The Devil Served Desire (18 page)

No, thank you.

"You come Wednesday," Mamma declared, as if Maria hadn't refused.

"Mamma, I'm on a diet." Rebecca was right. It was crazy to ruin all those weeks of hard starvation over a little barfing incident.

"You still need to eat," Mamma said.

"Not what you cook."

"You don't like my cooking?" Now her voice held hurt and shock. Guilt would be next. Maria knew her mother's repertoire by heart.

Even though she did, the song still tugged at her heartstrings and made her feel bad. "It's not your cooking, Mamma, it's the type of food. I can't have all that cheese and pasta on my diet."

"I make something else. You come. You eat. Be with your family."

"Mamma—"

"You come. I cook. We eat together." Mamma's words were definite, not to be argued with.

"Mamma, I shouldn't." How could she tell her mother being around that food was temptation enough? That she could barely walk past a man with a box of doughnuts without getting homicidal?

"Mary Louise Zipparetto eats with her mamma. She loves her mamma."

Damn that Mary Louise. And damn her own soft heart for caving. She heard the loneliness in Mamma's tone, the twinge of need that said she missed her only child. "All right I'll be there."

"Good." Mamma's voice had softened. "You bring the bread. The kind your papa likes."

And with that Maria knew all was forgiven between her and her mother. Ah, the power of food. A little gluten and a mother-daughter relationship was back on track.

And a diet was sent careening off a cliff.

Sal's Love-is-Sweet-and-Sour Onion Salad

1 pound baby onions, peeled

1 tablespoon minced prosciutto

1 clove garlic, minced

1/2 cup wine vinegar

3 tablespoons sugar

3 tablespoons olive oil, divided

3 tablespoons tomato paste

1 bay leaf

2 sprigs parsley

1/2 cup raisins

Salt and pepper

Mince one onion and set aside. Heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil, add the prosciutto, garlic and minced onion. Cook until onion is translucent and flavors are melded like the beginning of a good marriage. It's not all wine and roses forever. Hell, no.

Now comes the hard years when there's a little sour and a little sweet. Add the wine vinegar, sugar, remaining olive oil, paste, bay leaf, parsley and raisins. Season with a bit of salt and pepper—the seasonings of life. Give the woman you married a kiss on the cheek and remind her she is your angel on earth. She may swat you, but call it a love tap.

Heat all to a boil, like a good argument. Then turn it down to a simmer—the same as the ongoing heat between those who have been married for many years.

Cook uncovered, so all can see the beauty of your dish, for 45 minutes. Remove the bay leaf and parsley, then serve at room temperature to a woman who still has a little bite left in her.

"You're going to need more than a big
ciabatta
to win her heart,'' said a gruff voice from behind him.

Dante turned around, the loaf of herb bread in his arms. The late Tuesday afternoon sun peeked through the glass windows, causing Dante to squint a little against the glare. "Excuse me?"

The old man nodded his white head toward the baked goods. "My granddaughter, she can get
ciabatta
anywhere. You'll have to do better than that."

Then the voice and the face connected in Dante's brain. He'd seen him briefly the day he'd stopped by Maria's mother's house. Salvatore Pagliano, Maria's grandfather. "This isn't for—"

"I remember you now. You, I'm sure, don't remember me." He pressed a hand to his chest. "I come into your father's restaurant all the time years ago. Your father, he was a good man. Proud of his job, and of his son."

Dante blinked. "He loved Vita."

"A good man often raises a good man." He wagged a finger in emphasis. "Are you a good man?"

"I like to think of myself as one."

Salvatore Pagliano nodded, considering Dante and the bread in his hands for a second. "I believe you. Giovanni Del Rosso never cheated anyone. Always treated you fair."

"That he did."

"Having a Del Rosso in the family would be good," Sal said. "Very good. The Paglianos, we like to eat."

"I'm not proposing—"

The old man pshawed him. "You will. You first have to win her, though. She is a tough one. Sing to her. Caress her with your voice." He added a flourish with his hand. "Do it on a full moon and she'll be yours."

