Where the coaches wish they could put a gag in your mouth, Anthony thought to himself.
“I didn’t appreciate that crack you made to Ty about letting me come back to the Blades,” Michael continued.
“Sorry.”
“I think I’m doing pretty well with the househusband stuff.”
Anthony said nothing.
“I’m getting better,” Michael insisted.
“Yeah, but are you enjoying it? People should do what they enjoy, Mike,” said Anthony, thinking of Little Ant.
“Whatever,” Michael mumbled. He went to leave, but Anthony put a hand on his shoulder.
“One more thing.”
Michael’s shoulders slumped.
“Did you say something to Gemma about Vivi?”
Michael coughed into his fist, looking away.
“You SOB. What did you say?”
“I just told her that you and Vivi had chemistry, and asked her to, you know, check out Vivi’s aura.”
Anthony bit the inside of his cheek. Sometimes his cousin Gemma’s woo-woo witch stuff plucked on his nerves. Even so, he had to ask. “And…?”
Michael grinned, then did his best impression of Gemma. “Predominantly red, meaning passion, vitality, force of will.”
Anthony affected nonchalance as he opened the office door. “That’s nice. Wanna stick around and help me clean the kitchen to make up for stabbing me in the back?” Anthony asked. Michael made a sour face. “Didn’t think so. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
“You’re right, this is a filthy habit,” Vivi said to Anthony as she took a small puff from her cigarette before passing it to him to share. They were leaning up against one of the long, steel tables in the kitchen. The restaurant patrons had long departed, their bellies filled, and the last of the kitchen staff had just bid them good night, all of them having worked together to leave the kitchen spotless and gleaming, ready for the next day. Vivi felt a twinge of remorse when she caught sight of poor Hugo emptying the grease traps, his punishment for failing to warm the plates for her as requested. But she knew Anthony was right in chiding him. That was how she had been treated when she was a young apprentice, and it was the way she’d have to treat her staff, as well.
“Happy about your win?” Anthony asked, a thin veneer of ill humor overlaying his voice.
“You’re being an achy loser,” said Vivi, taking the cigarette from him. She actually felt a bit guilty about besting him, even though a few hours ago, she would have hid his toque blanche if she thought it would give her an advantage. Yet here she was, contemplating apologizing.
Anthony corrected her gently. “The phrase is ‘sore loser,’ and if I’m being one, I don’t mean to be.” He tilted his head from side to side, stretching his neck. “It’s just that my own brother voted against me.”
“How do you know?”
“He admitted it. The dessert was the tiebreaker.”
Vivi laughed. “I think it’s wonderful that you two are so honest with each other, so close. It’s really enviable.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘What a traitorous bastard.’”
Vivi thought of Natalie, the minor breakthrough they seemed to have had when Vivi told Natalie she didn’t have to buy Vivi’s affection. Perhaps one day she and Natalie would be as close as the Dante brothers. She hoped so.
Anthony took the cigarette from her fingers and inhaled deeply before handing it back to her. “That’s enough for me.”
“Me, too.” Vivi walked to the sink to douse the butt under water, then threw it into the nearest trash can. She could feel Anthony’s eyes on her, tracking her. Small frissons of heat corkscrewed up her spine.
“Do you really think your flan was better than my pudding?” he asked her as she walked back to him, his arms folded across his chest in a posture of defense more than defiance.
“Hard to say, since I didn’t taste anything you made, just as you tasted nothing I made.” She realized it wasn’t just the patrons she’d wanted to impress that evening, but him, too. Him, most of all.
“I’m game for some tasting right now.” Anthony walked over to one of the double-doored, stainless steel fridges and pulled out a bowl of his pudding and a small plate of her flan.
“Who goes first?” he asked, stopping to get two spoons.
“Me,” said Vivi like an excited child. Pulling back the plastic wrap covering the flan, she dug her spoon in deep, relishing the tang of pineapple as it passed her lips. It was more than delicious; it was perfect. She was tempted to say so out loud, but thought it only fair to wait until she’d tasted his pudding.
