“Vincent! Giff’s here, and we’re ready to get started. Are you coming out?” My mother leaned into the kitchen, shooting me the kind of look only a mother can use effectively. It said clearly, I’m asking you a question, but you should consider it an order.
“Kind of busy, Ma.” I lifted the pastry bag and began piping another row of delicacies that were destined to delight the patrons of Cucina Felice tonight.
“You have time to come sit with us for fifteen minutes.” Ma crossed her arms over her chest and glared.
“Why should I? You’re all going to be talking wedding stuff, right? I know what I’m supposed to do. I make the cake. I don’t need to know anything else.”
“Vincent, this is your sister’s wedding. This is our last meeting before the big day. We need everyone on the same page, so that if anything goes wrong, any of us can make it right.”
I sighed and laid down the pastry bag. I’d known from the start that I wasn’t going to win this battle. “Fine. Fifteen minutes. Not one second more. I’ve got a full schedule today.”
“Oh, aren’t we just something, with a full schedule. Listen to your mother, Mr. Hot Shot. This is the most important day of your baby sister’s life, and you’re not going to ruin it by being rude and grumpy. I don’t know what’s crawled up your ass the last couple of months, but you’re going to get over it today. Now. And you’re going to come out here and smile and talk to the rest of us while we go over everything. You hear me?”
My chest tightened. My mother wasn’t wrong. While I’d always been the moodier of the DiMartino siblings, I’d been gruffer than usual lately. I didn’t want to think about why that might be.
“Yep.” I picked up the tray and slid it into the huge refrigerator. “I’ll be right out.”
The restaurant was empty, of course, since we were hours from opening, and my mother had pushed together two of our four-seat tables to accommodate everyone who was gathered here for the big meeting. My father, the lucky man, along with my brother Carl had escaped because they were meeting a potential new linen supplier in Somers Point.
But my sister-in-law Angela was there, with the baby on her lap, and so was Liam’s mother, Mrs. Bailey, along with Giff, who was flipping through a folder when I came in and sat down.
“Okay, let’s get this over with.” I leaned back, knees wide, bracing my feet against the floor. “What do I need to know?”
“We were just going over the order of events.” Giff slid a single sheet of paper across the table to me. “Here’s what I have. You’ll have the cake and the Christmas cookies Peaches wants all done and in the kitchen by the morning of the wedding—”
“I know that part,” I interrupted. “Forget the kitchen stuff. I’ve got that covered. I need to know when I have to be where, during the times when there’s no food involved.”
Giff eyed me, the corner of one eye twitching just a little. “Fine. You need to be at your parents’ house no later than four PM for family pictures. Ava wants to do the family photos in front of the Christmas tree. Once Jeff’s finished doing the pics, you and Carl will drive the bridal party, minus the bride, to the church.”
“Your father and I are driving Ava,” my mother put in. “We’ll come last, the three of us.”
“Okay, got it. Four o’clock. I’ll be there.” I stood up, but Ma pointed at the chair.
“Sit. We’re not finished.”
“Once Ava and your parents arrive at the church, they’ll be in the bridal room until everyone is seated. Vince, you’ll walk Mrs. B here to her seat, in the front row on the groom’s side.”
“Isn’t there going to be a rehearsal or something for all this?” I tapped the paper. “I thought that was where we went over all these details.”
“Usually, you’d be right.” Giff nodded. “But Liam and Ava want to keep the rehearsal as streamlined and simple as possible, which is why it’s important for everyone to know what they’re doing ahead of time.”
“Okay. So I walk Mrs. Bailey to her seat, and then I sit down, too?”
“On the bride’s side, in the second row,” Giff agreed.
“My mother will be sitting there holding the baby,” Angela put in. “Just in case you don’t know where to sit.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. The wedding was happening in the same church where I’d taken my first holy Communion and made my confirmation, and where I showed up for Saturday night or Sunday morning Mass at least once a month. I was pretty sure I could figure out where the second pew was.
But in the interest of keeping the peace and moving things along, I smiled at my sister-in-law. “Thanks, Ange.”
