“Oh . . . the new sous chef will get things started in here,” Mom said, looking down at the table.
“But I’m rusty, Mom. Maybe I can just watch them. I know, I’ll do the silverware setups and fill the salt and peppers,” I said, naming the two jobs I most loathed.
“Yes,” Nonna said, looking directly at me. “That will be good for Victoria. I will have a list made up for her.”
I’ll just bet you will, Nonna, I thought. I’d be scrubbing the table linens against a rock if she had her way. But it was still better than making an impassioned speech in front of strangers. “Anyway, guys, I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow. I really need to unload my stuff.” I stood up, gave my dad and my mom a quick kiss, and glanced at my grandmother. “And I hope the rally goes well tomorrow.”
“Don’t you worry,” my dad said. “We’ll show these people that Oceanside Park doesn’t want them here. Parisi can just take his offensive show to another town. He’ll get the message, all right.”
“Sì.” My grandmother stood up and raised her right hand like some Neapolitan oracle. “By tomorrow,” she pronounced, “we’ll be rid of him for good.”
Chapter Three
I jumped out of bed at six, fully expecting to knock off a thousand words before I headed down to the restaurant. I had such plans for my main character, Isabella Rossi, and I thought I’d at least get her on that boat to America. But those doubts wouldn’t stop whispering questions into my ears. Will I run into Tim? Will Nonna break her vow of silence? Will I remember what to do after all this time? Poor Isabella never even left her house, let alone her village.
My rental bungalow was at the tail end of a beach block, a tiny four-room cottage that had about the same number of square feet as my apartment in Greenwich Village. The house had little to offer except for the solitude and the ocean view. But it came with a seasonal beach badge and an ancient Schwinn, and by nine o’clock I was swerving, wobbling, and swaying my way down Ocean Avenue to the Casa Lido.
I leaned the bike against the old shed that bordered one side of the parking lot with the back garden. There were pots of summer perennials next to the large plot that was already turned and ready for planting. Along its edge were also boxes of tomato flats, lined up like leafy little soldiers ready to do battle with the sandy soil. There would also be cucumbers, peppers, and herbs out here; my grandmother had been a locavore long before it became fashionable.
It was a little early for the lunch setup, but I was psyched to get started. Probably the best I could hope for today was vegetable and salad prep. Sketchy culinary skills notwithstanding, I was pretty good with a knife. But the minute I pushed my way through the silver doors of the kitchen, I came face-to-face with my past.
“I heard you were here, Vic,” he said, “and, man, you look great.”
Great didn’t begin to describe how Tim Trouvare looked, but luscious, delectable, and mouthwatering might top the list. The dark curls that fell oh so invitingly over his forehead. Lashes so long they cast shadows over the blue-gray eyes, changeable as the tides. A face that looked as though it had been chiseled from Roman stone and a lean, rangy body that was equally at home on a surfboard as behind a stove. And in other places as well. This guy’s Irish mother and Italian father had produced a varietal blend so potent that even one taste caused sensory impairment. And I had spent way too much of my life intoxicated. (Once, when I asked him which half was Italian, he looked deep into my eyes and whispered, “Whichever half you want it to be.”) I might have ignored the danger signals then, but I was much smarter now. And I would not let this blackhearted Black Irishman complicate my life again.
I assumed a tone of cool professionalism that was at odds with my sweating palms and pounding heart. “Thanks, Tim. May I ask what you’re doing in the kitchen?”
“Didn’t they tell you?” That little note of amusement in his voice was enough to send a ripple of panic down my spine. “The Casa Lido just took me on as sous chef.”
Ah, so that’s why my mother couldn’t look me in the eye when she mentioned the new chef. “How interesting that no one thought to inform me of that fact.” Was my voice shaking? Stop that, I told myself. Stop that right now!
“So now you know.” He lifted one finely formed shoulder. “And what does it matter, anyway?”
“Because I happen to be working here myself.”
“Are you, now?” A year in Ireland had inflected—or infected—Tim’s speech. I half expected him to call me “lass” and spout Yeats. “Well,” he said softly. “My job just got a whole lot more stimulating.”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t think so, Tim. I plan to stay far out of your way, and I’d ask you to do the same for me. I’m here for one reason only—research for a new book.”
