Just a Taste (7 page)

“Y
ou listening?”

Anthony gently tapped the side of the saucepan with a wooden spoon to get Little Ant’s attention. They were in Anthony’s home kitchen, and he had just finished chopping all the vegetables and herbs needed for the gravy while Little Ant looked on. He dumped them into the saucepan, where they now sizzled, sending up a mouthwatering aroma. Little Ant stood on a step stool beside his uncle, listening avidly as Anthony explained why heating the olive oil to just the right temperature was crucial. But somewhere between explaining the difference between browning onions and merely letting them wilt, Little Ant’s attention seemed to wander.

“You hear me?” said Anthony.

“Sorry.” Little Ant snapped back to attention. “Can I stir?”

“Of course.” Anthony handed him the spoon. “You bored?”

“No.”

“Because we don’t have to do this if you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored,” Little Ant insisted. His expression turned pouty. “Hockey is what’s boring. Not this.”

Anthony looked away with a grimace, unsure of how to respond. When Theresa had swung by to drop Little Ant off, she’d made a point of telling her son
to have fun
, as if it were something the kid had forgotten how to do. The second Little Ant was out of earshot, Theresa had turned to Anthony with pleading eyes. “You have to talk to Michael. He’s insane. The other night after Little Ant finished his homework, Michael sat down at the kitchen table with him to go over ‘strategy.’”

“Can’t you talk to him?” Anthony asked. Going mano a mano with his brother was not one of Anthony’s favorite activities, especially since it tended to feature yelling as well as the occasional piece of dinnerware going airborne.

“He won’t listen to me,” Theresa insisted, her expression mirroring the distress in her voice.

“He doesn’t listen to me, either, Theresa. But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” Theresa gave Anthony’s shoulder a heartfelt squeeze before leaving.

“Why do you say hockey’s boring?” Anthony asked casually, pleased to see how intently Little Ant was studying the ingredients in the saucepan.

“Because it is,” Little Ant insisted, sounding like the seven-year-old he was. “It’s stupid.”

“Tell me why.”

“It sucks.” Little Ant swallowed. “I suck.”

Anthony jostled his shoulder. “You don’t suck! I saw your first game, remember? You were awesome!”

“You’re just saying that because you’re my uncle,” Little Ant muttered.

“No, I’m saying that because you were awesome.” He stilled Little Ant’s hand. “Don’t stir
too
much, okay?”

“Okay.” Little Ant slowed the wooden spoon’s momentum. “Is that okay?”

“Perfect.”

Anthony leaned over the saucepan and took a deep breath. “Smells good, don’t you think?”

“When do we dump in the wine and stuff?” Little Ant asked eagerly.

“Soon. How many times have I told you: Being a chef is all about being patient.”

“I know,” Little Ant murmured, glancing around the kitchen. “Uncle Anthony, can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“Do you ever get lonely, living here without Aunt Ang?”

“Sometimes.” He thought about the question. Right after she died, it was close to unbearable. But now he was used to it.

“Do you ever, like, feel her ghost?”

Anthony felt his chest tighten. “Not in the way you think.” He tousled the boy’s hair, trying to divert him. “What are you talking about ghosts for? You’re going to scare yourself.”

“Dad says there’s no such thing.”

“Well, there you go.” Anthony glanced around the kitchen, really
seeing
it for the first time in a long time. One of the first things Angie had done when she’d moved in was to redecorate the house completely, ridding the kitchen of the drab olive green and gold tones of the 1970s. She’d replaced the linoleum on the floor with beautiful handmade tiles. The nicked green Formica countertop was just a memory thanks to the pristine white Corian, which perfectly offset the cornflower blue of the cabinets she’d painted. Anthony had balked at first, but in the end, even he had to concede it looked great. The whole house looked great—not that he’d noticed much over the past year. But now, viewing it with a fresh eye, he knew it was a home any man would be proud of.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Little Ant pressed.

“Nah.”

Little Ant seemed to consider this. “Me, neither,” he said eventually.

“Great minds think alike,” Anthony teased.

“Do you ever get mad at God for taking Aunt Angie away?”

