Vivi’s hands curled at her sides. “Natalie, we discussed this. The architect drew up plans according to our specifications. You can’t go changing things around now.”
“Can’t I? It’s my money.”
Vivi ignored the barb. “One minute you’re saying the DiDinato brothers’ estimate is too high; the next you’re implying that we have enough money to tear up the original plans and start over because you’re having second thoughts about the kitchen. Do we have enough money or not? Which is it?”
Natalie blinked with surprise. “Why are you upset, Vivi?”
“Why?” Vivi replied, trying not to sound shrill. “Because at every turn, you remind me that you hold the purse strings. I’m fully aware that I couldn’t do this without you. But you said you wanted to be a silent partner, and leave all the details to me. Money is no object, you told me. But clearly it is.”
“Look at the balance in the account. We have nothing to worry about.”
“Then why nitpick over the brothers’ price?”
Natalie hesitated. “I don’t want us to be taken advantage of. I don’t want people thinking they can push us around just because we’re foreigners.”
“Believe me, Natalie, no one would ever think that of us. That’s one thing we both inherited from Papa: a ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude.”
“Vivi!” Natalie looked horrified. “Watch your language. You’re starting to sound a bit, well—”
“Amerique?” Vivi offered.
“Oui.”
“Good, I’m glad.”
Natalie’s eyes once again swept the empty store. “Don’t you ever get homesick?”
“Of course I do,” Vivi admitted quietly. She missed her mother and grandmother desperately. “Don’t you?”
“Yes and no. I miss my mother”—her eyes glanced away from Vivi’s—“and a few friends.”
Vivi looked down at the floor. Things felt out of joint. Natalie must have felt it, too; she came over to Vivi and kissed her cheek.
“Let’s make up.”
Vivi lifted her head, bemused. “Are we fighting?”
“I don’t know. Are we?”
“I’m not sure.” Vivi knitted her brows. “Natalie, please. If you would like to be more involved in the day-to-day decisions regarding the restaurant—”
Natalie held up her hand. “No. It’s fine. This is your domain, Vivi. I was wrong to be so pushy about the contractors, and about the kitchen.”
“Are you sure? Because I don’t think my nerves can take it if every time you come in here, you want to change something.”
Natalie reddened. “From now on, I promise I’ll be perfectly happy to let you write the checks from the restaurant account.”
“Good.” Vivi returned her kiss on the cheek. “I guess we’ll just wait for the DiDinatos to come back—”
“With their ‘samwiches,’” Natalie sniffed. “Honestly, the way some of these people speak…”
“Natalie?”
“Yes?”
“Do me a favor.”
“Yes?”
Vivi put her index finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
Natalie covered her face and laughed. “As you wish.”
“C’mon, Little Ant! Hustle, hustle, hustle!”
Anthony and his sister-in-law Theresa exchanged worried glances as Michael Dante stood up with his hands cupped around his mouth, coaching his son from the stands. It was Little Ant’s first hockey game, and as promised, Anthony was in attendance, not only to support the kid, but also to rein his brother in if he started acting like he was watching the Blades play rather than a midget hockey team. Little Ant had been on the ice less than a minute, and already Michael was shouting directives. Not good.
“Michael, sit down and shut up,” Theresa admonished her husband. “He just hit the ice. Let him enjoy himself.”
“I’m just making sure—”
“Michael.” Theresa’s voice was laced with warning.
“Fine.” Michael reluctantly sat down, but his eyes remained glued to the ice. “Mother of God, this coach Plano doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing…”
Theresa turned to Anthony, pointedly ignoring her husband. “It’s so great that you’re here. Little Ant was so excited.”
“Hey, I couldn’t miss his first game, could I?”
“Neither could I.” Theresa’s eyes nervously followed her son on the ice.
“How’s work going?” Anthony asked, wincing as his nephew missed a cross-ice pass. He tensed, waiting for his brother to shout something. Michael managed to keep himself under control, but Anthony could see it was tough for him. Michael kept opening and closing his mouth like some sad fish out of water gasping for breath.