He grinned, and I steeled myself. “Don’t tell me Bernardo’s gonna find a corpse in a restaurant?”
“It’s not a mystery.” How many times would I have to explain this? “I’m doing a different kind of book, a historical based on my family history.” I hesitated. “And I’m also going to learn how to cook. Finally.” I waited for the inevitable crack about my lack of culinary skill, but none came.
“Good for you.” He rested his hand on my shoulder, only briefly, but it was enough to feel the warmth of his palm against my skin and to soften my resolve like a piece of boardwalk fudge. “I like your mysteries, though,” he said. “I’ve read ’em all.”
“You have?” That resolve was softer and stickier by the minute.
He nodded. “I’ve been following your career ever since you broke my heart.”
“Oh no, you don’t. I am not going there, Tim. If I remember correctly—and my memory is very good—there was plenty of heartbreaking to go around.” I lifted my chin and looked directly into his eyes; they were an interesting slate color in this light. “We have to work together, and there’s no reason we can’t be friends—”
“No reason at all,” he interrupted, reaching for my hand.
I pulled it away quickly. “Let me finish. There are some ground rules. One: no touching.”
He grinned. “What if the kitchen’s on fire and you’re overcome with smoke? Am I allowed to drag you out?”
“Are you ever serious? Rule Two: no nostalgia. No talking about the old days, no references to our past. We. Are. Done.”
“You sound very sure of that, Vic.” His grin faded. “People can change, you know. I’ve changed.”
“You just broke the second rule.”
“Okay. Am I allowed to say I’m glad to see you again?”
“Yes,” I said with a smile, “just as I am allowed to tell you not to get any ideas.”
Tim dropped his voice. “You know me, Vic. I’m full of ideas.”
He certainly was. And the memory of those ideas had me regretting my first rule. “Right,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “Where are Nando and Massimo?”
“They’re not coming in until later. I’m doing the pies and starting dinner prep on my own.” He grinned. “I think your grandmother’s testing me.”
“That reminds me. Did she leave a list around here for me?”
He crooked a finger at me to follow, and I hated how quickly I complied. He handed me an index card from the counter, his mouth twitching. On the card were two words:
Napkins
Tomatoes
I frowned. “Napkins?” Conveniently ignoring Rule Number One, Tim took my elbow and steered me toward the pantry, outside of which stood an ironing board, spray starch, and a giant silver iron that would have been right at home in Lucy Ricardo’s kitchen. Under the ironing board was a clear trash bag stuffed full of red-checked napkins. Based on the condensation inside the bag, they were still damp.
“No,” I whispered. “She does not expect me to iron these. Maybe there’s a roomful of straw I can spin into gold when I’m done.”
“Uh, no,” Tim said. “She had something else in mind.” He pointed to the back door. “Tomatoes.”
; “Tomat— Ohhhhh no. No! Does she actually think I’m going to get out there on my hands and knees and plant tomatoes?” I shook my head. “She’s crazier than I thought.”
No longer able to control his amusement, Tim pointed to me, his voice breaking with laughter. “You should see your face, Vic.”
I glared at him. “I am so not in the mood.”
His raised one dark brow. “That’s new.”
“Rule Number Two, Tim,” I said through my teeth.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, and made a little bow. “From now on I will honor both rules.”
“Good.” I looked into his eyes, hoping my disappointment didn’t show too much. This was going to be much harder than I thought.
He smiled politely, as though we were new acquaintances and not two people who’d known and loved each other for years. “And now if you’ll excuse me, Vic, there’s some pizza dough that needs mixing.”
After he left, I tried to focus my attention to the jobs at hand. I could start with the ironing, the lesser of the two Nonna-inspired evils. I squinted down at the bag, which seemed to have ballooned in size while my back was turned. There were easily a hundred napkins in there. At least it was cool here by the pantry; the sun was already warming up that garden plot. And with such an automatic task, I could let my mind range and jot down ideas for the book. I felt for the pad and pencil in my jeans pocket and put it out on the ironing board. What Nonna didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. Or me.
