his jacket. “I need a sign, Ang. Anything you could give me would be great.” He leaned over and patted the top of the headstone. “See you Sunday,
cara
.”

“Anthony?”

He turned.

There stood Angie’s mother.

A
nthony stood frozen
in place, staring in astonishment at his mother-in-law. What the hell was Philomena doing here at this hour? Then he remembered: Angie’s mom went to the early Mass at Saint Finbar’s every weekday morning, the same one his late grandmother used to attend. Philomena must be on her way to church.

Anthony leaned over, awkwardly kissing the older woman’s cheek. “Good to see you, Mrs. P.”

Philomena Passaro had always been small, and age was making her even smaller. Anthony was shocked at how much she’d aged since Angie’s death. It made him wonder: were there bags beneath his own eyes that he’d never noticed? Did he carry himself in a sad, stooped way? He’d like to think Michael would tell him if that was the case, but you never knew.

“It’s good to see you, too, Anthony, though it would be even nicer if it wasn’t at the cemetery, eh?” She looked tired.

Anthony nodded uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. He watched as Angie’s mother bowed her head in silence for a moment in front of the gravestone. Was she talking to God or to Angie? Anthony supposed it didn’t matter, as long as she derived some peace and comfort from it. Mouthing a quiet “Amen,” Philomena made the sign of the cross and turned back to him. “How often do you come here?”

“Every Sunday morning.”

She looked baffled. “But it’s Monday.”

“I was convening an emergency meeting of the board,” Anthony joked feebly.

Philomena smiled affectionately and reached out to squeeze Anthony’s hand. “Anthony, Anthony. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped coming to the cemetery so often?”

Anthony blinked. “What?”

“You’re a young man. You need to move on. It’s not healthy.” Before Anthony could protest she asked, “Tell me. Why do you come?”

Anthony paused. There wasn’t one answer to that. In the beginning, it was because his grief was so unbearable, the only way he could cope was by being as physically close to Angie as possible. As his grief slowly became more livable, coming to visit Ang was a way of honoring her memory. But even that started to fade as time wore on. Now he came because it was what he did; it was part of his life.

“Truthfully? I come out of habit,” he quietly admitted to Angie’s mother. “Habit and guilt.”

“What guilt? That you’re alive?”

“I guess.”

“She’d kick your ass if she heard you say that.”

Anthony laughed.

“I’m serious,” Philomena said sternly. “She worshipped you. The last thing she’d want would be for you to feel guilty. She died doing a job she loved. And she’s still
here
.” Philomena patted the spot over her heart. “And here.” She patted the same spot on Anthony’s chest. “God willing, you’ve still got years and years left to live. Promise me you won’t waste them.”

Anthony coughed to cover his discomfort. “I promise.” He checked his watch, making an apologetic face. “I should run.”

“You’ll stop by one of these days for some coffee and
sfogliatelle
?”

“You got it.” Anthony gave her another peck on the cheek. “Give my love to Mr. P?”

“Of course.”

Walking back to his car, Anthony glanced skyward with a chuckle. “Real subtle sign, Ang.”

“D
o I look
like crap?”

Anthony’s question stunned Michael into a rare silence as he ushered Anthony inside. Unable to stop thinking about Mrs. P’s perfectly timed appearance at the cemetery, Anthony decided to drop in unannounced on Michael, the way Michael so often dropped in on him. Anthony wasn’t surprised Theresa had already left for work. But he hadn’t expected to find Little Ant and Dominica lolling on the couch in their pajamas, both of them sneezing and coughing at what seemed like synchronized intervals.

“Hi, Uncle Anthony,” Little Ant croaked, wiping his runny nose on his pajama sleeve.

“You’re disgusting,” Dominica pronounced in the phlegmy voice of an old woman with a five-pack-a-day cigarette habit. She’d no sooner gotten the words out than she erupted into a very unladylike coughing fit.

“Easy, easy,” Michael urged, patting his daughter on the back until she stopped coughing. “Better?”

Dominica nodded, burrowing deeper beneath the comforter she was sharing with Little Ant. “Uncle Anthony said ‘crap’ when he walked in,” she pointed out in a tattletale voice.

“Sorry ’bout that, sweetie,” said Anthony. He looked at his brother. “You runnin’ General Hospital here today or what?”