“Work’s going great,” said Theresa, giving her husband a look. “It took me a while to get back into the swing of things, but I think I’m doing all right.”
“Where’s Dominica?” Anthony asked, referring to Michael and Theresa’s older daughter.
“Over at my mom’s.” Theresa chuckled. “I asked her if she wanted to come and watch her brother play and she just looked at me as if the very thought was torture. She’s turning into a real principessa, that one. She’d better watch her step.”
“And the baby?”
“She’s at my mom’s, too, probably screaming her head off as we speak.” She leaned close to Anthony and whispered, “How’s Michael doing with the househusband stuff? Honestly.”
“He’s doing great,” Anthony replied, wondering if it sounded like he was exaggerating.
“Good.” Theresa looked relieved. “I have to confess, I was a little worried. He’s used to the excitement of this”—she gestured at the ice—“not picking stale Cheerios off the carpet that the baby threw from her high chair, you know what I mean?”
“I think he’s doing okay,” Anthony reiterated, glancing at his brother, who looked on the verge of bursting a blood vessel in his temple. He was about to say as much when Michael sprang back to his feet.
“What the hell was that?” he yelled at the ref. “You bench my kid for boarding and you let that little cretino on the other team go scot-free? You did good, Little Ant,” he called down to his son. “Hang tough. Remember what we talked about before the game.”
“Michael,” Theresa hissed, yanking him back down into his seat.
Anthony glanced around discreetly. Other parents were looking at them, most with displeasure. There were a few scattered whispers; Anthony caught the words “New York Blades” more than once. He could just imagine what people were thinking.
“Mike, I really think you need to calm down,” said Anthony under his breath.
Michael scowled at him. “I’m just trying to make sure Little Ant plays the best game he can.”
“How about you let him have some fun?” Theresa snapped. She turned up her palms in disbelief. “Can you believe this?” she asked Anthony.
“Sadly, yes.”
Anthony watched as his nephew returned to the ice with his line. All the kids, regardless of skill, looked gawky to him at this age, their helmeted heads making them look like lollipops on skates. Little Ant looked up into the stands, scouring the crowd for his parents. When he found them, he gave a tentative wave.
“Pay attention to what’s happening on the ice!” his father shouted down to him. Little Ant dipped his head in shame and skated up the right side.
“So help me God, Michael,” Theresa fumed, “if you don’t stop it right now, I’m going to talk to the coach about having you banned. Seriously.”
“You believe this?” Mike asked Anthony, gesturing at his wife. The same question Theresa had asked him not ten seconds before. My hell is in stereo, Anthony thought. But he couldn’t lie to his brother.
“Theresa’s right, Mikey. You’re gonna turn the kid into a wreck. You should shut up.”
Michael looked at his wife, then his brother, opened his mouth, closed it, and kept silent.
“Thank God you’re here,”
Theresa murmured to Anthony. “If you weren’t, I think I’d kill him.”
“I heard that,” said Michael, eyes following the puck.
“That means you’ve heard everything else I said,” said Theresa. Michael muttered something under his breath, but he kept his opinion to himself.
“So,” said Theresa with a friendly pat to Anthony’s knee, “Michael tells me you have some very attractive competition.”
“What?” It took him a second or two before he realized she was referring to Vivi. “Oh.” His thoughts were further interrupted when a buzzer sounded, heralding that a goal had been scored.
“Yess!” Michael was pumping his fist in the air. “You see that?” he said to Theresa excitedly. “He got an assist! Keep the pressure on, Ant!” he called down to his son.
“Your competition?” Theresa said loudly to Anthony, trying to redirect attention to their conversation.
“What about her?”
“Michael says she makes a mean apple tart.”
Anthony made a sour face. “It was good, not great.”