“And then Carl will walk Mrs. DiMartino to her seat, and he’ll join you, too. After that, the bride walks down the aisle, yada, yada, yada, I do, I do, exchange rings, I now pronounce you, kiss, kiss . . . and then bride and groom walk up the aisle, followed by the bridal party, and then the parents of the bride and groom, and then the rest of the family. In the narthex, just outside the sanctuary, we’re going to do a very informal receiving line.” Giff gave a little cough, and I knew why. My sister and Liam were trying to keep everything laid-back and casual for the wedding, but in some instances, they were fighting an uphill battle against my parents and Liam’s mother. The receiving line had been one of those sticking points, and the compromise had been that there would be one, but Giff would make sure that it moved along quickly.
“Vince, will you have a date for the wedding?” Giff turned eyes on me that were wide with innocence, but I didn’t miss the undertone of curiosity in his voice. I wondered how much he’d heard about my night with his friend Amanda. Apparently, we hadn’t been that subtle in our departure from the engagement party, since I’d been interrogated by my sister afterwards.
I’d kept my mouth shut, though, telling her to mind her own damn business. And when I’d kicked at Liam for spilling the beans to her—which he freely admitted he had—he’d shrugged cheerfully.
“Sorry, Vince. She’s got better ways of making me talk than you have of keeping me silent. Also, my loyalty will always be to Ava first. No question. No matter what.”
The hell of it was that I couldn’t even fault him for that. I couldn’t call ‘hos before bros when it was my own sister we were discussing.
I was sure Giff knew something, but how much was anyone’s guess. But he wasn’t going to make me crack. I stared him back down as I answered his question.
“Why does that matter? Why do you need to know?”
He lifted one shoulder. “So I know how many people will be in the receiving line and can plan accordingly.”
I scowled at him. “First off, the receiving line deal is just family, right? So even if I had a date, she wouldn’t be part of that.”
Giff began to contradict me. “Well, certainly, your date would be welcome to be part of it—”
“Second,” I went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I don’t have a date for the wedding. I’m not bringing anyone with me.”
“Because he doesn’t want to settle down, so he’s going to die alone.” My mother added her two cents to the discussion.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “Because I’m twenty-eight and not bringing a date to my sister’s wedding, that automatically means lonely death. Thanks for the reminder, Ma.”
“Any time, son.” She favored me with beatific smile. “Okay, so after the receiving line, everyone comes back here, right? And the food is served, dancing starts after dinner, cake about an hour into the dancing . . .” She glanced at her notes from Ava and frowned. “One thing I didn’t consider yet. Someone needs to come back to the restaurant right after the ceremony, to make sure everything’s set up before the guests get here. Otherwise, people will leave the church and come right here, and we might not be ready.”
“I’ll do that,” I volunteered. “I wasn’t excited about the whole receiving line gig, anyway.”
Ma nodded. “Thanks, Vince. That would be good.” She swiveled in her chair, facing Giff again. “Now about the tablecloths and the centerpieces . . .”
The conversation droned on around me, but I pulled out my phone and managed to tune most of it out. Even my mother couldn’t make a good case for me being involved in that discussion.
Finally, when there was a momentary lull, I saw my chance. “Ma, we got that early party coming in tonight. I need to get started on the ladyfingers, or the tiramisu won’t be ready in time. Can I be excused, please? Pretty please?”
She ignored my sarcasm and nodded. “Oh, that’s right. Sure, hon, we’ll let you get back to work.”
With no little amount of relief, I fled the dining room, retreating to the safety and quiet of my kitchen. I had about twenty minutes of blissful silence before the door swung open again. This time, it was Giff coming in.
“Sorry to bother you, Vince, but I wanted to double-check on the cookies you’re doing. The ones Ava requested. You’re doing three trays of them?”
I shook my head. “Ava wants a plate at each table, so people can eat them with their coffee without having to get up.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He waved one hand, as though his memory had just been jogged, but I knew better. This man had a mind like a steel trap, and he didn’t lose details like that, no matter how small. I kept working, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn’t have to wait long.
“So how’ve you been, Vince? I haven’t seen you since the engagement party, I think.”
I grunted and reached for a pastry bag, carefully spooning the ladyfinger batter into it.
“Yeah, that was a fun night, wasn’t it?” Giff leaned one hand on the counter. “Mrs. Bailey threw a great party.” He paused, and when I still didn’t respond, he went on. “You had a really good time that night, didn’t you? Last I saw, you were chatting up my friend Amanda . . . and then I didn’t see either of you again. Funny coincidence, isn’t it?”