"Mr. Pagliano, I'm not trying to—"

"Please, call me Sal. Uncle Sal if you want to be formal, because that's as formal as I get." He laughed. "She likes you, my granddaughter. She's stubborn as an ox in mud, though, and won't tell you. All the women in our family are like that." Sal pointed at him. "Are you made of strong stuff?"

"Uh—"

"You have to be. Pagliano women—hard to woo, but easy to keep, if you are smart. You must be strong, like a lion"—he flexed a slightly shaky arm under his green diamond pattern cardigan—"but whisper like the wind in her ear."

"I'll remember that."

Sal took a step forward, raising a fist to emphasize his point. "Don't you give up on her! Maria, she's worth it. She's worth ten men, but the church only lets her marry one."

"I'm not marr—"

Sal shook his head, cutting Dante off. "I'm an old man, but not a stupid one. I have the same wife for fifty-two years. She can make a man scream when she wants to, but she has the face of an angel."

"She sounds, uh, wonderful."

Sal waved a hand at him. "No, she sounds like a wife. But a good woman. And the only one with a leash big enough for me." He gestured to the loaf still in Dante's arms. "You come for dinner. Tomorrow night But don't bring bread."

"Wednesday? But—"

"Bring dessert," Sal went on, as if he hadn't heard a word of Dante's protest. "Sweeten my granddaughter's tongue first, then her heart." Sal tipped his hat at Dante and gave him a grin. "I tell Biba to expect you." Then he left, moving surprisingly fast for a man of his age, getting out the door before Dante could even formulate an excuse to get out of the dinner.

Dinner at the Paglianos? Surely, Maria would kill him if she saw him there again. She'd made it clear she didn't want anything to do with him. And yet, when she'd kissed him—

When she'd kissed him, his entire world had come to a screeching halt. When was the last time he'd felt that way? When was the last time he'd been so distracted by thoughts of a woman that he'd ended up writing "Maria" instead of "marinara" on his menu? When was the last time he'd found himself watching the clock, wishing he were anywhere but at Vita?

Never.

Dante looked at the
ciabatta
in his arms. Sal was right. This was no way to win a woman.

Dante was just going to have to sweeten the deal.

Maria opened the back door to her mother's house, took in a high-calorie breath and let it out in a sigh. "Mamma, why do you torture me like this?"

Mamma retied the bow on her rooster apron and put on her best innocent face. All Italian mothers, it seemed, had mastered this "who-me?" mask that managed to look both blank and hurt at the same time. "It's not torture to feed my child. It's love."

Maria placed some focaccia bread on the counter, then leaned over and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. "Love can smother you if you eat too much of it."

"You have a beautiful figure. And my food is good for you." Her mother waved a dismissive hand at her and ratcheted up the hurt in her brown eyes. When Maria didn't cave on the guilt trip, Mamma pivoted toward the stove, picked up a wooden spoon from the rooster spoon rest and gave the risotto a stir. "Dante seemed to like it."

"Mamma, I don't care what Dante thinks. I'm not dating him." Maria crossed to the refrigerator, opened it and pulled out a two-liter Diet Coke.

The spoon circled along the metal pan. In the pattern of a noose. "Just kissing him, hmm?"

Maria paused, her hand halfway to the cabinet for a glass. "You saw that?"

"What you think I'm blind? You and he, in my yard that day, right by the roses. I look for new buds and I see you."

"To see the roses from the kitchen window..." Maria withdrew a glass and filled it with Diet Coke, "you have to stand on a chair and peek around the corner of the window."

Mamma shrugged. "I'm eager for spring."

"It's March. Much too early for roses," Maria said. "Mamma, I love you, but you're nosy. You were hoping to catch him down on one knee."

"The soup, it works."

Maria replaced the soda in the fridge. "He didn't propose."

Mamma busied herself with stacking dirty dishes in the sink. "He will."

"No, he won't." She paused a moment, leaning against the counter and sipping from the glass. "I’m not going out with him. I haven't even seen him in days."

Well, technically, she already had gone on a sort-of date with him. If she counted the dance in the North End street. Oh, yeah, and the chess game at her apartment. The ride to the Chubby Chums. The conversation— hell, that wasn't a conversation, that was mouth soccer—outside on the church steps. And the order he'd placed at the shop on Friday.