Anthony swallowed. “Sad stuff happens sometimes. You can’t blame God.”

Little Ant nodded thoughtfully. Please, let the kid be done with the questions. It was kicking up a lot of emotion, much of it confusing. That kiss with Vivi…what the hell was that about? If ever there was a testament to how lonely he felt sometimes, it was that. Or maybe it was testament to their mutual love of food. Start discussing gas stoves versus electric and the next thing you know, you’re in a lip lock. Talk about scary.

“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”

Anthony coughed into his balled fist. He should have seen that one coming. “I don’t know,” he said, sounding curter than he meant to be. “I haven’t really thought about it.” He wondered if Little Ant was driven to ask by his own curiosity, or if he’d overheard his parents talking about how it was time for Anthony to move on. “Why do you ask?”

Little Ant shrugged. “I dunno. I just think it would be cool to have a new aunt and stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” Anthony turned down the heat under the saucepan. “You ready to add the vino?”

“V
ivi hurried down
Twentieth Avenue, intent on one thing and one thing only: dropping off Anthony’s plastic container at Dante’s undetected. Ever since his visit to her apartment a week earlier, her emotions had been in an uproar. No matter how many times she reminded herself that he was arrogant, was less than thrilled to have her as a neighbor, and had insulted her more than once, her mind could not let go of the kiss. She couldn’t lie to herself; she’d enjoyed it. But so what? She didn’t have time for a romance. More importantly, he was the last man on earth she wanted to have a romance
with.

They’d been avoiding each other all week, that much was clear. She’d seen him on the street a number of times, but not once had his head turned in the direction of the candy store, even with the DiDinatos finally beginning construction. That was fine with Vivi. She wasn’t exactly breaking her neck to scurry across the street to his place, either.

She knew from observing Anthony that he usually left Dante’s around eight a.m. to pick up a newspaper and chat with the men up at Cuccio’s Pork Store, who were obviously longtime friends. He usually returned to the restaurant around eight thirty or so. Vivi checked her watch—ten minutes after eight. Perfect. She’d drop off the container with the kitchen staff and be out and back across the street before he even knew she was there.

She shouldn’t have been surprised when she tried the front door to the restaurant and found it locked. Undeterred, she walked around to the back. The kitchen door would probably be unlocked, and even if it wasn’t, she was certain there’d be staff in the kitchen who’d let her in if she knocked.

She was gratified to see the kitchen door was indeed open. She could see people moving around through the screen door as the sounds of voices and laughter rose above the tinny sound of a radio. She was in luck.

The door gave a small squeak as she opened it, popping her head inside. “Hello?” she called out tentatively. “It’s Vivi from across the street.”

“Vivi.” Anthony’s brother came toward her, a pleasant but puzzled look on his face.

“Hello, Michael. Is Anthony here?”
What a fraud you are,
Vivi thought to herself.
You know damn well he isn’t.

“Actually, he just ran up to the deli to pick up the paper. What’s up?”

Vivi thrust the container at him. “Can you give this back to him?”

“Sure.” Michael took the container, but the puzzled expression remained on his face. “You borrow it?”

“No. He made me fritters and I’m just returning it.”

Michael’s eyes widened with surprise. “Anthony made you fritters?”

“Yes.”

“And he brought them to your house?”

Vivi hesitated, confused by the excited look in Michael’s eyes. “Yes.”

Michael’s excitement was now elation. “Oh my God, that’s great! Do you know how great that is?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What do you think I think?”

“You think your brother and I are romantically involved. It’s not so,” Vivi said very quietly. She knew the kitchen staff was listening to every word being said, restaurant kitchens being a hive of gossip. She wanted to think the radio might be muffling some of the sound of her and Michael’s voices, but you never knew.

Michael regarded her skeptically. “You made him an apple tart just for the hell of it?”

Vivi was taken aback. “How do you know about that?”

“Because I devoured half the damn thing!” Michael’s eyes shone with admiration. “That was the best apple tart I ever tasted in my life, Vivi. Seriously.”

“Thank you,” Vivi murmured, blushing with pleasure. Maybe Michael wasn’t so pushy after all.

