Just a Taste (28 page)

Natalie slowly walked the perimeter, nodding her head. “It’s going to look fantastic.”

“I know.” Vivi grabbed Natalie’s hand and pulled her toward a small table for two. “Sit down. No more folding chairs!”

Natalie’s gaze continued sweeping the walls as she took a seat. “This place is going to be a success. I
know
it.”

“I think I can get by with just two assistants in the kitchen and two wait persons on the floor. Maybe even one.”

“Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that.” Natalie’s head was bent in a posture of submission as she looked up at Vivi through her lashes. “I want you to hire me as a waitress, Vivi.”

Vivi gaped at her. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Natalie said earnestly. “It’s not right that you should do all the work. I want to help make Vivi’s a success, too, by working just as hard as you in what way I can. My waitressing would be cheaper than hiring someone from outside—
and
we’d be able to pay off Bernard that much faster.”

Natalie was right, of course. But Natalie as a waitress? Since she’d been going for “retail therapy” and had joined Shopaholics Anonymous, Natalie had been a lot more even tempered and relaxed. But Vivi could still imagine someone asking her for some more bread and Natalie dumping the breadbasket on their head and huffing off. Not exactly good for business.

“
Cherie
, don’t you think it would be better if you looked for a job in your chosen field?” Vivi asked carefully.

“Yes, of course. But until I find one, I desperately need to bring money in. You
know
that.”

Vivi fell silent. After the great debt debacle, the time for awkwardness between them should have been past. And yet, Vivi found herself unable to say what was on her mind, which was that Natalie was a bit too
haute
for the bistro. Then again, waitressing might be good for her newly burgeoning humility.

“Natalie, have you ever waited tables before?”

“Believe it or not, yes.” There was a proud cast in her eye. “When I was at university. Papa insisted. He didn’t want me to be completely spoiled, he said. And”—Natalie glanced away uncomfortably—“I was in debt, just like I am now. He made me work it off.”

“I see.” Vivi ran her index finger back and forth slowly across her lower lip, contemplating what to do. “Were you any good?”

“I was. I made so much in tips I was able to pay Papa off much faster than anticipated.”

“Hmm.”

Vivi noticed her sister was sans jewelry, and was more simply dressed than usual in jeans, boots, and a low-neck sweater. Natalie hadn’t said as much, but Vivi deduced she must have sold off a great deal of her designer wardrobe. “If I say yes, do you promise you won’t turn around and quit on me after a few weeks?”

“I promise.” Natalie looked at her imploringly. “I want to do this, Vivi. I want to make it up to you. I want us to work together to make the restaurant a success.”

“All right,” Vivi agreed. How could she say no? Natalie was really trying to make amends. Everyone deserved a second chance—maybe even a third or a fourth if they wanted it badly enough. Vivi believed Natalie did.

“Thank you.” Natalie appeared relieved as she pulled a cigarette out of her purse and lit it.
Cigarettes are expensive!
Vivi thought, but held her tongue. It was a small pleasure compared to Natalie’s past indulgences.

“I need to ask you one more favor,” Natalie continued, looking nervous.

“What’s that?”

Natalie hesitated. “Can I move in with you? Just temporarily,” she added quickly, “until I find my own place. I can’t afford the rent on the apartment in the city anymore.”

Vivi pictured herself and Natalie. They’d be at each other’s throats like crazed cats after two days. Living together, working together—it would be too much. Still, it if was just temporary…

“Of course you can stay,” said Vivi. “But I’ll give you an advance on your waitressing salary, so you can start looking right away.”

“Can’t stand the thought of living with me, eh?” Natalie joked quietly.

“No. Not in an apartment that small. As it is you’ll have to share my double bed with me.”

“That’s all right,” Natalie assured her. “As long as you don’t kick in your sleep.”

“No one has ever said so.”

“You know, when I was little, I used to pray for a sister to share my room with,” Natalie revealed shyly. “I used to imagine us in twin beds close enough for us to reach out and hold hands, exchanging secrets and giggles in the darkness. Sometimes I hated being an only child.”

“Me, too. But we’ve got each other now, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Natalie whispered, getting teary. “And we have this.” She gestured at the four walls surrounding them. “It’s more than enough.”