She licked her spoon before digging into a bowl of Anthony’s pudding. It was good—very, very good. But hers was better. She shrugged.
“Let me guess: yours is better,” Anthony said stonily.
“Of course.”
He sighed. “This was a stupid idea. Of course each of us would choose our own dishes.”
“No,” Vivi insisted. “If I really thought yours was better, I’d tell you.” She put her hand on her hip. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”
“I’m insulted you would even ask that.” With great flourish, Anthony thrust his spoon into his own creation for a taste. “Mikey’s insane,” he muttered to himself. “The currants are what make it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Just talking to myself. Okay,” he said, eyes fastened on Vivi. “Here goes. The true test.”
He helped himself to a big spoonful of flan. Vivi held her breath, scanning his face for a glimmer, however small, of what he might be thinking. But Anthony revealed nothing. He took two more tastes of his pudding, and two more tastes of her flan. “Stop stalling!” Vivi said with exasperation.
“I’m not. I just want to be sure.”
Another taste of pudding, another taste of flan. Then he put the spoon down.
“I concede defeat; yours is better.”
Vivi was shocked. “You really think so?”
“I thought we agreed neither of us would stoop to lying.”
Vivi found herself unexpectedly moved by his honesty. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “It means a lot to me that you like it.” An overwhelming feeling of gratitude welled up inside her. “Actually, I have many things to thank you for—recommending the DiDinatos, and letting me use your kitchen tonight.”
“No problem.”
“Thank you,” Vivi repeated, rising up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The room seemed to hold its breath as Vivi found her lips sliding from his cheek to his mouth, lingering there. Anthony’s arms came around her, pulling her into an embrace, his mouth crushing down on hers. Vivi felt herself swoon as a wildness grew inside her that she couldn’t contain. She forced Anthony’s burning lips apart with her tongue. This was no friendly kiss. This was a man and a woman, wanting each other, craving one another. Vivi’s heart was going mad in her chest; she could picture it, red as a cartoon heart, pumping the desire now overwhelming her through her body. Anthony, she thought giddily. His hard mouth, his hard body, his wonderful, wonderful mouth doing magical things to her.
“Anthony! Oh my God!”
Startled, Vivi pulled away from him. They both turned at the same time; standing in the doorway of the kitchen was a haggard-looking woman with deep circles under her eyes. She stifled what sounded like a sob, then fled.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Anthony muttered under his breath. “I do not believe this.” He tilted Vivi’s chin up so her eyes were looking into his. “One minute. Just give me one minute, and I’ll be right back.”
Anthony disappeared though the kitchen doors.
By the time Anthony returned, Vivi’s mood of ecstasy had transformed itself into one of puzzlement, even suspicion. Was it possible this woman was somehow involved with Anthony? If so, what was he doing kissing her?
“Who was that?” Vivi asked coolly as Anthony rejoined her.
“Insane Lorraine,” Anthony replied, looking and sounding exhausted.
“Excuse me?”
“I went to high school with her,” Anthony explained with a grimace. “She’s a total fruit loop. My idiot brother hired her as a hostess for Dante’s.”
“She’s in love with you, yes?”
Anthony scrubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know. I guess. It doesn’t matter.”
Vivi felt sorry for him. “Don’t worry. It will all be fine.”
“Will it? I’m afraid that one of these days, she’s gonna pop out from behind the stove with a meat cleaver and mince me into Dante burgers.”
“At least they’d be tasty,” Vivi said without thinking, regretting it immediately. Anthony looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” Anthony ran a hand across the brushed steel of the tabletop. “Look, we need to talk.”
“About the kiss?” Vivi asked nervously.
“Yeah, about the kiss, about everything.” He paused. “It’s not…” He stopped, seeming to cast around for the right words. “It’s just…” He exhaled heavily, looking frustrated. Finally, after a silence that seemed to drag on interminably, he concluded with a miserable “Fuck.”