I piped a row of ladyfingers. “What’s your point here, Giff? If you’re looking for information, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Ask Amanda if you want to know what happened that night. She’s your friend, isn’t she?”
“She is that.” Giff sniffed. “But she’s been surprisingly close-mouthed about the whole thing. She’s never played a hook-up this close to the vest—usually, she dishes all the dirt right after. But I called her that Saturday afternoon, the day after the engagement party, and she refused to talk about what happened the night before. She wouldn’t even acknowledge that she’d taken you home with her. I was beginning to think that nothing really happened, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Oh, yeah? How come?” I slid the tray into the oven and pulled out another to keep working.
“Two things, actually. One is that Amanda asked me the other day, very casually, almost too casually, if I’d heard if you were bringing a date to the wedding. When I asked her why she wanted to know, she got huffy and claimed she was just making conversation.”
My interest was piqued now. Amanda wanted to know if I was bringing a date. “Huh.”
“And two . . .” He tapped his finger on the edge of my baking sheet. “When Mrs. B mentioned Amanda just now, after you came into the kitchen, your mother got very interested. She asked Liam’s mom if Amanda was bringing anyone to the wedding with her. Mrs. Bailey said she didn’t know, but the last she’d heard, Amanda had told Ava she’d have a plus one but hadn’t given them a name yet. Then they both asked me, and I told them the truth—I don’t know about a date, but I do know that she isn’t seeing anyone seriously right now. She told me that I was going to have to share Jeff with her, because she couldn’t find the right guy to bring.”
“I think you lost me somewhere, dude. And I still don’t get your point.”
“My point is that I’m putting together Amanda’s curiosity about your date or lack thereof along with your mother’s keen interest in Amanda’s dating status and thinking something did happen between you two, and neither of you is willing to acknowledge it.”
I finished another tray and set it aside until the first one was done in the oven. “Listen, Giff, I get that you’re Amanda’s friend, but I think this is something you need to leave alone. What happened or didn’t happen between Amanda and me is our business. If we don’t want to talk about it, you shouldn’t push. We’re both adults, we went into that night with our eyes open, and no one got hurt.” I had a sudden flash of myself, buck naked, carrying Amanda on my shoulder and nearly tripping over her shoes and had to fight back a smirk. “So that’s all you need to know. Stop digging.”
“Okay. Sure.” Giff shrugged. “Here’s the thing, though, Vince. I want to make sure you know something about Amanda. I call her cookie, did you know that? Do you know why?”
I shook my head, although it was on the tip of my tongue to suggest that it was because she tasted so sweet. Giff wouldn’t know that, of course. And it wasn’t something I wanted to share, either.
“Amanda comes across as a tough chick. She acts like nothing bothers her, like she can handle anything. And don’t get me wrong—she doesn’t take shit from anyone, and she hates the idea of being seen as weak. But there’s also a side of her that’s vulnerable, and that’s the part no one sees very often. I’m not getting in your business. I’m just asking you to remember that about her, whatever might happen next.”
The oven timer went off, and I grabbed a hot pad so that I could switch the trays. Giff watched me in silence.
When I had the second tray of ladyfingers safely in the oven, I turned back to him. “I appreciate what you’re saying. The truth is, though, that neither of us wants more than what we had that night. We had fun, and we parted on friendly terms the next morning. We both know that we’re from totally different worlds. We’re not looking to change that.”
Giff smiled a little. “So I should just mind my own goddam business and stop talking to you, right?” He sighed. “All right. It’s a shame, though. I think you’d be good for her. Maybe she’d be good for you, too. I don’t know you well enough to say that. But Amanda’s world could use a little shaking up from someone who only wants the best for her.”
When I didn’t respond, he pushed off from the counter. “I’ll leave you to your ladyfingers, and I’ll see you the night before the wedding.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “See you later, Giff. Thanks.”
His forehead wrinkled as he frowned at me. “For what?”
I shrugged. “For helping my sister get the wedding she wants. And . . .” I took a deep breath. “For caring enough about Amanda to look out for her. To stand up for her. I think she’s a pretty incredible woman, and it’s good she has a friend like you.”
