by Cleo Coyle
Still . . . looking at Janelle’s beautifully shaped and decorated anginetti, I had to admit that she’d done a near-perfect job on reinventing the rustic Italian cookie, getting it all dressed up for its Manhattan debut.
“I enjoyed these cookies at family weddings when I was a little girl. The ring shape represents the wedding bands. But Janelle recast the idea of a single rope of dough. See how she sculpted each tiny cookie to look like a coffee cake ring?”
“Si. Very clever.”
I sampled a bite for myself. The texture was tender and buttery, the glaze of icing a sophisticated kiss of lemon flavor.
“Janelle’s using Meyer lemons. They have less acidity than other varieties. And the sculpting of the anginetti into a tiny coffee cake shape goes with our primary theme for the dessert display: Saloma Sunrise.”
“Saloma?” Nunzio smiled. “My little hometown?”
“And Ovid’s, too, right?”
He nodded, clearly happy that I’d done my research.
“We worked with the metric volume of liquid that your fountain holds and determined the perfect amounts of peach nectar and cherry juice to be added to the Prosecco in order to create a Bellini that will mimic the romantic golden orange color of a Saloma dawn. The wedding is at sunset, but the coffee and dessert station is looking to our bride and groom’s future, to their first sunrise as a married couple. So the primary pastry theme is breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” Nunzio frowned. “What? Eggs and bread?”
“No, no, no . . . it’s just a theme. Look . . .” I opened the second box. It was filled with samples of cookies shaped and baked with a slight egg wash to look exactly like miniature croissants. “Each cookie carries a different flavor experience. The Grand Marnier croissant cookie is accentuated with orange rind, the Frangelico with finely powdered hazelnuts, and the Kahlua with a premium coffee infusion from Panama’s Esmeralda Especial geisha coffee trees—what we call the champagne of the coffee world.”
Nunzio sampled each one, sipping champagne between bites of the tiny, sculpted pastries. “Delizioso!”
“Now try Janelle’s version of orange à l’orange.”
Nunzio nodded, picked up one of the delicate confections that resembled a tiny half orange.
“Janelle dyes and shapes marzipan, fashioning it to resemble the shell of an orange rind. She then cooks oranges in a simple syrup, incorporates slivers of their own candied skin, and fills the marzipan shell.”
“Mmmmmm. Buonissimo.”
“Because it’s marzipan, you’ll taste a creamy hint of sweet almond to counterbalance the tangy-sweet yet slightly tart citrus filling. She’s imported blood oranges from Sicily just for the wedding. She’s doing the same thing with Key limes, which have a milder level of acidity.
“Our secondary theme is tied directly to your Lover’s Spring fountain. Since each tier in the gold-plated fountain is sculpted with reliefs that tell the stories of great lovers through time, we attached pastries to each tier.
“For Adam and Eve, we have Forbidden Fruit Cakes, which are not actually fruitcake but mini-sponge cakes soaked with the grapefruit-orange-honey flavors of the cognac-based Forbidden Fruit liqueur.
“For Antony and Cleopatra, we have stuffed caramel walnuts, a recipe translated from hieroglyphics and said to have been used by Cleopatra to fortify her lovers.”
“Ah!” Nunzio perked right up on that story. “Do you have any of those?” He began looking in all three boxes.
“Sorry, no sale.”
“Oh, too bad.” He threw me a wink.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll bet you can guess what we’re doing for Romeo and Juliet.”
Nunzio laughed. “Baci di Romeo e Baci di Giulietta!”
I smiled and nodded. Romeo’s Kisses were small almond-flavored cookies, sandwiched together in pairs with chocolate filling. Juliet’s Kisses were the same, only the cookies were chocolate.
“For Romeo’s Kisses, Janelle is replacing the almonds with pistachios, and for the filling, using her favorite recipe for chocolate ganache. For Juliet’s Kisses, she’s staying with the chocolate-flavored cookie, but for the filling she’s using vanilla pastry cream infused with raspberry—since, of course, chocolate and raspberry are a wonderful pairing. We have a latte that uses that same flavor profile at my coffeehouse.”
