Italian for Beginners (3 page)

“He’s not here,” I said, not wanting to get into it. I smiled pleasantly, hoping that could be the end of it, and began to
walk away. But she maintained her death grip on my arm.

“Why not?” she asked with a syrupy smile. Sweat glistened on her brow and threatened to smear her heavy-handed makeup.

I’d thought that the story had already made the rounds of the Boston Connelly clan. But perhaps Melody had somehow missed
it. Or maybe she was just trying to rub it in. “We broke up, Mel,” I said through gritted teeth.

She looked at me for a minute. I could have sworn that there was a little bit of satisfaction in her expression. She always
had been competitive with me. “I’m sorry to hear that, Cat,” she cooed. “That must be tough, to be dumped at your age.”

I took a deep breath. I knew she was trying to get under my skin. I also knew it would be better to walk away. But I responded
anyhow. “I wasn’t
dumped
,” I said. “I broke up with him.”

Real shock crossed her face this time. Then she laughed. “Oh, come on, Cat,” she said. “You don’t have to say that. It’s all
right to be broken up with. It happens to all of us.” She paused and smiled. She patted her pregnant belly. “Well, not me,
obviously.”

“He
didn’t
break up with me, Melody,” I said. “He just wasn’t the right person for me.”

“You can’t be serious.” Her eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head. “You had a man who loved you,” she recapped
slowly. “Who made a good living. And you dumped him because you didn’t think he was right for you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re thirty-five,” she said flatly.

I cleared my throat. “Thirty-four.”

She ignored me. “Don’t you think you’re running out of time? I mean, really!”

I took another deep breath and tried not to react. This had, after all, been the general reaction of everyone I’d told. Apparently,
when you were thirty-four, you were supposed to hang on for dear life to anyone who happened to show you the slightest bit
of interest. It seemed that, in everyone else’s opinion, I’d been damned lucky nine months ago to land Keith Zcenick, a mild-mannered
senior-level accountant who worked at the same firm I did.

“He just wasn’t right for me,” I repeated calmly. I swallowed hard again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom.”

I yanked my arm out of her meaty grip and strode quickly to the ladies’ room, hating that I could feel tears prickling at
the corners of my eyes.

In the restroom, all three stalls were full, so I stood in front of the mirror for a moment and splashed cold water on my
face. If I could make it past my grandmother humiliating me at the ceremony, surely I could brave Melody’s insults without
crying, right? I dried my face, took a deep breath, and studied my reflection, trying to steady myself.

The face looking back at me in the mirror seemed as out of place as it ever had at family gatherings. Whereas my sister was
the spitting image of my father and his Irish clan, I looked like a carbon copy of my Italian-born mom. Becky was a petite
five foot four, while I towered over her uncomfortably at a long-legged five foot nine. Where Becky’s hair was curly and carrot-colored,
mine was pin-straight and dark brown. Where her alabaster face was sprinkled with pale freckles that my father always called
“pixie dust,” my pale face was devoid of any such magical sprinklings, save for a tiny beauty mark just below my right cheekbone.
My dad always said it was eerie, because my mother had had the same single freckle in the same place on her face. Where Becky’s
eyes were brilliant blue, mine were a stormy green, just like my mom’s had been. Without Mom around, I looked like I had just
dropped out of some alternate Italian universe into my dad’s perfect little Irish world.

And on days like today, where my self-confidence was flagging anyhow, I wished I could look at my own reflection and see something
comforting. But instead, all I saw was a face that was, with each passing year, becoming more and more like that of my mother,
a woman who couldn’t be trusted, a woman who didn’t know how to love.

“Get ahold of yourself, Cat,” I whispered to my reflection as I gave myself the evil eye. I took a few deep breaths. I was
just about to turn and leave when I heard a high-pitched voice from the middle stall.

“You sort of have to feel sorry for her.” I thought I recognized the shrill tone as belonging to my cousin Cecilia. I cocked
my head to the side and listened, wondering who they were gossiping about now. I started to smile at myself in the mirror.
Honestly, they never stopped. My cousins were, in effect, a bunch of little old ladies in thirty-something bodies.

“I don’t,” said another voice, which I was fairly sure belonged to another cousin, Elinor. “She’s had every opportunity in
the world. Who’s she waiting for, Prince Charming?”

“Apparently, Cat thinks she’s better than the rest of us,” said a third voice, which I was sure belonged to my cousin Sandy.