But well, she wasn't going to see him anymore. Or think about him. Even though she had been, every day since he'd walked away with that half-finished kiss between them.

She wasn't going to think about him ever again. Starting today.

Somehow, that resolution didn't sound any stronger than her vow to stay away from snack foods.

"Why not? He's a nice boy," Mamma said, as if reading her thoughts.

Maria sighed and settled into one of the maple kitchen chairs. Across from her, two six-inch high, ugly white porcelain roosters stared back from a wooden shelf perch, their faces blank and stony. "You wouldn't understand."

Mamma turned away from the sink and crossed to the kitchen table, taking the seat across from Maria. "Then tell me,
cara
."

"There's nothing to tell. He's not my type."

Mamma's eyes zeroed in on Maria's, the Italian mother lie detector clicking away. She pursed her lips and gave a little nod. Whether that meant Maria had convinced her or not would remain to be seen.

"When you were little, you dream of being the ballerina. Remember?"

"Yeah. And the dance teacher always put me in the back so I wouldn't ruin her "Swan Lake." Or break Prince Charming's back."

Mamma let out a gust. "You too good for that class."

"Oh, Mamma." Maria shook her head, smiling at the same argument she'd heard for years. "I wasn't too good. I was too heavy. You never saw the truth."

"Maybe it's not me who doesn't see the truth."

"And maybe you're just biased because you're my mother." But Maria's voice was soft. Despite her matchmaking, Mamma loved her and that alone was comforting.

From the front of the house came the sound of the doorbell. Maria glanced at her mother. But she'd already slipped into her "who-me?" outfit again.

No one in the Pagliano family rang the doorbell. Only company announced their presence at dinner. And there was only one person Maria could imagine her mother inviting over for Wednesday night dinner.

"We have company tonight?" Maria asked. "Anyone I know?"

"The veal. I think it's burning." Mamma got to her feet and hurried to the stove.

"Mamma—"

"What?"

"You invited him, didn't you?"

"Who?" Mamma shrugged, like she had no idea who Maria meant. From the front hall, the evidence in question could be heard greeting her grandfather.

"Dante. He's here. I can hear him, so don't deny it."

"He likes my cooking. His own mamma, she so far away."

"Dante can cook for himself. He's a
chef
."

"I also like to be spoiled once in a while." Dante's deep tenor seemed to fill the small, bright kitchen, and reminded her that she'd been talking about him behind his back.

Good thing she hadn't said anything too stupid.

She turned around and saw him standing there, holding a bottle of the same Chianti Classico. Immediately, her mind rocketed back to the night in her apartment. The chess game.

And the unanswered game between them.

Something hot uncoiled in her gut at the sight of him. Damn, he looked good. If there was ever a
Survivor
for dating, Dante would win, hands and corkscrews down.

"Sit, sit," Mamma said, ushering him in like he was the king of England. "You work so hard. You need a woman to fuss."

Dante cocked his head at Maria and grinned. Spoiled as Zsa Zsa Gabor's poodle.

"I'll set the table," Maria said.

Dante started to rise.

"Oh, no, don't get up," Maria said sweetly, giving him a condescending pat on the arm. "Wouldn't want you to tucker yourself out before dinner. Just let the women wait on you."

"If you insist..."

"I do. You are, after all, a guest." Then she grabbed the stack of plates on the counter and stalked out.

She'd been right. He was like every other Italian man she'd vowed to stay away from. Next he'd be parking his feet on the coffee table, the remote under one thumb and her under the other.

No, thanks. She didn't need that. Been there, done that and didn't need a repeat history lesson.

Mamma's Joining-of-Two-Hearts Double Cheese Risotto

4 tablespoons butter

1 small onion, minced

1-3/4 cup Arborio rice

1 cup white wine, a good vintage from a lucky year

4 cups boiling chicken stock, ready and waiting to make the rice perfect and hot

1 cup Gorgonzola cheese, chopped

1 cup Fontina cheese, chopped

Salt and pepper

Walnut halves for garnish and extra fertility

Melt the butter in a pan, add the onion and cook until softened like your daughter's heart. Her resistance to him is weakening, so don't let this opportunity go.