“I
f you three
stoogettes don’t leave my kitchen, so help me God, I’m going to send you home without a morsel to eat.”

Anthony knew he was bellowing, but he couldn’t help it. For the past half hour, his Aunts Connie, Millie, and Betty Anne had been hovering in his kitchen offering unsolicited advice while he prepared Easter dinner. Millie was the worst. Always had been. Sometimes he wondered if they were really his mother’s sisters; his mom had been very gentle and relatively sane.

Millie pointed to the oven with the cigarette that was permanently soldered to her hand. “You put too much marjoram on the lamb. Your mother always used it sparingly,” she noted in her gravelly voice.

“I’m not my mother,” Anthony pointed out, amazed a woman who subsisted on Parliaments and hot dogs had the
coglioni
to say anything to him about cooking. He must have been glaring, because Aunt Betty Anne, timid in the best of circumstances, was backing toward the kitchen doorway. Aunt Connie, like her bossy, tobacco-addicted sister, was still sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

“We’re just saying,” she sniffed defensively.

“Saying what?” Anthony retorted. “I run a restaurant, remember? I know what I’m doing.”

Millie rolled her rheumy eyes and tapped Connie on the arm. “C’mon, let’s go out into the living room and leave Mister Touchy alone.”

“Thank you,”
Anthony said in an exaggerated voice. “And put that damn cigarette out! I told you, no smoking in the house!”

Millie pretended not to hear him.

He sighed and wondered what the hell he’d been thinking when he’d decided to close Dante’s for Easter Sunday and cook dinner for his family instead. When he had brought it up to his brother months ago, it seemed like a good idea. He loved to cook, they loved to eat, and it had been years since he’d been able to sit at a table with everyone and just relax. But now that they were all here under his roof, making more noise than a Met Gar crowd and invading his kitchen uninvited, he was beginning to doubt the soundness of his decision.

He stood in the center of the kitchen, savoring the scents swirling around him and admiring his own handiwork. There was still a hint of the rosemary lingering in the air from the
Pan di Ranerino
rolls he’d made earlier that morning, and the succulent smell of the lamb basted in herbs wafting from the oven smelled
exactly
the same as his mother used to make, if not better. Christ only knows what Millie was talking about with the marjoram. He couldn’t smell the coffee custard cooling in the fridge, obviously, but the orange cake sitting on the counter was spongy to the touch, just as it should be, and smelled as fragrant as an orange grove. If one more person opened their mouth to question or criticize, he’d show them the front door.

If anyone would understand his wanting to banish relatives from the kitchen, it would be Vivi. He wondered what she was doing today. Probably putting the finishing touches on the bistro, due to open in a week. It had annoyed him when, a few months back, she’d put a sheet up across the bistro’s window so no one could see what was going on. Michael told him he was paranoid thinking she’d done it specifically to keep him from seeing inside, but he knew the truth. As if he cared. As Theresa had said, if anyone needed to be worried, it was Vivi. Bensonhurst was his turf, solidly Italian. She was going to have to blow everyone away if she expected to garner one tenth of the following he had.

“Anthony?”

He instinctively tensed before turning to see his cousin Gemma tread lightly into the kitchen, as if she were sneaking inside. She was the most well-balanced person Anthony knew, despite being into that witch stuff.

“Hey.” He leaned down to kiss her. “How ya’ feelin’, chooch?”

“I needed to take a break from the mayhem,” she said, tilting her head toward the living room. “Plus Aunt Millie is smoking.”

“Apparently, smoking can cause deafness. I asked her to put it out and she ignored me.”

“That’s Aunt Millie,” said Gemma, rubbing her lower back. There was a ravenous look in her eye as she fixated on the stove. “Everything smells great. I’m starving.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m always starving.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “A new
bambino
on the way, maybe?”

“Bite your tongue!”

“Well, dinner won’t be too much longer, I promise.”

“I told you we can’t stay for dessert, right? Sean’s family will freak out if we don’t put in an appearance.”

“Not a problem. I’ll send you home with some orange cake that you can have later.”

“Great.” For a split second, Gemma’s face remained lit up, but then she slowly narrowed her eyes, fixing Anthony with a penetrating gaze. Anthony felt hair on the back of his neck rise up. She was doing her witch thing, which always creeped him out.

