Dinner at Fiorello’s (3 page)

In the end, he thought he couldn’t go wrong with a pair of soft gray jeans and a pink button-down shirt, tucked in. He’d wear his Cole Haan black monk strap shoes. They were comfy and not too dressy, he thought. All in all, he thought he’d look neat and not trying too hard.

Besides, the pink of the shirt set off his skin, blue eyes, and blond hair in a very fetching way. Dressed, he turned in front of the mirror and thought he didn’t look too bad, not too bad at all.

Now his only challenge would be getting out of the house unnoticed by either his mother or Maxine. Both women would be immediately suspicious if he left the house in anything other than board shorts and a tank top.

That’s why we have a back staircase to the kitchen
, he told himself, creeping down its carpeted length.
Besides, if I run into Maxine, I can confide in her if I need to. She’d understand. Mom, not so much.

As if to allay his worries, he heard the sound of his mother’s Mercedes two-seater convertible start up. He hurried over to his window to see her pulling out of the driveway onto Michigan Avenue.

It’s meant to be
, Henry thought.

The kitchen was empty.
Maxine must be in the foyer, scrubbing the floor.

T
HE
AIR
conditioning wasn’t working on the Evanston Express, the suburban ‘L’ Purple Line that connected with the Chicago Red Line city trains at Howard Street.
Great
, Henry thought, pulling at the collar of his shirt as he watched the scenery go by, with its glimpses of the shimmering waters of the lake to the east,
I’ll look like I’ve been working in a hot kitchen all day by the time I get there. I should fit right in.

Already his pits were soaked through, leaving large dark circles under his arms. His dad had told him that the ‘L’ had windows you could open once upon a time. Henry wondered why they did away with such a concept. Right now the option would be a blessing.

Once he got to Howard Street, he stepped out onto the bustling platform of the station with a sigh of relief. It was like being sprung from a sauna. Even though Howard Street, running east and west below him, was clogged with vehicles, the air smelled as sweet as a mountain glade. The breeze off Lake Michigan, just a few blocks east, reached him and delighted him like an embrace. It was cool and invigorating, lifting his spirits and making him feel like he wouldn’t be a total wreck by the time he arrived at Fiorello’s.

A train waited just to his north. Henry didn’t ride the ‘L’ much. Even though he was only a couple of miles over the border from Chicago in Evanston, his friendships, family relationships, and life experiences seldom led him away from the safe and secure confines of the North Shore. It was a shame, really. Here he had a teeming city of several million practically a stone’s throw away, and yet it had gone pretty much unexplored. He had heard of the gay bars along Halsted and the farther north grouping of bars in the Andersonville neighborhood and wondered if he would ever have the nerve to enter one of them.

Thinking of gay bars made him think of Kade, and that was one of the things he wanted to avoid today. Fortunately it was easy to shift gears in his thought processes, because his southbound Red Line train was now gliding into the station. People on the platform surged forward, some of them trying to gauge where the doors would open. Henry didn’t know why they bothered. Even a suburban kid like Henry knew this was the beginning of the line, thus there would be no battles for seats.

Henry didn’t plan on sitting down anyway. His stop—Jarvis—was next. In fact he could have easily walked there from the Howard station, but his anxiety prevented him from trying it. Even though Jarvis was only a few blocks from the station, Henry feared getting lost. Howard Street and the surrounding blocks had been somewhat gentrified, but they were still a bit rough around the edges. To hear his parents tell it, the Far North Side neighborhood of Rogers Park was a hotbed of crime. Like Henry, his parents seldom ventured into Chicago proper, except for his dad’s daily commute downtown to his office on Wacker Drive.

It seemed as though he was on the train, then off it again, almost in one fluid motion. Henry shrugged before the doors opened for him. He was already on the platform at Jarvis, so where was the harm in going exactly where he needed to be?

Exactly where I need to be?
Henry wondered. Is this it? In more ways than one?

He hurried down the stairs, passing an older woman in a coat and babushka in the seventy-something degree weather, clinging to the handrail for dear life and making her way so slowly you could barely tell she was moving. The stairwell, Henry noticed, smelled of urine.
Charming.