Nunzio tasted Janelle’s twists on the old Verona favorites. He nodded and smiled. “She is very good, Clare. An artista.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. But as good as she is, her field is highly competitive. Breaking out of the pack and getting noticed is very difficult in this town—in any profession. That’s why Breanne’s wedding is so important for Pastries by Janelle, and that’s why your fountain is so important. Without it as the centerpiece of our display, Trend magazine won’t photograph it. Janelle Babcock will have lost a great opportunity for exposure.”
“Your friend, she is quite talented. And these treats are delizioso. But I think . . . listening to you speak so passionately for her, it makes me want a taste of something else even more ...”
He stepped closer. I stepped back.
“I’d like you to agree to lending us the fountain.”
“We both want something then? I think we can both get it, don’t you? A nice little transaction?”
“My virtue’s not on the bargaining table.”
He snorted, genuinely amused. “Keep your virtue, by all means. I only desire your company for the evening. Is that so terrible?”
I closed my eyes. It would be easy to give in, so easy . . .
My attraction to Nunzio wasn’t some fantasy on his part. I was in awe of his talent, and the artist himself was magnetic. But if the situation were reversed, if Mike slept with some woman in a casual one-night stand, I’d be devastated, and I’d begin to doubt him, especially after what I’d been through with my ex-husband.
Mike’s own broken marriage was still a fresh wound. The pain of his wife’s cheating had tortured him for years. I cared too much about the man to risk damaging what we had for a fleeting few hours of fantasy love; and that’s what it would be: the facsimile of something real.
Nunzio certainly had a girlfriend or even a wife back in Italy. I was a momentary trifle, an amuse-gueule during a brief business trip. What I had with Mike wasn’t an illusion. The view was closer to earth in Alphabet City, but so was the affection: real, well-rooted, and just starting to grow. I wasn’t willing to trade that for anything.
So what else did I have to trade that Nunzio wanted? Nothing. But I could trade on something. His reputation. That’s what Otto Visser was trying to tell me today; the key to Nunzio was his ego!
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and pointed down fifty-plus floors. “Tell me something, Nunzio; you’ve seen the monument of Christopher Columbus at the center of the traffic circle, right?”
The sculptor smirked. “That is why they call it Columbus Circle, no?”
“Yes, but did you know that statue of your countryman is the point at which all distances to and from New York City are geographically measured?”
Nunzio’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”
He stepped up behind me. He wasn’t touching me, but he was standing so close I could feel the heat of his body. I swallowed uneasily, continued my little speech.
“The Metropolitan Museum is like that for America—the place from which art is measured—the most important museum of art in the country. For your work to be seen and photographed inside the Met, among the other great masters, that would really be something, wouldn’t it?”
“I have considered this. But I have also decided that it is still not a good enough bargain. I have had second thoughts on what was agreed to.”
“What are you taking about?”
“My deal with Breanne Summour. She is publishing the big profile on me and my work and my new jewelry line. And I give her the wedding rings in trade. Lending Lover’s Spring was part of this deal. But now I think this is too
much to allow without further payment. I think I am owed something more . . .”
“Wait, back up. You’re telling me that Breanne bartered editorial space in her magazine in exchange for free wedding bands from you?”
Nunzio sighed. “I thought you knew this. I am soon opening boutiques in Rome, Paris, London, Tokyo, Beverly Hills, and on New York’s Fifth Avenue. Trend will feature me and my work and also showcase the rings I designed for Breanne’s wedding. Next season, I will be selling that same ring design in my stores.” He glanced down at me and smirked. “Place your orders now.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Volagare, si? But I need the income. As you can see . . .” He laughed. “I do enjoy living high.”
“Yeah . . .” I felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. “Fifty-three floors is awfully high, all right.”
But it was this revelation that had thrown me off balance. Matt often told me about wonderful items Breanne received from her designer or artist friends. But he—and I—assumed these were gifts, freely given. I had no idea the woman was making backroom deals. Now I wondered: Could one of those deals have backfired on her? Could someone have felt cheated? Cheated enough to want her dead?