“You’re depressed.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are. I can see it in your aura. It’s murky green. You miss her, don’t you?”

Anthony sighed, seeing no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

Every time he’d run into Vivi over the past three months, things had felt awkward. Conversation was stilted. Perhaps it was the presence of Natalie, who was always glued to Vivi’s side. In Natalie’s eyes, Anthony could feel himself being evaluated, judged, assessed, the same way he had been the first time they met.
Lo, how the mighty have fallen
is what he always thought whenever he found himself on the receiving end of those cool, appraising stares. It was obvious what the deal was. Natalie was Cinderella in reverse, having given up her luxurious life in the city to move to Brooklyn instead. Poor Vivi. Poor Brooklyn.

Gemma reached her hand up high, gently brushing his cheek. Their height difference had always been a source of amusement between them. “Don’t worry so much. There are big changes coming. Nonna Maria told me.”

“That’s great, Gem. Anyone else from the Great Beyond have an opinion? Maybe you could try dialing up Angie on the heaven hotline and see what she has to say.”

“Fine, don’t believe me,” Gemma said crossly. “But I know what I know.”

“‘Big changes are coming’ could mean anything. It could mean my restaurant is going to burn down. Who the hell knows?”

“Good changes, Anthony. That’s what she meant.”

“Yeah? Maybe she was referring to your mother, Aunt Millie, and Aunt Betty Anne getting off my ass. That would be a big change, don’t you think?” He ruffled her mop of red hair affectionately, eager to get off the subject of Vivi and finish up his cooking. “Go back inside and sit down. Dinner will be done in a minute.”

“L
isten up, everyone!
I have a couple of toasts to make.”

The living room fell quiet, or as quiet as a living room full of Italians could be, at the sound of Michael’s announcement. The family was seated around the long foldout table Anthony had borrowed from his Aunt Connie, with Mikey’s children seated at a smaller “kids’ table,” which Little Ant seemed to resent bitterly, if the piercing stare he kept locked on Anthony was any indication. Aunt Millie had put out her cigarette. Gemma was practically salivating as she stared at the lamb in the center of the table. Anthony tried not to think about how fast the food might be cooling. All he could think was,
This had better be quick, Mikey
.

“First, a toast to the family.” Beaming, Michael looked around the table. “I’m so happy we’re all together tonight.”

Everyone raised their wineglasses and touched them together, murmuring their agreement.

“Next, a toast my brother, Anthony, the best chef in all of Brooklyn, who cooked this fantastic meal we’re about to eat.”

Anthony stood up and took a bow as his relatives applauded.

“Next—”

“Is this gonna take a long time?” Aunt Millie interrupted with a growl. “Because if you’re gonna go on the way you usually do, I’ll just step outside for a quick cigarette.”

Anthony glanced down, suppressing a laugh as he shook open his napkin. Looking back up, he was glad to see his brother looked on the verge of laughter, too. “It’ll only be a few more seconds, I swear,” said Michael.

“You ever think of getting remarried, Aunt Millie?” asked Anthony. “I hear Joe Camel’s available.”

Aunt Millie seemed not to appreciate the joke as the family laughed. She gave Anthony a dismissive backhanded wave, sinking deeper in her chair with a scowl.

Michael’s attention was turned toward the kids’ table, his eyes blazing with pride as he looked at his son. “I want to toast my son, Little Anthony, who helped his uncle prepare this meal. Your mother and I are so proud of what a great cook you’re becoming.” He turned back to Anthony. “You better watch it, bro. You’ve got some serious competition coming your way in a few years.”

Anthony looked down at his lap to cover the mist forming in his eyes and then glanced at Little Ant. The kid looked elated.

“Can we eat now?” Dominica whined from the kids’ table. “I’m, like, starving.”

“One more thing,” said Michael.

Everyone groaned.

“You all know I’ve been playing Mister Mom for the past year or so while my beautiful wife”—Michael raised his glass in salute to Theresa, who blushed—“went out to work and patiently put up with a mopey, depressed
cidrule
who couldn’t manage the household if his life depended on it. My brother put up with a lot from me, too, and saved my butt on too many occasions to count when I was too scatterbrained to cook.