Once on Jarvis, Henry looked left and right under the ‘L’ tracks. The train roared above him as it pulled out of the station. He had the address in his pocket but could immediately see that Jarvis Avenue ended to the west at a small park, and probably picked up again and continued on farther out, as Chicago streets had a habit of doing. All he could see in that direction was a simple treelined street with old brick apartment buildings and houses on either side. So Henry started walking east. There was a strip mall to the south, and bam, there it was. Fiorello’s, right at the corner of the next cross street, Greenview.

Henry stood outside the restaurant, feeling like this was a momentous time. His life could change here, if only he had the nerve to take the next step. Taking that step meant defying his family and casting aside everything they valued.

And was that such a bad thing? What did they value anyway? Money? Cars? Designer clothes? Jewelry? Trips?

What did it matter what they valued?

Besides, this was just a summer gig, right?

Henry closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, allowing his mind to quiet.
One step at a time
, he told himself.

He shut down his mind for the moment as he took in the simple storefront façade of Fiorello’s. The way the sun was hitting the large plate glass windows that fronted the place made it all but impossible to see inside. Above the windows was a simple black-painted sign with the name of the restaurant and a silhouette of a wine bottle. The whole place was painted a faded shade of yellow, almost the color of old parchment paper. The trim was a sharp contrast of matte black.

There was something about the place that felt inviting to Henry, and he didn’t quite understand why. It was plain, almost bland, yet it called to him.

Part of him, the “young man” that was his father’s son, told him to simply turn around and get back on the train. Enough of flirting with this nonsense! Or better yet, walk down to the lakefront and follow the shore back up to his own house on Michigan Avenue in Evanston. The walk, only a couple of miles, really, would do him good.

Another part, though, told him to go in and have lunch. Maxine’s omelet was barely enough to satisfy a strapping, growing boy like Henry, and he found himself, as usual, starving.

What harm would there be in going inside and having a little lunch? He didn’t, after all,
have
to apply for the job.

Bud, you’ve come all the way down here. Just go in. Quit being a chickenshit. See what the place is about. You may be appalled. Their food may be crap. The people in there might be rude.

Henry shook his head, internally bemoaning his own indecisiveness. In his junior year, he had taken a small part in the class play,
Harvey
, and had done the role of a cabdriver who appears at the end of the play. Henry reminded himself of how he managed to take to the stage every night for the two weekends of performances: he simply made himself step from behind the curtains and into the lights. He couldn’t allow himself to hesitate. He had to trust enough in himself to figure that he wouldn’t make a total ass of himself.

And he never did.

This situation wasn’t much different.

So he followed his own advice. He squared his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and marched right into Fiorello’s. He paused for a moment in the small entryway, letting his eyes adjust to the restaurant’s soft illumination after the bright sunlight outside.

He was glad no one rushed up to seat him. They were busy, which Henry was surprised to see on a weekday afternoon in a neighborhood so far from downtown. The clatter of clinking flatware and the murmur of conversation continued unabated, ignorant of Henry’s “momentous” entry. What had he expected, anyway? A hush to fall over the place as he came in? He snickered to himself at the thought.

He looked over the place and was surprised to see it was not what he was expecting. Henry had pictured something out of every Hollywood depiction of Italian restaurants since time immemorial: red-and-white checked tablecloths, Chianti bottles topping each table, stuffed with a dripping taper candle. On the walls would be oil paintings of Venice, the Colosseum, or maybe the hills of Tuscany. There would be artificial vines and clusters of plastic grapes hanging over the bar.

He shook his head, ashamed at prejudging the place.

Actually, Fiorello’s was warm and welcoming. The plaster walls were painted a brighter shade of yellow than the ones outside, a color like butter. No pictures of a Roman ruin or a Venetian canal were in sight. Instead, there were large framed black-and-white photographs of different people, all of them cooking. Henry could tell from the clothes, the kitchens, and the hairstyles that the photos went back quite a few years. He wondered if these were members of the Fiorello family and thought the idea was a charming one. It made the restaurant more like someone’s home. He felt like a guest.