But as I sprayed, ironed, and folded, I wasn’t thinking about my characters or my story line. I was seeing the long-haired, fifteen-year-old Tim the day he had walked into the Casa Lido and asked for a job as a busboy. I was remembering a thirteen-year-old Victoria, instantly smitten, trailing around behind him to clear tables. I set down the iron and sighed. Here I was breaking my own rule.
I jerked my head up at the sound of a muffled thud coming from the bar area and then the sound of footsteps. I crept out past the pantry and peeked into the dining room. A man stood behind the bar, running his hands over the carved wood. He wore a faded gray tank top and a black ball cap jammed on backward over longish sun-streaked brown hair. I probably should have been nervous about an intruder in the restaurant, but I was a little distracted by his tanned, well-muscled arms.
“Excuse me? May I help you?”
“Nope. I’m good,” he said, without turning around.
His voice was husky, with a bit of a drawl. Not from Jersey, I thought. That’s for sure. I squinted at the embroidered fleur-de-lis on his cap. “Uh, can I ask what you’re doing behind the bar?”
Taking a pencil from behind his ear, he leaned on the back counter to write something in a notebook. “Doin’ my work, ma’am.” There was a pause. “If you don’t mind.”
I strode over to the bar, indignant and out of patience. “Look, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t appreciate talking to your back, okay . . .” My voice trailed off as I got a closer view of said back, as well as his tight faded jeans.
He shot me a grin over his shoulder, and I glimpsed a small gold hoop in his ear. “And here I thought that was my best side.” He turned around, setting both hands down on the bar. His eyes widened, and his brows did a slow rise. As did my own. I looked into a pair of sleepy green eyes rimmed in brown, took note of the lines on his face that suggested a man a bit older than his boyish look. Not to mention a charmingly crooked smile that suggested a whole lot more. He stuck his hand out across the bar. “I’m Cal.”
“Nice to meet you.” I pulled my hand from his warm grasp. “But what are you doing here?”
He stuck his hand into his back pocket and then slid a business card across the counter. CALVIN LOCKHART, RENOVATIONS AND RESTORATIONS.
“So they finally got around to fixing the bar.”
“Yes, they did, cher.” He winked, stuck his pencil back behind his ear, and heaved a battered toolbox up onto the counter.
“I’m Victoria, by the way. The owner’s daughter.” My voice rose in irritation. “In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t, but nice meetin’ you anyway,” Cal said, turning again to his study of the woodwork.
Lucky me, I thought, as I walked back to the pantry. To have two disconcerting encounters with men on my first day back in town. Those napkins and tomatoes were starting to look better and better.
In another hour I had ten perfect stacks of pressed and folded napkins to show for my labors, while Tim bustled around the kitchen readying pizzas for the outdoor grills. Soon the protesters would start arriving; the fact that she was feeding them for free was testament to my nonna’s displeasure with Gio Parisi and the RealTV channel.
“Hellooooo!” My mother’s not so dulcet tones rang out from the open doorway. “How’s it going here, everyone?”
I walked out to greet my parents and grandmother, this time risking an air kiss in the vicinity of Nonna’s cheek. She only grunted, but in a nice way. I was making progress.
“So, Mother,” I said. “I’ve met the new sous chef.”
My mother’s glossy lips froze in a tight smile, and her eyes looked pained. “About that, honey. I know I should have told you, but I wasn’t sure how you’d respond and—”
I held up my hand. “It’s fine, Mom. I’m a big girl, and it was all a long time ago.”
My dad put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a classic Frank squeeze. “I’m glad you see it that way, hon. Tim’s bounced around a lotta places over the years, but I think he’s settled in now. He’s a good chef and basically a good boy.”
You got that right, Dad. He’s a thirty-five-year-old boy.
I patted my father’s arm before sliding out of his grip. “Shouldn’t you be checking on things outside, Daddy?”
“I already did, baby. And they’re here.”
“Who, the protesters?” I looked out our front window at an empty parking lot. “I don’t see anybody yet.”
“No, honey,” Mom said. “The people from The Jersey Side. They’re already out on the boardwalk.”