“She is doing this with others, Clare,” Nunzio went on. “I am surprised you did not know. The flowers, the cake, her gown—Breanne told me all of this. I was part of a group, part of her grand plan. She is using her position to get many goods and services gratis for her wedding.”
“I didn’t know.”
“That woman dresses like aristocracy, but she acts like a peasant in the way she wheels and deals and threatens. You know, my grandfather had a saying: ‘For the quiet falcon, her feathers are enough. It is the braying donkey who needs the silk shawl.’ ”
“The braying donkey . . .”
A cartoon animal image entered my mind and fixed itself there. I saw Breanne as a donkey, Stuart Winslow riding her, ranting about how she’d struggled financially when she’d started out in New York. I hadn’t thought much about that stuff when Winslow had spewed it. He was high at the time, and Breanne’s public bio, online and elsewhere, clearly stated that she’d come from money. It even included a long list of her upper-class associations. But now I wondered . . . Nunzio’s revelation about backroom deals certainly didn’t add up to a woman with a typical patrician upbringing.
“My sweet one, let’s you and I not speak of these things any longer . . .” Nunzio had switched languages. He was now cooing to me entirely in Italian. “You are here. I am here. I know you will enjoy my touch.”
He’d been standing close; now he stepped even closer. I felt the front of his legs brushing the back of my robe, and then his muscular forearm was snaking around my waist, his lips were pressing against my neck.
“Don’t do that,” I said in plain English.
“Perhaps we can make a simple little trade of our own, bella? You enjoyed my touch the other day. You would enjoy feeling my hands on more of your body, no?”
“No!” I broke away, stepped clear.
Nunzio folded his arms, looked down at me, his patience obviously wearing thin. “But you want the fountain, si? And what would I get in return?”
“The satisfaction of knowing you were displayed at the Met!”
“I’d like something a little more satisfying tonight, and I think you would, too?”
He stepped toward me again. I backed away—a lot farther this time. I strode all the way to the bathroom, locked the door, got dressed in my dried-out clothes and shoes, and headed for the suite’s front door.
I paused in the sitting room to collect my tote bag. Nunzio was back on his sofa. I met the man’s eyes.
“I’m sorry you won’t change your mind.”
He shrugged. “Likewise.”
I was about to turn and go when I realized I had one last card to play, a piece of information Otto had given me.
“I’m sorry, Nunzio. Then you leave me no choice. I’ll have to go to Tio.”
“Tio?”
“Yes, the up-and-coming Spanish sculptor. You’ve heard of him, right? Well, his famous Trellis is in town, an amazing work. He begged Breanne to use it for her wedding, but she’d already committed to displaying your sculpture. Janelle will be disappointed. But I think we can make adjustments in our tablescape to highlight his piece instead.” I turned and headed for the door. “He’ll certainly be thrilled to see his sculpture displayed at the Met—and prominently featured in the same issue of Trend where you’re profiled—”
“No!”
“Sorry.” I reached for the door handle. “I really have to get going.”
“Wait!” Nunzio was on his feet. “Wait, signorina! Wait, wait, wait!”
Ten minutes later, I was downstairs, waiting for the doorman to hail me a taxi. Lover’s Spring wasn’t very large—just a tabletop fountain—but it was gold-plated and heavy. The sculpture was disassembled into a single base with nesting bowls, all packed expertly into an easy-to-handle wheeled suitcase.
Afraid the sculptor would change his mind, I insisted on taking it right up to the Metropolitan. I invited Nunzio to come with me, but he waved me off.
“My sculpture is well insured,” he said as we stood on the sidewalk, watching the doorman and taxi driver load the Pullman into the trunk. “Of course, Clare, should you lose it, you will owe me something. And then, bella, I won’t take no for an answer.”
Nunzio bent to kiss me on the lips. I turned my head, giving him my cheek instead. He laughed then kissed the other cheek, as well.
Ciao, bella.
