But hearing that Grandpa Frank’s beloved bakery was in trouble, and that Enzo Bianchi was not only going to marry Grandma Celeste, but also wanted to “help out” North Beach Bakery, brought it all back, brought Gina home. Not that she’d been enjoying her life in LA anyway, but at least it was her own, free of her family’s drama. But it had also kept her from the warmth, and the closeness she used to have with Grandma, Michael, and her Marchesi cousins.
“I’ll bring that antipasti into the living room.” Anything to get away from Vincente, who made her soft and uncomfortable. She felt as if his eyes lasered into her with her every movement. Her impulsive decisions last night had been disastrous to her dreams. She’d just wanted to have one chance with him, away from their families. Clearly, that wasn’t meant to be; they weren’t meant to be.
She grabbed the tray from the fridge and hurried into the living room. Dad sat on the couch, flipping through Time magazine. He didn’t even look up when she placed the tray on the coffee table. It wasn’t any more comfortable in here with her father. He’d barely said three words to her since she’d been home, if she didn’t count his accusatory questions and commands about where she’d been or what she was doing.
She walked around the room, hoping the movement would loosen the tightness in her back and hips. The white fireplace surround was simple and classical. She tugged on a stray curl of her hair. The blues and creams of the décor normally would have soothed her, but she was too jumpy—she supposed that big glass of wine she’d had before Vincente arrived hadn’t helped. She picked up a Murano glass paperweight off a side table then placed it gently back. A couple of paintings of Italy—looked like the Amalfi Coast—hung on the wall. She dreamed of visiting Italy, but so far, her dreams had been put on hold while she jumped from one goal to another.
“Why’re you really here?” her dad said.
She swiveled toward him, crossed her arms, and reclined against the wall. Dad tossed the magazine onto the coffee table and leaned forward, fisting his hands together. He met her stare.
“Starting the attitude again, huh?” Dad seemed to be ready for a fight.
Her ears burned, as if steam would come out of them, like some cartoon character. Her dad gritted his teeth. He rose and walked to her, standing right in front of her. He was barely taller than she was, and he ought to know by now that she didn’t intimidate easily.
“Fine, don’t answer me. You haven’t changed. But I need an extra set of eyes on your grandma.” His expression showed concern, the lines around his mouth deepening.
“You think she’s not happy?”
“I don’t trust those Bianchis,” he whispered.
She rolled her eyes and pushed off the wall. “I don’t want them to try to ‘save’ the bakery. We can figure it out on our own.”
Dad quickly turned away and bent to pick up a pepperoncino from the tray. “We agree on something,” he muttered.
Her dad was like a bulldog—tenacious. But he hadn’t been when it came to their family, not when she was a teenager. And Dad didn’t forget grievances, even ones passed down in family lore. Grandma had been engaged to Enzo for almost six months now, and Dad was still suspicious.
“You two okay?” Mom said as she walked in.
“Sure. I’ve been thinking...I should help Grandma more at the store. She shouldn’t be doing all that baking alone. I’ll still have time for the business side too.”
“Frank...” Mom said in a slightly accusatory tone.
“Dad didn’t say anything, Mom. It’s... I’d like to spend some extra time with Grandma.”
“We’re all glad you’re home, honey.” Mom put her hand on Gina’s arm.
“And I do need to get myself settled, take a few days to figure some things out.” Time to let go of her girlish crush on Vincente, and stop his uncle from interfering in her family business.
“Whatever you need,” Mom said.
She pulled her mom toward the door and leaned close to her. “Did you give my business plan to Enzo?” Gina asked in a low voice.
“Of course. He’s thinking of investing his money in the bakery.”
“I asked you...” She sighed. Mom didn’t get it. “Does Dad know about any of this?”
“No, honey, remember I told you, I want to work up to it. You know how he feels about the Bianchis...” Mom murmured, the two of them in a huddle.
Dad leaned back into the couch and glanced at them. Gina squeezed her mom’s hand.
“Frank, how’s Michael?” Mom said, going to join Dad on the couch. “Can we manage without Gina a few days?”