The center of the room held a cluster of tables, topped not with checkered cloths but with clean white linen. Booths lined the left side of the room, while on the opposite wall stood a small bar with a brass foot rail and half a dozen stools. Behind the bar, bottles of liquor lined up in front of a large mirror.

And Henry sucked in a breath. The bartender was adorable. No, that wasn’t good enough. What would be the right word? Hot. Hunky. Something out of an Italian wet dream. Henry couldn’t keep the grin off his face. The guy was probably only four or five years older than Henry himself, but he had the kind of exotic, southern Italian looks that were so hot they were melt-worthy. He was dressed in a simple white shirt and black pants, and when his eyes met Henry’s he could tell, even from across the room, the irises were so dark the pupils were lost within their liquid surface. He had black hair, curly, and a lean, taut frame. He couldn’t have been more than five six, but within that compact package, a lot of strength seemed to be packed.

The bartender grinned and nodded to him, sending a tingle from Henry’s face down farther south. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Even though the bartender had gone back to rinsing out glasses and was no longer looking at him, that didn’t stop Henry from staring, openmouthed, at the luscious morsel and wondering if he could bypass the regular menu and special order
him
.

“Antonio’s dreamy, isn’t he?”

Henry jumped a little as the gravelly voice of a woman accosted him and snapped him out of his semi-erotic reverie. Henry forced his gaze away from Antonio and met the green eyes of the young woman standing before him at the host station. She was short, petite, and had a mane of curly auburn hair that hung down to the middle of her back. She wore a simple green sheath, and when she smiled, she revealed a slight overbite that Henry guessed men of the straight persuasion would find very sexy.

And then Henry thought of the question she’d posed. Not “How many?” or “Here for lunch?” but a query that implied she’d caught him staring with full-bore lust at the bartender. The male bartender. A line of flaming heat rose to Henry’s cheeks, so fierce he could feel a tingle of sweat at his hairline. He gave the young woman a sick grin.

Why was his damn face so expressive? He could never lie. Or play poker.

Henry was sure she saw that he was embarrassed. He was certain it was stamped as plainly on his features as his prurient interest in the bartender only moments ago.

She waved his discomfort away with her hand. “Oh, sweetie, no reason to be embarrassed. I want to jump his bones too.” She sighed. “But that one there is happily married.” She rolled her eyes. “And as true blue as they come.” She leaned in closer to Henry. “But you can’t blame us for dreaming, huh?”

Henry had no words. He just shook his head.

She bent down to take a menu from underneath the podium. “I assume you’re here for lunch? You look a bit too young to be taking a seat at the bar.”

Henry tried to smile and gain some semblance of control over himself once again. “Right, lunch. If you have a table.” He scanned the place. It was nearly full to capacity.

“Well, you’re in luck. There’s still one two-top left. It’s by the kitchen, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?” She turned. “Come on.”

She seated him at a tiny table right beside the swinging doors Henry presumed led into the kitchen. She handed him the menu. “Rosalie will be your server. She’ll be right with you.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” Henry said, surprising himself.

“Carmela. Like on
The Sopranos
?”

Henry shook his head again. He wasn’t familiar with the show.

“Never mind. You want tap water or bubbles?”

“Bubbles, I guess.”

“I’ll bring you some San Pellegrino. And a little bread and some olive oil to get you started. We’re slammed today.”

“I see that.”

Carmela walked away.

In just a few moments, though, her polar opposite approached the table. Rosalie, as this must be, seemed like she’d come straight from central casting where the request was for someone who looked like an Italian mother. Rosalie had an upsweep of salt-and-pepper hair and wore a black dress and what his mother would call sensible shoes. Her nose was big, her features careworn, but there was something about her eyes, a greenish-brown in color, that exuded warmth and maybe, if he looked really hard, mischief. She didn’t smile. “Did Carmela get your drink order?” she asked.