Michael shot him a look that said,
Don’t even start
. “Head colds and coughs.” Disappointment shadowed his tired face. “Little Ant here’s gonna have to miss his hockey game this afternoon.”

Anthony looked at his nephew, whose determined gaze was riveted to the cartoon on TV. Little Ant was refusing to make eye contact with him. The kid was probably thrilled not to have to play today, but there was no way he was going to let anyone see it, even Anthony.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Michael asked as he led Anthony out of the living room. “And at this hour?”

“What, you can drop in on me, but I can’t drop in on you?” He noticed Angelica’s playpen was empty. “Where’s the
bambina
?”

“In her high chair in the kitchen, probably with a bowl of oatmeal over her head. I left her there when the doorbell rang. C’mon, follow me.”

Anthony hated to be critical, but the house was a friggin’ mess. There were piles of laundry waiting to be folded, toys strewn on the floor, and enough ground-up Cheerios crunching beneath his shoes to sustain a colony of ants for weeks. “I thought you had someone who comes to clean for you.”

“I do. Wanda. She’s got a cough and head cold, and has been out for over a week. Passed it on to the kids, obviously. Now shut up and get yourself a cup of coffee, and tell me why the first thing you said when I opened the door was, ‘Do I look like crap?’”

“Do I?” Anthony grabbed himself a cup of coffee. That was one of the pluses of his brother’s house, he always had a pot brewing, all day. And unlike Vivi, Michael knew how to make a decent cup of coffee.

“Define ‘crap,’” said Michael, who looked profoundly relieved to have found Angelica without food in her hair, babbling happily to herself in her high chair.

“Since Ang died,” Anthony clarified, “have my looks, you know, dwindled?”

“Dwindled?”

“Don’t bust my chops here, Mikey,” Anthony said, yanking open the fridge door with a frustrated tug. “Just answer me.”

“When Ang first died, yeah, you looked like total crap. Of course you did. Not eating, not sleeping…” Michael spooned some cereal into Angelica’s mouth. “Now you look like your old self, pretty much.”

“Which is?”

Michael shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

Anthony nodded. That was a good enough answer.

“Why you want to know?” Michael continued.

“I just ran into Angie’s mom at the cemetery and she looked awful, Mike. Like someone attached a vacuum cleaner hose to the base of her skull and sucked all the life out of her face, you know?”

Michael winced. “You were afraid you might look like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you don’t,” Michael assured him, jaw tightening as Angelica playfully smacked away the oatmeal-filled spoon in his hand, sending it clattering to the floor.

“That’s good.”

“Is it?” Michael’s eyes remained fixed on Anthony’s even as he bent down to pick up the baby’s spoon. “What were you doing at the cemetery this morning, Ant? I thought you went on Sundays.”

Anthony hesitated. “I had something I needed to talk to Ang about.”

“Vivi?” Michael asked delicately.

Anthony hesitated again. He was in no mood to be ragged on by his brother about talking to his dead wife, visiting her grave, Vivi Robitaille, any of it. Yet the way Michael had just said Vivi’s name—so carefully, so respectfully, even—led him to think that maybe Mikey wouldn’t give him such a hard time if he let him in on the latest development.

“She asked me to go with her to check out a new restaurant in the city,” said Anthony.

“And you’re going,
right
?” said Michael, poised to feed the baby another spoonful of cereal before Anthony intervened.

“Madonn’!”
Anthony pulled the spoon from his brother’s hands. “That was just on the floor! You can’t put that in her mouth!”

“Don’t change the subject,” Michael shot back as he went to get another spoon. He sat down, made a show of waving the clean spoon in Anthony’s face, and resumed feeding his daughter. “So? The restaurant? You’re going?”

“I don’t know. I want to, but…”

“But what?” Michael guided the spoon into his daughter’s mouth. “Good job,
cara mia
.”

“I don’t want her to think it’s a date.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not.”

“Why not?”

Anthony’s shoulders tensed. “Because my dating days are behind me. Look, what Angie and I had only comes around once in a lifetime, okay? I met a woman, we fell in love, we got married, she died, and now, I live my life the way I did before she ever came into my life: working at my restaurant, spending time with family and friends. I’m fine with it. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, Mikey.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“Because I know.”