“Why not? We’ve managed for six years now, haven’t we?” Dad rested his arms across the back of the couch.
Mom leaned into the cushions and watched Gina. Dad still resented Gina and Frankie for leaving the family business. Only Michael, their younger brother, had stayed. But unlike their dad, Michael had welcomed Gina back with one of his warm hugs and sweet smiles. Unfortunately, Michael was just like their mom, ready to accept the “help” of the Bianchis.
“I’m going to check with Grandma. I think we’ll be eating in the kitchen since it’s just the six of us.”
“You should get to know Vincente, honey,” Mom said. She smoothed her dress over her crossed legs and pushed back her thick, still-dark hair.
Gina rolled her eyes as she walked away.
“Don’t encourage her, Eva. You know the kind of louse she always falls for. Besides, he’s a Bianchi,” Dad said. Dad’s grandpa had warned him against the Bianchis, who were from the same town in Italy, and Dad wasn’t keen on wealthy people either.
Gina hunched her shoulders. Dad had no respect for her judgment, in business or in life. So she’d proven him right in terms of her love life. In every other area she’d shown excellence.
“Frank...” Mom said in a warning tone.
Gina didn’t want to hear anymore. She rubbed her churning stomach. Her heels clicked across the foyer floor into the kitchen.
She stopped in the doorway. Vincente sliced bread on a bamboo cutting board at the tiled counter, placing it in a neat row in a bread basket lined with a crisp linen napkin. Grandma sat at the table with Enzo. Enzo clasped Grandma’s hand, just as Grandpa Frank used to. And Grandma smiled, tilting her head as she did, as if marveling at the miracle of her life. Grandma used to tell her about the everyday miracles. Gina began to smile, remembering. But this picture, Grandma with Enzo Bianchi, was wrong. Not wrong, she supposed, but not right either.
“Sit with us. Vincente’s getting dinner on the table,” Grandma said.
She scooted into the chair next to Grandma.
Vincente placed the bread on the table. “Want something to drink?” he asked her.
She nodded. He waited, an expectant expression on his face. Sort of the way he’d looked at her before he’d kissed her hand, so gently. She pressed the spot and held back her sigh. She was being ridiculous, which was also the definition of carrying on a crush for over ten years.
Grandma touched her arm. “Gina?”
“Just water. I’ll get it.” She jumped up and hurried to the cabinet. She got herself a glass of water, trying to ignore Vincente’s presence near her. She gulped down half of the water from the glass. Vincente leaned on the counter next to her. Having him so close was like someone turned on a heater right next to her. The glass slipped from her hand and shattered in the sink.
No. She was acting just like that fumbling teenager she’d once been. Reaching into the sink, she rushed to pick up the shards of glass. One of the shards sliced into her finger. She sucked in a breath.
He grabbed her arm. “Drop it.” She did. He removed her hands from the sink and examined the hand that had been cut. His touch was steady, capable. “There still a first aid kit in the bathroom?” he asked.
“Yes,” Enzo said.
She looked at her hand. Blood oozed from the cut. She sucked in her lip and tried to wriggle from Vincente’s grasp. “I can take care of it,” she sa
id.
Grandma moved to her side. “Let him help, Gina.” Grandma’s voice was firm. “I’ll clean up.”
He walked her out. She disliked accepting help. The thought that it made her weak and incapable stuck with her from the lessons of her father’s actions. Her head knew that thinking was wrong, but her heart wasn’t quite caught up.
Her parents approached. “What happened?” Mom asked, her voice laced with worry.
“Just a cut. No big deal.” Gina shot Vincente a grimace for his interfering, overbearing concern. He was making this seem like an issue when it wasn’t. Maybe he just didn’t want her to drip blood on the pristine counter. He liked things neat. He was the type of guy who always had a clean, pressed handkerchief at the ready. When she was younger, she’d thought that like some historical romance hero. She shook her head.
“Dinner’s on the table,” he said, ignoring her look.
Her parents walked into the kitchen. He took her into the half-bathroom across from Enzo’s office. When he let go of her hand and rooted the first aid kit out of the cabinet, her hand began to throb. He pulled out a gauze pad, a large adhesive bandage, and some first aid cream.