I stepped outside to get a better look. Memorial Day was still two weeks away, but Ocean Avenue looked as though the season were in full swing. Most of the parking spots were filled, and a number of stands were open. A crowd was gathered around a platform occupied by a middle-aged man, probably Parisi, a dark-haired guy in his twenties, and a tiny, buxom young woman. Even from across the street, I could make out their dark tans. The kids were signing autographs, and the older man was chatting with the onlookers. In that moment I understood what it would mean to my quiet little shore town—and to my own plans—if these people were allowed to film here.
“We can’t let this happen,” I said as I came back inside.
“We won’t.” Nonna stared out the front windows, no doubt putting a curse on Parisi. “We will stop him.” She turned back and smiled at a point over my head. “Ciao, Calvino.” Calvino? I must have heard wrong, because a sure sign of my grandmother’s approval was getting christened with an Italian name.
“’Mornin’, Giulietta,” he said pleasantly, and nodded to my parents.
I hung on to the nearest table, for surely the floor would now open beneath my feet. At the very least, a thunderbolt would come flying through the front door and strike Cal where he stood. How was this Southern saw-wrangler on a first-name basis with my prickly grandmother?
While I struggled with this new knowledge, Nonna looked back at me, still smiling. Uh-oh. “Victoria,” she said, “have you made any progress on your list this morning?”
“The napkins are done.” My voice sounded unnaturally chirpy.
“And the tomatoes?”
“Right, well, it’s a little sunny out there now, and I thought you guys might need some help serving the protesters and—”
She nodded her head and spoke calmly. “So you’ll do it later.”
It wasn’t a request; it was an edict. I sighed. At some point today, I’d be digging in that garden. I wouldn’t put it
past Nonna to set up a spotlight so I could work all night. “You bet, Nonna,” I said brightly. “But right now, shouldn’t we get ready to feed the starving hordes?”
But the “hordes” turned out to be a dozen people, two of whom had made signs, one reading “Not in Our Town” with a big thumb pointing downward; the other said “Pasta-tute,” an epithet suggesting an Italian who was willing to sell out, presumably aimed at Gio Parisi. In the group, I recognized Gale the librarian, our produce man, Mr. Biaggio, and Mr. and Mrs. Pak, who owned the dry cleaners. They marched vigorously in a little circle chanting the slogans on the signs, with my mom pulling up the rear. (It’s a little hard to protest in heels.) My father alternated between making short speeches and serving pizza, while Nonna perched on a lawn chair in the shade.
“That display outside,” I said as I walked back into the kitchen, “is at once the bravest and most pathetic thing I have ever seen in my life.”
“God bless ’em,” Tim said. “Want a pizza to take home? We got plenty left.” Since he was cooking, he had a blue bandanna tied around his head. Only Tim could make health code compliance sexy.
“Sure. Who are those for?” I pointed to a stack of foil-wrapped pies.
“I’m gonna bring them over to Father Tom at St. Rose’s. A couple families in his parish are having tough times.”
“Oh,” I said. I couldn’t imagine the Tim I knew driving out of his way to donate leftover food. “That’s really nice.”
He shrugged. “There’s a lot of waste in restaurants. But there are health regs regarding perishable food for donation.” He grinned at me. “Father Tom and I get around them. He doesn’t ask and I won’t tell.”
“Neither will I.” We stood smiling at each other, and a tiny ache tugged at my chest. “Well, I’m off to bring some cold drinks to the righteous,” I told him, determined to stay out of that kitchen for the rest of the day.
Outside, it appeared our little rally was still going strong. A reporter had left the throng on the boardwalk to get some comments from our group. At the moment, my mother was speaking animatedly into a large mike, while behind her rose chants of “Pasta-tute! Pasta-tute!” Please, I prayed, don’t let this turn up on the cable news. Across the street, the boardwalk was packed, the crowds were laughing, and the food stands looked to be doing a brisk business. I walked down to the sidewalk for a better view, only to see our mayor, Anne McCrae, up on the makeshift stage. The crowd cheered as she pumped her fist in unison with the show’s stars.
Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries) Page 3