“Listen to me.” Vivi took his hand. “I’m sorry if my kissing you disturbed you. It just felt like the right thing to do at the time.”
“It was.”
“I know what happened to your wife,” Vivi said, choosing her words carefully. “Your brother told me. I am so, so sorry. I can’t even imagine how terrible that must have been.”
Anthony squinted with disbelief. “My brother told you?”
“Yes.” Vivi’s hands knotted together. “He told me…how she died…and how hard it’s been for you. He sensed, you and I, you know…” Vivi didn’t know what else to say.
Anthony’s touch was gentlemanly as he reached out to briefly caress her cheek. “I have some things I need to think about, Vivi, okay?”
Vivi looked at him uncertainly. “I understand.”
“Please, I don’t want you to think I’m blowing you off. I’m just really confused right now.”
Vivi nodded. “So am I, Anthony.” Suddenly exhausted, she slowly took off the apron she’d borrowed from him. “I should go.”
“You’re not walking home at this hour. I’ll run you home.”
“Thank you.”
She waited for him by the back door of the kitchen, itchy to leave the scene of their mutual desire and bewilderment. Anthony quickly threw on his leather jacket, absently swinging his keys around the index finger of his left hand as he took one last look around the kitchen. That’s when Vivi noticed—he’d slipped his wedding ring back on his finger.
“I’m trying to decide which would be more effective: sewing your lips permanently shut or throwing your body into the East River.”
After driving Vivi home from their cook-off, Anthony had spent a largely sleepless night, fueled in equal parts by confusion, despair (What was he going to do about Insane Lorraine?), and anger at his brother for telling Vivi intimate facts of his life without his permission. By the time the sun rose over Bensonhurst, Anthony knew what he had to do: He had to grab Michael by the scruff of his meddling, muscled, hockey player neck and tell him to butt the hell out. So here he was, back at his brother’s brownstone. This time, both Dominica and Little Ant were at school as expected. It was just him, Michael, and baby Angelica, all together on the couch while Sesame Street blared from the TV.
“Good morning to you, too,” Michael said sarcastically. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”
“Who the hell said you could tell Vivi about how Ang died?”
“Ah.” Michael looked caught off guard. “She told you about that, huh?”
“Yeah, she did. How dare you? That’s my info to share, not yours.”
“I was just trying to help,” Michael answered defensively.
“Help what?”
Michael started jostling Angelica up and down on his knee, a convenient prop, Anthony noticed, when his brother was under the gun. “Look, Ant. I know you like her, and I know she likes you. And I just thought—if she knew about what you went through, it would help give her some insight into your personality.”
“She doesn’t need insight into my personality! At least not from you! When are you going to stop sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong?”
“When you get your head out of your ass, that’s when!” Michael stopped jiggling his daughter. “Do you think Angie would want you to be alone? Here’s this wonderful, sexy woman right in front of your face, who’s actually crazy enough to be attracted to you, and what are you doing about it? Nothing!”
“You don’t understand.” He’d thought about this all night—his desire, his ambivalence—and had finally figured out what, for the most part, was up with him. “I know Vivi’s special, okay? I know that.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Which is why I want to be sure. It’s not fair to her if we get together and I can’t give her everything she deserves, emotionally speaking. She deserves my full attention. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. Does that make any sense to you?”
Michael looked impressed. “Yeah.” He patted Anthony’s knee. “I hear ya, bro.”
“So you’ll butt out?”
“I was just trying to help, Ant. Honestly.”
“I know you were coming from a good place. Just trust me on this, all right? I know what I’m doing here.” He touched his nose to Angelica’s. “Right, pumpkin?”
For the first time since coming in, Anthony took in the living room. The place was still, as his dear, departed mother would put it, “a sty.” “Cleaning lady still out sick, huh?”
“Worse than that,” Michael replied, glumly. “She’s gone back to Poland.”