“I’ll do it.” She grabbed for the bandage but missed, swiping blood on the counter and knocking everything on the floor. Her chest tightened, joining the stiffness of her back. A scream rose in her throat, something to relieve the pressure. Family tension plus destroyed dreams was not a good combo. She bit her tongue.
He pushed out a breath, snorting like an angry bull. “Just stay still. If you won’t do it for me, do it for your grandma.”
Grandma had said to accept help. She froze. Before her dating ban, Gina’d been working with a relationship coach on accepting help from people, being more receptive. It didn’t work, so she’d given up relationships all together instead. That wasn’t what she wanted.
Vincente drew in a deep breath. He grabbed a cleaning wipe from the cabinet under the sink, wiped up the blood, picked up the supplies, and bent to the task. He lightly pressed the gauze on the wound, cleaning the excess blood. She stood still, though her head dizzied from his touch, as though she whirled in one of those spinny tea cup rides. She leaned against the sink. He glanced at her. With a toss, he threw away the gauze. Then he dabbed some first aid cream on and covered it. His fingers stayed steady, his touch warm and gentle.
“Nervous?” He stood tall, inches from her in the close space.
“No.” She shrugged. “Why should I be?”
“You tell me. You’re the one acting on edge.” He put the supplies into the box.
“Just don’t want anyone to find out about last night.” Her voice came out broken. “It was a mistake, going to the park with you.” Last night hadn’t felt like a mistake—it’d felt right, being close to him. But she wasn’t about to admit the truth, not to Vincente.
“Huh. We agree on that.” He moved to put the kit away.
Her breathing went shallow, her chest tight. She rubbed her collarbone. He seemed so unperturbed, whereas she’d just dropped a glass because he got her so bothered. And it hurt, hearing him say their time together had been a mistake. Never mind that she’d said it too.
“You’re the one who gave me a red rose.” She tried not to sound accusatory.
“The florist put it in. You gave me heart cookies.” He shrugged.
“We sell those at the bakery to anyone.” She slid past him and strode back into the kitchen. None of this was going the way she’d hoped. She’d meant to give him the cookies as an apology, and another gesture to show she cared. Instead, they snapped at each other and she wound tighter, dough stretched to breaking before it was ready.
She stopped at the kitchen doorway. What a charming scene. Her parents and Grandma and Enzo all sitting around the old oak table passing food and chatting, the afternoon sun slanting in from the expensive slatted shades lining the windows.
But it wasn’t charming. It was all wrong, not how her family was...or had been. She placed her hands on her hips. Vincente came up behind her. She rushed to an empty chair next to Grandma. He eased into the seat across from her.
And Vincente, with his concern, the way his intense, deep-set brown eyes studied her, his mouth set in a displeased frown, just heightened her discomfort.
“Are you all right, dear?” Grandma asked. Gina could tell she didn’t just mean about the cut.
“Sure, thanks.” She took some salad, plopping it onto her plate. Three days home and her ideas still hadn’t taken shape, like bread dough made with old yeast. “Heard from Frankie lately?”
Her dad’s jaw twitched. She’d pressed on a sore spot with him, but it was a way to keep his attention off her.
“He’s doing well,” Mom said, too brightly.
“A real help to Sal,” Enzo said.
Her older brother, Frankie, hadn’t wanted to put up with Dad and his expectations, so he’d left home at seventeen, and eventually gone to work at Enzo’s son Sal’s restaurant. A betrayal in her dad’s view.
She chewed a bite of salad. The sharp tang of the oil and vinegar dressing was almost as biting as the bile roiling in her stomach. Now her dad’s face reddened. She hadn’t realized just how angry he still was, toward her and Frankie. Michael, their younger brother, had always been Dad’s favorite. Michael was a favorite with everyone. If he were here, they’d all be laughing, not eating in tense silence.
“What do you think of the Giants this year, Frank?” Vincente said.
Dad shrugged. “Supposed to be good.”