Giff cocked his head. “That sounded like more than a one-shot hook-up type of observation, Vince. That sounded like a guy who’s interested in more.”
Opening the fridge, I took out the milk and eggs to begin the custard. “Would it matter if I was? I know my limitations, Giff, and I know what’s realistic and what isn’t. I like what I know about Amanda, and maybe in another time or place, I’d want to know more. But she’s heading in one direction, and I’m going in another. The fact that we hit it off doesn’t mean we’re going to have a fairy-tale ending.” I cracked an egg into the bowl. “Not that I’m looking for one.”
“Uh huh.” Giff’s lips twitched. “Well . . . it’s been my experience that those fairy-tale endings come around when you’re not looking for them.” He winked at me. “But hey, what do I know? I’ve got to run. People to see, parties to plan. I’ll catch you later, Vince.”
I acknowledged his good-bye with a jerk of my chin and kept right on working. Work was my solace, the one thing I knew I could count on. It was what made me who I was, and it was why I couldn’t jeopardize my future by getting off-track now. I couldn’t be distracted. Not by one night with a woman who couldn’t ever be anything but a single night’s pleasure.
I took out my frustration on the eggs, whipping them into a frenzy, as I remembered that morning after. At first, everything had been utter perfection. Or I’d thought so. Driving back home through bright sunshine under a perfect blue sky, I’d basked in the feeling that only came after a night of incredibly satisfying sex. I was relaxed yet somehow energized.
Sure, leaving Amanda had been a little . . . weird? I wasn’t sure how to put that feeling into words. I’d sensed her pulling away when we’d been talking about cars and parking and the obvious differences in our lifestyles, and by the time we’d made it to her front door, I knew she was ready for me to be gone.
That was cool, because I knew I had to leave. In another lifetime, I’d have wanted to walk over to the Italian market to pick up food and then come back and cook brunch for her. We might have eaten together, laughing, on the broad terrace I’d seen extending from the side of her living room. And then we might have gone back to bed and indulged in a little more of that really excellent sex we’d shared.
But that didn’t happen. Instead, I’d kissed her once more before I’d forced myself to leave, heading downstairs to retrieve my car from the valet and begin the drive home.
Once I’d pulled into my driveway, though, and climbed out of the car, I had the oddest sensation that I’d forgotten something important. Close on the heels of that feeling was a thought that came unbidden to my mind.
I should text Amanda and let her know I got home.
I’d frozen, one hand on the trunk of my car, my mouth dropped open. “What the fuck was that?” I’d spoken the words out loud, which was unfortunate, because Mrs. Literandi, my upstairs neighbor, happened to be standing in the yard, watering her flowers. Mrs. Literandi had spent fifteen years as a nun, teaching in a high school, before she’d met Mr. Literandi and left the convent, but she’d never lost that stern glare and a voice that brooked no nonsense. When she fastened her eyes on me, I was pretty sure she had a direct line to the Pope, St. Peter and my mother.
“Vincent.” Her lips pursed. “Is there a problem?”
“Ah, no. Just remembered something I forgot to do,” I fibbed.
“That’s no reason for profanity.” She stomped to the next row of flowers.
“Yes, ma’am.” I reached into the trunk to pull out my bag and hightailed it into the house before she found something else wrong with me.
I’d spent the rest of the afternoon brooding and lecturing myself. This wasn’t how I felt after a hook-up. I was usually glad to be home, relieved to be alone again and eager to move on. But there’d been something about Amanda . . . some connection we’d made that night. I’d found myself wondering how I could get her number without anyone else finding out. I could text Liam, but there was a good chance my sister would see the message.
And then I’d gotten mad at myself all over again for even thinking that way. It’s over, I’d lectured in the quiet of my own head. Move on.
But that hadn’t been as easy as I’d expected. A few weeks later, needing something to distract me from my memories of that night, I’d picked up a willing woman at a bar in Wildwood. She was visiting friends for the weekend and had a motel room a few blocks off the beach. It had felt like the perfect set-up: she was tiny and blonde, and the things she’d whispered in my ear were definitely promising.
Once in her bed at the motel, however, I found it difficult to stay focused on the task at hand. When she stripped off her shirt, displaying a pretty set of boobs, I should’ve been drooling. Instead, I was unimpressed, certain that they were more than likely surgically enhanced. Even her moans of pleasure felt wrong. Off. Manufactured.