Theresa’s mention of the tart reminded him that he’d yet to carve out time to make the ricotta fritters that would reveal Vivi as the amateur she was. Maybe he’d make them Sunday morning, after visiting Ang. He’d see.
“Michael says she likes you,” Theresa continued.
“Likes me? No offense, Ter, but I think Mikey took one too many pucks to the noggin. The woman doesn’t like me at all, nor do I like her. She’s a friggin’ know-it-all.”
“You worried she’s going to cut into business?”
Jesus Christ, Anthony thought. Subtle, Theresa was not. “I’m sure she thinks she will,” said Anthony. “She obviously doesn’t know who she’s up against.”
“I’m kind of excited about a little French place opening in the neighborhood,” Theresa confessed.
“Of course you are,” said Anthony. “Anything to drive a stake through my heart.”
Theresa jostled his shoulder. “Lighten up, Ant. No one’s food compares to yours.”
Anthony bowed his head in mock humility. “Thank you. That was the right thing to say.” They both laughed.
Theresa glanced sideways at her husband with a look laced with both exasperation and affection that Anthony had seen many times before. Michael and Theresa might argue with fervor, but their love for each other was never in doubt. They were solid, the same way he and Ang once were. Anthony felt envious.
As if reading his mind, Theresa said, “You still going to the cemetery?”
“Yup.”
For the first time since arriving at the arena, Michael seemed to be listening to his wife and brother’s conversation. “Who are you, Joe DiMaggio?” he sniggered.
“Mind your business, Mike,” Anthony warned.
“I think Michael’s right,” Theresa said carefully. “We just want to see you happy again, Anthony. You’re such a great guy. Maybe it’s time to move on?”
Anthony stared down at the ice. “I have moved on.”
“Visiting your wife’s grave once a week isn’t moving on,” Michael countered. “It’s unhealthy.”
Anthony turned to his brother angrily. “Tell you what, Mike—when Theresa dies years before she’s supposed to, then you can tell me what’s healthy or not. Until then, zip it.”
“Good morning, cara.”
Anthony set up his small folding chair beside Angie’s headstone and sat down with a grimace. The day before, he’d noticed as he emerged from the shower that he was beginning to put on a little weight, always a hazard when one works in a kitchen. Determined to drop a few pounds before all the pasta he consumed started to do some serious damage, he’d gone for an early morning run. Not only had it left him winded, but it also felt as though someone had taken a hammer to his kneecaps. He had no idea whether standing for hours in the restaurant kitchen would make it feel better or worse. He supposed he’d find out.
“Guess what, Ang? Little Anthony wants to learn to make the gravy! Mikey’s going to drop him off at the house for a few hours. It’ll be fun, don’t you think? He’s a good kid.”
Anthony sipped his coffee, pleased that Al at the deli had remembered how he liked it. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Vivi, and their coffee incident.
“Remember I told you about those two sisters who were opening the bistro”—he spat the word contemptuously—“across the street? Well, the one who’s the cook is a real piece of work. Not only can she not make coffee to save her life, but she also showed up with an apple tart one day, and when I didn’t bow down and tell Her Highness it was the greatest thing since sliced bread, she dared me to make something better! You believe that?”
He shook his head, imagining Angie’s response. She’d agree with him that anyone thinking they could outcook Anthony was crazy. “Actually, you’d probably like this woman if you met her,” Anthony continued after a pause. “She reminds me of that lieutenant friend of yours—you know, Maggie, the one with the long blonde hair and the sassy mouth?”
His voice seemed overly loud to his ears. He took a quick glance around, feeling conspicuous. He was the only one there, save for two guys, about fifty feet away, noisily digging a grave with a backhoe. A familiar heaviness settled on his chest and he found himself wondering, for the first time ever, whether coming here was such a great idea. Maybe Michael and Theresa were right; maybe his visits were proof he hadn’t really “moved on.” Confusion engulfed him—he who was usually so resolute, viewing the world in black and white. What was going on?