“I’m pleased to announce that as of June, I’m going to be out of everyone’s hair. Kidco Corporation has asked me to come back to be the Blades assistant coach, and I’ve accepted the job.”

The table erupted with cheers of “Congratulations!” and a frenzied clinking of glasses. Anthony looked across the table at Theresa. “Thank God,” she mouthed to him. “No kidding,” Anthony mouthed back. It was turning out to be a good day. Only one other thing could have made it perfect.

A
week later,
Anthony strolled into Al’s Deli for his usual six a.m. cup of coffee and ham and egg on a roll, and Vivi was there. The sight of her without Natalie in tow took him aback. Then he remembered, Vivi’s grand opening was in just a few days. She was up to receive early morning deliveries from suppliers just like he was.

“The usual, Al,” he called over the counter. The deli owner nodded and scurried off to make Anthony’s sandwich.

“Hello,” said Vivi. It was spring, but early mornings were still cold, and she was wearing an oversized fisherman’s sweater over baggy jeans that made her look like a waif. For a split second Anthony entertained the thought that the sweater might belong to Bernard Napoleon, but he purged it from his mind. He’d seen her in the sweater this past winter, her hair tied behind her back just the way it was now, her pale skin without blemish.
Jesus,
Anthony thought.
Why couldn’t she at least look like crap in the morning like everyone else?

“How are you?’ Vivi ventured. She was holding a tall foam cup that he assumed to be full of coffee.

“Fine,” said Anthony.
Where’s your sister, Mademoiselle Hyde?
He was tempted to ask, but refrained. Somehow, it seemed wrong to be combative before the sun was even up. “How are you?”

“Very well.” She took a sip of coffee, gasping as she pulled it away from her mouth. “It’s boiling!”

“Al always makes it too hot,” Anthony said under his breath. “Take off the lid for a couple of minutes and blow on it. It should be fine.”

Vivi looked dubious, but she did as he advised.

“Up for deliveries?” he asked.

“Yes. You?”

“Yes.”

She carefully ventured another sip of coffee, wincing. “Still too hot.”

“I told you a couple of minutes. It’s only been five seconds.”

“Were you counting?”

Anthony rolled his eyes and kept silent. He didn’t want to think about how alive this was making him feel.

Al passed him his own cup of coffee, and with great exaggeration, Anthony took off the lid and began blowing onto the cup, counting under his breath just to see how she’d react. “One…two…three…”

“Did you get the invitation to my opening?”

“Four…five…six…”

“Anthony—”

“Seven…eight…nine…”

“Fine, I get your point!” Vivi huffed with a small stamp of the foot he found adorable. “I’ll let my coffee cool some more.”

“Always listen to the master,” said Anthony with a suave smile. He took the sandwich from Al and paid for it, moving toward the door. “Want to walk back with me? Or—”

“That would be fine.”

They left the deli together, walking in the gray dark toward their respective restaurants. Anthony hated the idea of her out walking alone at this hour, but knew if he said so, he’d be giving her ammunition to use against him. He kept his instincts under control…for about ten seconds.

“No offense, Vivi, but you shouldn’t be out alone at this hour.”

“I know,” she said, which shocked the hell out of him. “That’s why I’m picking up my new car later today. Actually, it’s not new, it’s used, but it’s new to me.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Anthony, relieved. “What kind did you get?”

“A Honda Civic.”

“Good car.”

“That’s what I’m told.”

By who?
Anthony thought.
Bernard Parlezvouz?
They were walking slowly, both of them trying not to let their scalding, filled-to-the-brim coffees splash over the sides as they continued blowing onto the hot liquid.

“You never answered my question,” said Vivi. “About the opening.”

“I got the invite.”

“And?”

He could feel her studying him as he kept his eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of him. “And what?”

“Are you going to come?” she asked with a slight hint of impatience in her voice.

“Do you want me to come?” Anthony paused to take a sip from his coffee. He still wasn’t looking at her. A garbage truck passed by, the driver turning to look at them as he rumbled down the street. Anthony wondered what he thought, seeing a man and a woman stopped in the middle of an empty sidewalk at six in the morning, drinking coffee. Who was he kidding? The guy didn’t think anything. This was New York.