“What the hell is there in Poland, besides Lech Walesa and bottled water?”
“Grandkids.”
“Gotcha.”
“Why don’t you hire Insane Lorraine?” Anthony taunted.
“Yeah, right.”
“Oh, but it’s okay to inflict her on me.”
Jesus, just thinking about having to tear himself from Vivi to calm down Insane Lorraine pissed him off all over again. There she was, tearful in the empty dining room, as if he owed her an explanation. He should have just let her go, but he was afraid she might do something, well, insane. He’d been forced to state firmly and plainly that he was her boss and nothing but her boss. Lorraine kept sniffling and harping on how he’d promised to come to dinner at her house, and hadn’t yet. Purely to get her off his ass, he agreed he’d come for brunch the following Saturday, regretting it immediately. But it was the only way he could think to mollify her.
He could tell from the look on Vivi’s face when he rejoined her in the kitchen that she thought something might exist between him and Lorraine, which was kind of insulting, in his opinion. He might not be George Clooney, but Madonn’, he was a reasonably successful, good-looking guy. IfVivi thought that was his caliber of woman, then she was as crazy as Lorraine. Still, that pinched look around her mouth when she asked about Lorraine was kind of satisfying.
Anthony stood up. “Right. I gotta run.”
“Not yet. I’ve got three words to say to you before you go: Blades Christmas Party.”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Corporate wants to switch the date to the twentieth. Can you do that?”
“This is pretty short notice, Mikey. That’s what, two weeks away?”
“C’mon. Ant. This is tradition we’re talking about here.”
Anthony was adamant. “I have to check to make sure no one else has booked the banquet room. If not, then it’s a go.”
“Great. I can’t wait.”
Anthony couldn’t hide his surprise. “You’re going to go to the party?”
“I’m still a Blade,” Michael maintained sharply. “And it is my”—he caught himself—“half my restaurant.”
“Why don’t you start taking care of the early mornin
g half of the day, then?” Anthony needled. “You know, be there for the dawn deliveries.”
“Can’t,” Michael said, deliberately not looking at him. “Gotta get the kids up and ready for school.”
Anthony zipped up his jacket. “Convenient.” He ruffled Angelica’s hair. “See you, gorgeous.” He pointed at his brother. “No more playing Cupid, you got it?”
Michael put up his hand as if taking an oath. “I swear on the heads of my children.”
“Yeah,” said Anthony, heading for the front door. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
Chapter 16
“More olive loaf, Anthony?”
Anthony stared at the tower of luncheon meat Insane Lorraine’s mother held out to him and tried not to gag. If coming to Insane Lorraine’s house for brunch didn’t earn him an E-ZPass through the Pearly Gates, then there was no God. Not only was the food revolting (olive loaf, Kraft singles, industrial rye bread, yellow mustard, horrible coffee), but the company was depressing. Insane Lorraine Senior, or Mrs. Fabiano, as most people knew her, was simply an older, mothball-scented version of her daughter: same dark circles under the eyes, same scary Prince Valiant haircut, though hers was shot through with gray. The setting didn’t help, either. The heavy velvet curtains covering the living room windows remained perpetually closed, while the overwrought French provincial furniture looked like it had never been used, and was, of course, protected by clear plastic slipcovers. At least the dining room, where they were now seated, had some light coming in, even if it was muted by floor-length sheers covering the windows that had once been white, but were now dirty gray.
“No, thank you,” Anthony said politely, helping himself to the rye bread. He vigorously shook the mustard (the mere concept offended his culinary sensibilities), and spurted some onto the bread before slapping on a slice of cheese, wishing himself luck, and biting into it. “Great,” he lied. The bread was so squishy and artificial it stuck to the roof of his mouth, the same way Communion wafers had when he was a kid. As discreetly as he could, he tried using his tongue to dislodge it, but it remained firmly glued in place. He’d just have to wait for it to slowly dissolve.
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