“What did you think of the fritters?”

“I thought they were wonderful,” Vivi confessed, “though comparing a tart with a fritter is like comparing apples and oranges.”

“I agree completely. I think you two need to keep your dessert Olympics going, appointing me as the main judge.”

“Do you cook, too?”

“No. I’m a hockey player. Former hockey player.” His voice sounded strained. Had she said something wrong? The light in Michael Dante’s eyes seemed to have flamed out. Time to leave, Vivi thought.

“Well, thank you for your time,” she said politely, edging in the direction of the kitchen door.

“You can go out the front,” Michael said. “I unlocked it just before you came in.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

Vivi nodded appreciatively and headed through the swinging doors of the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of a small, portable playpen set up in the middle of the dining room. An adorable, apple-cheeked baby girl with lustrous black curls was gurgling happily to herself. Michael Dante’s daughter? Or maybe—no, it couldn’t be. The thought disturbed her, so she pushed it away. The baby was looking at her now, smiling. Vivi put her hands over her face then pulled them away, saying “Peek-a-boo,” sending the child into a cascade of giggles. It was a lovely, mellifluous sound.

“Au revoir, ange,”
Vivi said, blowing a kiss to the baby. Then she pulled open the restaurant door, coming face-to-face with Anthony.

“W
hat are you
doing here?”

Anthony knew he sounded abrupt, maybe even rude, but the last thing he expected to find when he opened the door to his restaurant was Vivi.

“I came to return your container.”

“Thank you.” Anthony shoved his copy of the
Post
under his arm and folded his arms across his chest. “Actually, I’m kind of glad you’re here. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Vivi crossed
her
arms across
her
chest. “Yes?”

“What happened last week? That kiss? Pure aberration.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you said that,” said Vivi, relieved. “You were simply carried away by all that ecstatic talk about cooking, yes? As was I.”

“Exactly,” Anthony agreed, though he could have done without the happy look on her face. What, kissing him was such a horror show?

“It’s funny how those things happen sometimes, isn’t it?” Vivi continued with a nervous little laugh. “How talking about food can make you so passionate you do things that seem crazy to you afterward?”

“Absolutely,” Anthony agreed with a forced chortle. “If anyone knows about the bizarre effects food can have on some people, it’s we chefs, right?”

“Oui,”
said Vivi, nodding her head vigorously. “I’m so delighted to know we’re in agreement about this.” She edged closer to the door. “I have to go now. I need to speak with the DiDinato brothers about something before they start today.”

“Yeah, about that.” Anthony gave a small grimace. “Do you know what time they plan on wrapping up each day?”

“No. Why?”

“Here’s the thing: we have an early bird special. Starts around five p.m. I would hate for any of my customers to have their meals disturbed by the sounds of saws and hammers and all that good stuff.”

“That’s not my problem,” Vivi said briskly.

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “
Au contraire
, missy. If I start losing business because of you, it very much
is
your problem.”

Vivi pressed her lips together into a thin, hard line. “What are you saying?”

“I’m simply asking you, as a neighboring business, to please take into account the effect it could have. If you could ask the DiDinatos to start work earlier in the day so that they finish up earlier, I would appreciate it.”

Vivi tilted up her chin. “Why don’t you ask them?”

Anthony shrugged. “Fine. I will. I’m sure they’ll accommodate me. We go way back.”

“Typical,” Vivi hissed under her breath.

“Typical what?”

“Typical male chef! Thinks he can just snap his fingers and everyone will jump!”

“You mean they won’t?”

“Connard!”
Vivi growled in frustration. “Excuse me, please. I don’t have time for this.”

Anthony smirked as he held the door open for her. “Be my guest.”

Vivi stormed out of the restaurant. She was halfway across the parking lot when she abruptly turned back to him. “Just so you know, those fritters were soggy, and so was your kiss!”

“You wouldn’t know a soggy fritter if you fell into the Seine,” Anthony replied. “As for my kiss, you simply didn’t inspire me,
mademoiselle
.” He headed toward the kitchen smiling, feeling more alive than he had in days.