Chapter 6
Anthony stood on the sidewalk, staring at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand bearing Vivi’s address. Leaving the cemetery, he’d headed straight for Dante’s, where he’d whipped up a double batch of his mouthwatering ricotta fritters. They were best served hot, but still outstanding even when warm, which was why Anthony was glad he could still feel some heat emanating from the bottom of the plastic container. If Vivi failed to be impressed with the fritters, then she was just busting his balls for the sake of busting his balls. No other explanation was possible.
He knew these streets like the back of his hand, and Vivi’s was no exception. It was right off Scarangella Park, where he and his dad used to throw a baseball around. Bensonhurst was still predominantly Italian, but there were lots of new immigrants coming in to fill up the two-family semidetached brick and stucco houses. Most of the newcomers were Chinese and Russian—and now French, too, he supposed, though as far as he could tell, Vivi was at the spearhead of that movement.
He’d called her cell number, but when it asked him to leave a message, he chickened out for some reason. He’d grown up in an atmosphere where it was okay for people to drop in on one another for a visit. Maybe it was that way in France, too, for all he knew. But the fritters were made, and he was determined she’d eat them today, even if it meant coming back later on.
He was surprised to find himself looking at an old five-floor walk-up, just like the one on Cropsey Avenue that his grandparents lived in before they saved up enough to buy a house. Anthony loved these old buildings, the feel of history behind them. You could almost see the generations of immigrants moving up and out as they made a life for themselves, making room for the next wave. It was comforting somehow.
He climbed the front steps and went to press the buzzer, then hesitated. Maybe just showing up was stupid. What if she wasn’t there? Or worse, what if she was there and wasn’t in the mood for a culinary showdown in the middle of the day? Well, she’d just have to deal with it. God knows she’d ambushed him more than once.
He shoved the paper into the back pocket of his jeans and rang her buzzer. Nothing. He waited a second or two, and then rang again. Nothing. “Figures,” he muttered to himself, turning away. That’s when Vivi’s disembodied voice crackled over the intercom.
“Yes, who is it, please?”
“The best chef in Bensonhurst.” Anthony heard her laugh. “I have a dessert here that’s going to make
you cry uncle.”
“Uncle?” Vivi replied, puzzled.
“It’s an expression. Never mind. You going to let me up or what?”
“Of course. You and your uncle can come right up.”
He walked the four flights of stairs to her apartment. Vivi was waiting for him in the open doorway, her slim body swathed in a short, brightly patterned silk kimono. Her damp hair was pinned up, her flushed face amused. Uncomfortable, Anthony looked away.
“I’m sorry. Did I drag you out of the shower?” he asked, wishing he had called ahead. This felt awkward, with her standing here in her robe.
“Bath.”
Anthony tried to remember the last time he had had a bath. It had to be when he and Mikey were little kids. Their mother would throw them into a tub together, killing two birds with one stone. He could still remember her vigorously cleaning his ears with a washcloth, the way she impatiently manhandled the two of them. As soon as they were old enough, they started taking showers.
“Don’t you have a shower?” Anthony asked as she ushered him inside.
“I do,” said Vivi, motioning for him to sit down on the plump couch, “but I prefer to take baths when I can. They’re much more relaxing.”
“Understandable.” Anthony knew if he took a bath on a Sunday morning, he’d wind up becoming so relaxed he’d crawl back into bed and sleep. Vivi sat down beside him, the faint hint of floral scent wafting from her body.
“What have we here?” she asked, tapping the top of the container.
“Ricotta fritters. Freshly made less than an hour ago.” Anthony shook the small paper bag in his hand. “I brought honey, too. You have to drizzle them in honey.”
“Interesting.” Vivi glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “I’d offer you some coffee, but since you seem unable to appreciate a decently made cup of French roast, I don’t see the point.”
As a matter of fact, Anthony was dying for a cup of coffee. “I think I can manage to gag down a cup, as long as I can douse it in milk and plenty of sugar.”
Just a Taste Page 6