CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MELANIE
Insomnia was my sporadic companion since I’d been a kid, coming and going in spells. Sometimes I’d spend months without any trouble, and then there’d come a night when, for no particular reason, my eyes would snap open like window shades, and I’d stare at the ceiling until daybreak.
This was one of those nights. I turned on the sound machine. I squeezed drops of lavender on my pillow. I swallowed two Benadryl. None of it made the slightest impact. I tossed. I turned. I kicked the covers off. I visited the bathroom four times. I played Minecraft on my iPad, even though staring at electronics makes things worse.
Interestingly, I’d never had trouble falling asleep on any of the nights Dominic stayed over. Maybe because we wore each other out so vigorously that sleep was inevitable. But Dominic wasn’t here tonight.
We hadn’t fought, not exactly. He’d lost his beloved grandmother only a few hours before he returned to the restaurant yesterday, and he was still reeling. I just wanted to comfort him, hold him, tell him I understood the hollow agony of losing someone you loved. Whatever he needed in that moment, I was ready to give to him. But he wouldn’t let me. Then the fire gave him an excuse to escape into the kitchen, and I didn’t see much of him for the rest of the night. And I couldn’t compete with the needs of the restaurant. I didn’t even want to try.
With a groan I sat up and irritably fluffed my pillows for the tenth time. Dwelling on the complex actions of Dominic Esposito certainly wouldn’t help me relax, so I flopped back down and returned to my staring contest with the dark, impassive ceiling. Hours passed, and it was four a.m. when I last took an unhappy look at the clock. After that I finally closed my eyes, knew nothing else for a while until an insistent bee started buzzing. It hovered over my ear and then stopped and started again with a regular rhythm. When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see light peeking out from the edges of the window blinds. Four a.m. had felt like only a moment ago. Thankfully the bee wasn’t real after all. My phone had wound up under my pillow, and someone had been texting me.
The text was from Patsy, with a link to an article on the Sun Republic site. I’d forgotten that this was the day the piece on Esposito’s was being published.
My fuzzy brain didn’t want to tackle anything challenging right away, so I padded into the kitchen in search of coffee. While the Keurig hummed, I leaned on the counter and yawned, lamenting the bitchy karma that had yanked me awake after I had finally managed to drift off to sleep. Today was Sunday, and the restaurant didn’t open until one, so I could have just tossed the phone aside and returned to sleep, but now that I was conscious, I wanted to read Becky Baller’s article. Originally she’d promised to email me the final copy before it went to print, but I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t follow up.
I carried my coffee and my phone over to the couch and let the cats climb in my lap as I started to read. I frowned. Then I read a few more paragraphs and frowned harder. I used my thumb to scan all the way to the end and realized this was no short puff piece on a local restaurant.
Esposito’s Authentic Pizzeria was a landmark on Manhattan’s Spring Street for over eighty years. The food was so legendary that it was a place where presidents dined, movie stars caroused and, during the gritty era of 1970s cinema, scenes from four mafia-themed motion pictures were filmed in its interior.
Originally owned by Italian immigrant Giuseppe Esposito when the Roaring Twenties were in full swing, the eatery, famous for its distinct wood-fired pizza, was passed through the hands of four generations of Espositos. New Yorkers assumed the fabled pizzeria would always be there. But ten years ago, scandal and bankruptcy doomed the old restaurant. The once tight-knit family lost their legacy along with their livelihoods. And rumors of a shocking affair between a wild teenager and his older cousin’s wife would divide the Espositos forever.
Now, a decade later there is a brand-new Esposito’s restaurant in a different city. Two brothers, the great-grandsons of Giuseppe Esposito, have just opened their newest establishment in downtown Phoenix. But will the sordid shadows of the past catch up to the new generation and doom the Esposito name once more?
“What the fuck?” I muttered, and set the phone down for a moment to collect my thoughts.
I already knew there’d been some sort of nasty mess involving Dominic’s uncle and cousin. They’d botched the restaurant’s financial affairs, and there were hints they’d been mixed up in something illegal. But I’d never heard a word about any “shocking affair” that splintered the family. The wild teenager had to be Dominic. He’d been just around eighteen when the restaurant closed, and he’d moved cross-country with his brother and grandmother. Gio would have only been sixteen and had never struck me as the wild type.