“Yeah, pal,” I muttered as I firmly shut my cab door. “Arrivederci to you, too.”
THIRTY-ONE
I should have been relieved the second my cab door closed, but I held my breath all the way along Central Park South. When we reached the horse-drawn carriages across the street from the Plaza, I finally exhaled. The glittering glass towers of the Time Warner Center had faded from view at last, and I was home free.
Well, almost. Given Nunzio’s warning, my virtue wouldn’t be fully secure until I delivered his priceless fountain to the Met.
I massaged my temples, trying to release the built-up tension. After everything I’d gone through, I certainly hoped there’d still be a wedding Saturday. I had no doubt Breanne would show, wearing her gorgeous Fen gown. The only wild card now was the groom.
A sweet tune played in the cab as we turned uptown on Madison: “Edelweiss,” my favorite song from my favorite musical. I answered my cell, but the melodic ringtone was a far cry from the state of the voice on the other end of the line: “Mom! Thank goodness! You’ve got to help!”
“Joy! Are you all right?”
“It’s Dad. He’s back, and—wait a minute.” I heard a struggle, and Joy cried out. “No, Dad, don’t—”
A loud crash sounded, followed by Joy getting back on the line. “I hope you weren’t too fond of that Chippendale end table.”
“What the heck is going on down there?!”
“Dad’s back, and he’s crazy drunk. He’s yelling about canceling the wedding and cursing in, like, six languages.”
“Are you alone?”
“Koa’s here, but he has to leave soon. So do I, Mom. I’m meeting some old friends from culinary school. I have to be in the East Village in, like, ten minutes—”
“Joy, can’t you stick around a little longer? I have to drop Nunzio’s fountain off at the Met. I can be home in an hour.”
I heard another crash.
“Chill out, dude!” Koa cried.
Matt replied with a particularly vile Italian obscenity.
“Please, Mom! Come now! You’re the only person who can handle Dad!”
I gritted my teeth. “On my way.”
I redirected the cabdriver, who made a right on Sixty-fifth, shot over to Park, and raced downtown. Traffic wasn’t too bad, and I was back at the Blend in under twenty minutes. The cabdriver lifted the heavy fountain out of the trunk, and I pulled the wheeled
suitcase into the back stairwell, made sure the doorway was firmly locked, and climbed the steps to the apartment above the Blend.
There was no sign of Matt or Joy. I found Koa Waipuna alone, slumped on the couch in a rumpled jacket. The collar of his shirt was open, and his face was flushed, the odors of beer and Jägermeister wafting around him like a fog of hops and black licorice.
“Koa? Where is everybody?”
“Joy headed out to meet her friends,” Koa said. “Matt’s in the bathroom. I finally convinced him to take a shower. Sober up a little.”
“You look like you could use a bit of sobering, too.” I sat down beside the big Hawaiian.
“I couldn’t let the dude drink alone. That’s like . . . pathetic.”
Koa sat up and pulled the cord off his ponytail. He shook his head until his long black hair flowed like an obsidian waterfall around his huge shoulders.
“What happened?”
“After the scene in the restaurant, me, Javier Lozado, and his buddy Hector—”
“Hector Pena?” I asked, recalling the sad-faced man who was mourning his daughter.
“That’s him. We took off after Matt, but he was long gone by the time we hit the sidewalk. We all split up.” Koa rubbed his bleary eyes. “I found Matt about an hour later, at a bar he took me to the last time I was in town. We started drinking, and he told me his troubles. I called Javier’s cell, and he met us, helped me get Matt back here.”
I’d only just met Javier. But I remembered him well (most women probably would). The retro south-of-the-border machismo thing was hard to forget, but it was his dashing, good-natured aura that impressed me most.
“Where’s Javier now?” I asked. “I should thank him, too.”
“He went off to find Hector, who’s still missing,” Koa replied. “Javier was worried about finding the man, the state he’s in. But until he left, he was great. He spoke to Matt a long time in Spanish, as if they were brothers. It was like all that crap over Louisa never happened.”
“Louisa? That one’s a new name. Who’s Louisa?”