Just a Taste (15 page)

Exhaustion had worked its way into every bone in his body, but it was the good kind that comes with working hard and completing a job well done. He looked at Vivi, sitting at her sister’s table. The imperious manner she’d assumed all evening in the kitchen was gone, replaced by a mild anxiety that mirrored his own. His eyes caught his cousin Gemma’s and she smiled, pointing discreetly to Vivi then giving him a subtle thumbs-up. Anthony scowled back at her in disbelief. His own cousin, the same one he’d given endless piggyback rides to as a kid, telling him she’d voted for the competition! Real nice.

The seconds seemed to crawl by. “What do you think?” Anthony asked Aldo, the ancient waiter hovering faithfully by his side.

“It could go either way,” said Aldo noncommittally.

“Thank you for not quitting tonight.”

Aldo just shrugged. There’d been a few nights over the past couple of weeks that Aldo hadn’t torn off his apron and stormed outside to puff furiously on a cigarillo like some kind of sulky, wrinkled teenager. Perhaps the old man was mellowing as he entered his seventh decade.

Restless, Anthony’s eyes scanned the dining room again. He did a double take; there was Insane Lorraine and her mother, Mrs. Insane Lorraine, sitting at a table with two of
his
aunts, Millie and Betty Anne. The twosome must have slipped in late, well after he’d made his rounds of the tables. The sight of Lorraine sitting with members of his family made his guts flip, though both Millie and Betty Anne were batshit crazy, so maybe they all had a lot to talk about.

“We’ve got a winner.”

The dining room hummed with low, excited murmurs as Anthony leaned forward stiffly in his chair, awaiting the verdict. The man making the announcement, portly with a moustache so thick it looked like he’d glued a squirrel to his upper lip, waited for the room to quiet. “The winner of the cook-off—by one single vote!—is Miss Vivi Robitaille.”

One vote. Anthony fought the urge to slump in his chair. He couldn’t believe it. She was a great cook; just not as great as him. Vivi was hugging herself, crying. The win meant she had a ready-made crowd of admiring customers for her bistro when it opened in the spring. He tried not to think about it.

The crowd was chanting for a speech. Vivi turned to Natalie, looking dazed. Though it hurt to lose, Anthony found a small measure of comfort in being beaten by a worthy opponent. He’d been in cooking competitions before; there was nothing worse than losing to some slick jackass who dazzled with presentation but didn’t know a crepe from a canapé. At least Vivi had talent.

Knowing it was the right thing to do, Anthony rose to go congratulate her. He just hoped she wouldn’t gloat too much in public.

“Congratulations.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek.

Vivi stood up and looked at him with wide eyes. “Thank you. I’m shocked I won.”

“Bullshit,” he whispered. “You thought you were going to win, just like I thought I was going to win.”

Vivi laughed softly. “You’re right.” She indicated the diners. “They want me to say something, I think. But you and I will talk alone later, yes? After the kitchen is cleaned up?” She leaned toward him, putting a hand on his arm. “Do you have any cigarettes lying around? I would love one later, after everyone has gone.”

“I think I may have an old pack somewhere in the kitchen. I’ll try to find it. You give your speech.”

Vivi nodded, clearing her throat. She thanked Anthony for giving her the opportunity to use his kitchen, as well as thanking everyone who voted. But Anthony was only half listening as he stopped by the bar to pour himself that much-needed Sambuca and gather the ballots so he could burn the evidence of his failure.

“B
enedict Dante! It
was you, wasn’t it?”

Anthony shook a handful of crumpled ballots in Michael’s face as the two adjourned to the restaurant’s un-heated back office for some privacy. He couldn’t resist carefully tallying the votes himself before he burned them. He and Vivi had tied on the appetizer and the main dish, and it was the dessert vote that tipped the scale. That’s when it dawned on him: Their mother’s pudding. Raisins versus currants. His brother.

“It was me what?” Michael asked, his eyes shifting away guiltily.

“You know what! You voted for Vivi’s flan over my pudding, didn’t you?”

Michael looked caught. “I’m sorry, Ant. I told you, you should have made it the way Mom used to.”

Anthony couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So, you had to vote against me? You couldn’t just—”

“Lie?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t think it was right to do that, and if you’re honest with yourself, you wouldn’t have wanted me to lie, either.”

“No, in this case it would have been okay.”

Michael edged toward the office door. “Does it really matter who won? This was all in good fun, right?”

“I suppose,” Anthony muttered. “You’ve created a monster, though. Did you see Vivi out there? Preening and so graciously accepting everyone’s congrats?”

“Like you wouldn’t do the same!”

“She’s going to be unbearable now.”

“What do you care? I thought you were just
friends
.” Michael crossed his arms. “
Minghia
, you ever think of putting a space heater back here? When Dad ran things—”

“Did you let Insane Lorraine and her mother in?”

“They bought tickets like everyone else, Anthony.” Michael smiled uneasily. “They seemed to be having a nice conversation with Aunt Millie and Aunt Betty Anne.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I’m sure Lorraine was telling them about our imaginary upcoming nuptials.”

“Cut her some slack. She’s been doing better with the hostessing, hasn’t she?”

“I guess.”

To be honest, Anthony hadn’t really noticed. When he was in the front of the house, it was usually to speak with patrons. He hadn’t received any complaints about her, so he supposed she was doing all right.

“Can I go now?” Michael asked. “My nuts are about to freeze and crack off.”

“For someone who spent so much time on the ice, you’re certainly a wuss when it comes to the cold.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not around the ice that much anymore, am I?” Michael said bitterly. “Except at my son’s games.”

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.”

“Y
ou’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.

B
y 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?”