She caught a look of bemused frustration passing between Vincente and Enzo. She wadded the linen napkin in her hand. Her family was just a joke to the Bianchis. Her father used to tell her to stay away from them, that his grandfather had warned him of the Bianchis’ corruption. How, back in Italy, the Bianchis had used her great-grandfather’s brother as a scapegoat for one of their schemes, how they used many others the same way, and that was how they’d made their millions, using others.
“Wine?” Enzo said to no one in particular.
She and Dad both pushed their glasses forward a bit. Enzo poured them each a glass. Vincente already sipped his. Mom frowned at her.
“Celeste, this chicken stew is delicious. Gina, have some,” Mom said. She ladled some into a bowl and passed it to her.
She took the bowl then picked up a slice of the semolina bread she’d baked this morning. A few sesame seeds dropped into the steaming stew.
“You’re as good a baker as your grandma,” Enzo said to her.
“Thanks.” She ground her teeth together as she chewed. This anger in her ate away at the edges of her until she had nothing left.
Vincente bit into a slice of bread too. A look of enjoyment, savoring—all too similar to his expression last night—passed across his face. She set her bread down and pressed her hands into her thighs.
“This is great,” Vincente said.
“She can bake,” her dad said.
She wished it was a compliment, but she could hear what he held back: “and that’s all she can do.” Why had she come back here? Just to be humiliated?
She couldn’t eat past the emotions clogging her throat. That old hole in her, that empty place, ached. She needed to get out of here.
“Will you all excuse me?” she said. “I’m not very hungry.” With a too-loud scrape, she pushed back her chair and left the room.
She pulled open the front door, grabbing her purse off the hook. She couldn’t be around anyone right now. She had to calm down. Why was she even here? Let the Bianchis take what was left of her family—why should she care? She’d had her own life for years now, hardly ever came home. She shook her head while she stormed up the block. When she got upset like this, she didn’t think clearly. Those glasses of wine hadn’t helped. Drawing in some deep breaths, she began to cool, her hands relaxing.
She reached the top of the block and turned. The city streets and buildings undulated on every side of her. The bay stretched, calm an
d blue, in the distance. Trees lining the street, budded in pinks and whites, promised the coming spring. Cars, people, buses, yellow taxis sped through the crisscrossed thoroughfares.
She stretched her arms out wide before she let them fall to her sides. Home—this city was home. She loved it; it was in her blood: the scent of the pavement after a rain; the competing smells of the local restaurants and bakeries; the whir of the buses; the chatter of tourists and locals; the quiet of a Sunday morning walk; peeking in the back door of the shop, listening; sniffing the almondy, coffee-infused air; seeing her father behind the counter, sneaking an extra cookie or sandwich to a crying child, or an old person in need.
Closing her eyes, she hugged her stomach. Her dad had been her hero. When she was a little girl, he used to put her up on that old crate behind the cash register with a flourish, trusting her to ring up customers, showing her how to brighten someone’s day with a smile, a free cookie, a kind word. And then, it was destroyed, that bright picture. There had been signs, of course. She’d wanted to believe men, people, had to be better than that. But they weren’t. She wasn’t. She’d wanted to believe life was miraculous, people helped each other. But that was her grandmother’s world, warm and inclusive. Gina’s world was cold and lonely.
North Beach Bakery—her grandparents’ shop—belonged to her and her brother Michael, by all rights. Grandpa Frank and Grandma Celeste used to tell her and Michael so when they’d sit on the couch together looking at old family photo albums. She wasn’t going to let the Bianchis, or her father, take that from her. She might be lost, but she knew the value of her grandfather’s legacy. It might be the thing to redeem her, to bring her back to the world of her childhood, and the beautiful life she’d dreamed of at her grandmother’s knee as Grandma knitted and hummed love songs and lullabies.
Gina turned. Vincente’s house was in front of her, a cream-colored mansion, all old-money and understated opulence, hiding the crushing ways they had to have obtained that wealth. The heat of anger flushed her cheeks, clenched her hands again. She had to stop them, so she could get back her life, her family.
Valentine Kisses Page 4