I’d managed to get the job done, but only just, and I hadn’t gotten the same satisfaction as I once had. One time, and I was scrambling out of the bed and into my clothes, claiming an early morning as an excuse to get the hell out of there.
Since that night, I hadn’t bothered trying to pick up another woman. Instead, I’d thrown myself into work, coming in early and staying late. That plan had paid off one day two weeks ago, when one of the servers had come into the kitchen and told me that a customer had asked to meet me.
I’d sighed and rolled my eyes. This kind of thing didn’t happen often in a restaurant like ours, where we catered to families and our diners tended to be the same people, year after year. But every so often, someone from Philadelphia or New York was passing through and stumbled on us. If they liked my desserts, they might ask to compliment me in person. I understood that it was part of the restaurant game, but I didn’t have to like it.
Since my mood at that moment wasn’t great anyway, I’d snarled something and stomped out of the kitchen, following the server to the table, where an older couple sat. The woman had half a cannoli on her plate, while her husband was enjoying my tartufo. After the server had introduced me as the pastry chef and left us, the man stood up, offering me his hand.
“Your tartufo is excellent, son, but I called you out here because I had a bite of my wife’s dessert, too.” He pointed to her plate. “This is the best damn cannoli I’ve had in years.” His eyes were bright and shrewd in a face that I estimated was pushing eighty pretty hard. “Reminds me of my own mother’s, may God rest her soul.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s quite a compliment.” I smiled, some of my irritation dissipating. This wasn’t some idiot trying to look like a big shot by calling out the chef. This was someone who’d truly enjoyed my work, and I had no problem with that.
“How long have you worked here?” The man glanced around the dining room. “Nice place, but it seems a little out of the way for someone with your talent.”
“This is my family’s place,” I admitted. “It’s the only restaurant I’ve worked in, except for during culinary school, when I interned at a bakery in Ocean City.”
He fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “My name’s Peter Romano. I own a boutique hotel in Philly. We have a small restaurant there—nothing flashy, but we do okay. If you ever think about making a move, give me a call. I’d like to talk with you.”
I took the card, glanced at it, and tucked it into my wallet. “Thanks. I don’t have any plans to make a change, though. Like I said, this is my family’s business. I’ve never thought of working anywhere else.”
Mr. Romano nodded. “I understand. My place is family-run, too. Our daughter handles the hotel part, our son is the head chef in the restaurant . . . and Midge and I oversee them.”
His wife beamed at me. “Come see us the next time you’re in town. Even if you don’t want a job, we’d love to show you around and let you see what we do.”
I’d nodded, smiled and thanked them before making my way back to the kitchen. My dad had looked up as I came in.
“Another satisfied customer?” He’d patted my arm. “Nice work, son. Don’t know what we’d do without you.”
I’d grunted, feeling unreasonably guilty about Peter Romano’s card in my pocket.
Since that night, I’d taken out the card and looked at it more often than I cared to admit. I’d done some on-line research on the Romanos, too; after all, being Italian myself, I wasn’t stupid about what people could be involved in. But everything I saw looked like it was on the up-and-up, and the hotel, located in a desirable area between Chestnut and Sansom, had glowing reviews. It was clearly a business that had been around for a long time, and its reputation was well-established.
Still, I didn’t call. I didn’t dump the card, I didn’t throw it away or forget about it, but I didn’t call, either. The card burned a hole in my pocket while I worked in the kitchen at Cucina Felice, when my mother drove me crazy, when my brother shouted at me, or when my dad told me that we were behind on orders.
On the other hand, its presence did serve to distract me from the annoying memories of Amanda, so there was that.
The door swung open again, and Ma poked her head into the kitchen.
“Vincent! Mrs. Shepherd called. She’s bringing in her granddaughter tonight, for her thirteenth birthday. It’s last minute, but you know the Shepherds. They’ve been coming here for years. I told her you’d make a special birthday cake. The granddaughter likes chocolate.”
Gritting my teeth, I closed my eyes as my hand wandered to my back pocket and touched the pocket where Peter Romano’s card lay. Maybe change wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe I should investigate all my options.
And the fact that Amanda Simmons lived in the city where one of those options lay . . . well, maybe that was just a happy coincidence.
Or maybe not.