“Fine. Then what’s the harm in going to dinner with her, if you’re so sure your heart’s locked away all nice and tidy for the next fifty years of your life? Hmm?”

“I guess you’re right,” Anthony agreed uneasily.

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“No, I’m sure.” He wasn’t sure at all.

“How ’bout this?” Michael adopted his parental problem-solver voice as he wiped caked oatmeal off Angelica’s face and lifted her out of her high chair. “What if Theresa and I go along with the two of you? That way, you won’t
feel
like it’s a date. There won’t be all this pressure on you to talk and be witty and all that crap. We can help you out if conversation grinds to a screeching halt and both of you are silently thinking, ‘I’m in hell.’”

Anthony was not amused. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“I
know
I’m funny, pal,” Michael chortled. “Talk to Vivi, and I’ll talk to Theresa, and we’ll figure out a night that’s good.” He balanced Angelica on his hip, bouncing her happily as he taunted his brother. “Daddy and Mommy are going to go out on a date with Uncle Anthony and his new girlfriend,
cara
. What do you think about that?”

“I
love your
jacket.”

The admiration in Theresa Dante’s voice made Vivi glad she’d chosen to wear the velvet blazer Natalie had given her. She’d been pleased when Anthony had agreed to accompany her into the city to try this new restaurant, Zusi’s, though admittedly surprised when he added that his brother and sister-in-law would be joining them. Her immediate thought was,
He doesn’t want to be alone with me
. Ever since cooking her
poulet basquaise
for him a week earlier, her mind kept circling back to the hug they’d shared. On the surface, it was simply a good-hearted man comforting a distressed woman. But the words he’d said (“I’m glad you exist, Vivi”) and the tender look in his eye as he held her tight and made her feel wanted, led her to think it was more than sympathy. There
was
more; she’d felt it in her own bones when she’d looked at him. The question was what to do about it.

Getting involved with a widower was one thing. But a relationship with another chef—who happened to be right across the street? Would it distract her when she needed absolute focus on the bistro? One minute Vivi thought the attraction between them would only be a nuisance, the next she was ready to surrender to whatever Eros might have in store. The only thing she knew for certain was that despite his typical culinary egotism, she liked him.

Even though Zusi’s was booked months in advance, as an established chef, all Anthony had to do was pick up the phone and a table for four was magically reserved. Walking into the restaurant, Vivi was struck by the subdued atmosphere. Sky blue fabric covered the walls and the cushions on the bentwood chairs, smooth jazz played softly in the background. It was a nice, relaxing space in which to eat. Vivi loved catching bits and pieces of people’s conversations as they were led to their table: “I can’t finish this”; “They’re in Sardinia, I think”; “She’s just starting chemo now.” All these disparate souls, gathered in one place for one pure purpose: the sanctity of a wonderfully prepared meal. It never failed to leave Vivi humbled and renew her joy in being a chef.

Vivi smiled at Theresa as they were seated. “Thank you for your compliment. My sister bought me the jacket.”

“She has good taste.”

Expensive taste, Vivi thought. She felt a twinge of guilt about not inviting Natalie along to dine with them, but she wanted to be able to relax and not have Natalie dissecting every little thing she and Anthony said and did.

She glanced up into Anthony’s handsome face with gratitude as he pulled out her chair for her. He looked very handsome tonight in his sports jacket and crisp, pressed white shirt. He smelled wonderful, too, very refreshing and woody. She liked men who wore cologne, men who took care with their appearance and toilette. It showed they cared about keeping themselves attractive.

“So, Vivi, are you enjoying Brooklyn life?” Theresa asked.

Vivi nodded. “
Oui
, very much.” Though Vivi initially found Theresa’s dark-haired beauty intimidating—the woman was truly stunning—it only took a few seconds for her to see Theresa was very down to earth.

“I can’t wait for your restaurant to open,” Theresa continued. “Bensonhurst needs some new culinary tricks, if you ask me.” She winked playfully at Anthony, who rolled his eyes. Vivi could tell the two of them got along well and enjoyed needling one another.

“You know, Theresa does PR,” Michael told Vivi. “She helped put Dante’s on the map, so to speak.”

“Dante’s was already on the map, Mike,” Anthony grumbled.