I picked up my phone as if it were a snapping reptile, and kept reading. Becky Baller had done her research. She’d dug up neighbors and friends and school teachers who were happy enough to repeat whatever gossip had been rattling around in their heads for the last decade. The nefarious uncle, Frank, had been dead for years, which I already knew. His son, Steven, had to be the older cousin referred to, but I couldn’t remember Dominic saying much about him, let alone his wife. Anyway, Becky Baller evidently hadn’t managed to get in touch with Steven himself. However, one distressing paragraph stood out from all the rest.
Beth Esposito’s death certificate was issued by New York’s Nassau County in June of this year. She was thirty-five years old. A former neighbor confirmed that Beth had lost her battle with stomach cancer, and that Steven and their two daughters moved away only weeks after she passed.
I knew nothing of Beth Esposito, had never seen a picture of her, or even heard her name before. I only knew the barest of details about Steven Esposito. Yet my heart ached for the young family as I read about their heartbreak.
After that the article resumed its purple-prose tone and musings of ghosts from the past. All in all, the writing was rather vague with titillating hints of some tawdry love triangle that resulted in the severing of family ties, but there were no outright accusations. If Becky Baller was in the hunt for a career as a tabloid reporter, she was off to a fine start. Even though the article was in the Food and Entertainment section, little was said about the actual food until the last paragraph where she awarded five out of five stars and declared that Esposito’s was “the best New York pizza in Phoenix.” There was a picture of Dominic and Gio standing beneath the Esposito’s sign. They both had their arms crossed over red-and-white Esposito’s logo T-shirts. They wore happy, unsuspecting grins.
At this point even after the late compliment about the food, the article didn’t seem like it could be spun into a positive thing. I shuddered to think what Dominic and Gio would say when they saw it. Perhaps they could sue Becky Baller for the value of her Louis Vuitton accessories.
Can’t sue for slander if it’s the truth.
The idea was disquieting. After all, how well did I really know Dominic? He’d spoken of his family; Gio and his grandparents. But he’d never talked about exes or lost loves or regretted affairs, not even when I’d asked. He just made some offhand joke about still being crushed by the cute redhead who’d dumped him for the varsity hockey captain in tenth grade. Then he slyly reached between my legs and started working his magic. All other questions galloped right out of my head. After all, I hadn’t spoken of James and our doomed marriage very much either.
In any case, mooning on the couch in a pile of cat hair would solve nothing. I jumped up so quickly that Luke yelped. Twenty minutes later my hair was still damp from the shower, but I was dressed. With keys in hand I left the cats to amuse themselves, so I could pay Dominic a long overdue visit at his condo.
Along the way I impulsively stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts’ drive-through and ordered a dozen donuts. I shoved a Boston Kreme into my mouth even before I’d left the parking lot. Regardless of burning questions about the past, present, and future, a girl still had to eat.
The closer I got to Dominic’s condo, the more worried I felt. This whole shitty article business was a bullshit thing to have to deal with just one day after Donna’s death. Dom and Gio still had a funeral to plan. They sure as hell didn’t need this garbage. I couldn’t do anything about some of the embarrassing details that were now in the hands of the entire Phoenix metro area, but I wanted to be there for Dominic when he read it. I was furious on his behalf. Frankly if I’d found out tomorrow that Becky Baller got her lower lip caught in a paper shredder, I wouldn’t have been upset at all.
Dominic’s silver pickup truck was parked prominently in front of his building. I balanced the box of donuts on one hand like it was a serving tray as I crossed the distance to his condo. I didn’t hear the voices until I was just about close enough to knock.
The door was slightly ajar but not enough for me to see inside or for anyone inside to see me. Dominic and Gio were on the other side, and while they weren’t shouting, the tone being tossed back and forth was definitely tense.
“So, it’s true,” Gio said. He sounded miserable.
“Yes, it’s true,” Dominic said, sounding just as miserable.
There was a cough, then Gio’s voice again. “I guess I never really wanted to know. Or maybe I was afraid you’d just lie to my face.”
“Gio, it was a decade ago. Yeah, I had an affair with Beth while she was separated from Steven. I was young and stupid and bitter.” Dominic sounded so weary, so sad. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the fallout from Becky Baller’s stab at journalism had already arrived. The moment that followed was the longest moment of silence I’d ever heard.
“What about the kid?” Gio asked in a low voice.
“Your kid?”
“No, Dom, not my kid. Yours. What about her?”
Suddenly my lungs didn’t work right, and there was something running down my arm. I’d accidentally crushed the box of donuts in my hands and the jelly filling had erupted. I backed away from Dominic’s door at maximum speed, clutching the ruined box as I made a beeline for my car.
I didn’t hear any more of the conversation between the two brothers. I didn’t want to.