I started, the smile falling from my face. They were talking about
me
?

“Too good to settle down with any of the perfectly decent guys she’s thrown away,” Elinor chimed in.

“I don’t know,” said the voice from the middle stall. “I mean, maybe she’s just all screwed up because of her mom, you know?”

“Oh, c’mon,” scoffed Sandy. “You can only blame your problems on a dead mom for so long. It’s pathetic. The way she dumped
the most recent one? That Keith guy? It’s terrible.”

“Seriously,” said the one I thought was Elinor. “She’s running out of chances.”

Just then a toilet flushed, snapping me out of my horrified trance. I glanced quickly from side to side. The last thing I
needed was to be caught eavesdropping on a humiliating conversation about myself.

Before I could think about it, I yanked the bathroom door open and ducked back into the hallway, hoping none of the cousins
noticed. I glanced around quickly. On one end of the hallway was the door to the men’s room. At the other end was the entrance
back into the restaurant. I sure wasn’t going back there yet; all I needed was to face a room full of 120 judgmental faces
while tears still threatened at the back of my eyes. The only other option was the restaurant kitchen. Heart pounding, I looked
from side to side and quickly made my decision. Just as the door behind me started to open, with the voices of my gossiping
cousins seeping out from behind it, I took a swan dive toward the swinging doors across the hall.

I landed in the entrance to the kitchen with a crash, flat on my face. I narrowly missed knocking over a stack of mixing bowls
and a table full of utensils, but I wound up in a pile of flour that had escaped from a big sack on the floor. As I stood
up, blushing, and began to dust myself off, a few cooks looked at me with mild curiosity but went quickly back to stirring,
chopping, kneading, and whatever else they were doing, as if diving maids of honor were a regular occurrence there. I took
a quick step to my right, so that I wouldn’t be knocked over by the next waiter to bustle through the swinging doors, and
I looked around to get my bearings.

The kitchen was huge, much bigger than I would have expected. The walls were a sterile white, and stainless steel pots, pans,
and mixing bowls seemed to hang from every surface. A small team of dishwashers ran hot water over dishes and piled them into
massive dishwashers, while several white-smocked young men and women in chef’s hats seemed to form an assembly line of chopping
vegetables, tossing pizza dough, spreading sauce and cheese, and carrying raw pizzas into a massive wood-burning oven in the
far corner of the room.

I was half hidden behind a giant rack of hanging fresh pastas, and the cooks who had seen me enter seemed to be fully absorbed
in their work once again. I was forgotten, invisible.

I backed up a few more paces and sat shakily down on a barrel in the corner. I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes,
trying to collect myself.

I’d been so sure about my decision to leave Keith. At least, I’d told myself it was the right thing. But had I made the biggest
mistake of my life? I held my head steady, trying to stop the wave of an approaching migraine. Maybe the relatives were right.
Maybe I was being foolish and much too picky. After all, all my friends were married, and now my little sister was, too. Was
I condemning myself to a lifetime of being alone?

A moment later, I was snapped out of my self-pitying trance by a deep voice above me. “You must be Cat.”

I jerked my head up, surprised, and saw a man in a suit and tie staring down at me. He had unruly dark brown hair that seemed
at odds with his buttoned-up appearance, boyish dimples that didn’t seem to entirely fit on a face with crow’s feet around
his pale green eyes, and smile lines like parentheses around his mouth.

I just stared at him for a moment, not quite sure how to respond.

“Maybe,” I said finally. “Who are you?”

“Michael,” he said, extending his hand formally. I stared at it for a moment but didn’t shake it.

“Michael?” I repeated. He’d said it like the name was supposed to mean something to me.

“Yes,” he said. He grinned and glanced around. “You’re in my kitchen, actually.”

“
Your
kitchen?”

“Yes,” he said simply. He raked a hand through his thick hair, making it stick up at even stranger angles.

I looked him up and down and narrowed my eyes. “But you’re not a chef.”

He laughed and held up his hands defensively. “Well, not professionally, anyhow,” he said.

“And you’re not the restaurant manager,” I said. “I’ve met him.”

“Right again,” he said mysteriously. He arched an eyebrow at me and offered his hand. I took it reluctantly and stood up.
As I did, I was surprised to realize that, even in heels, I was still shorter than him by a few inches, which meant that he
had to be at least six foot two.

“So what are you talking about?” I asked. I was running out of patience.

“This is my restaurant,” he clarified once we were face-to-face. “I mean, I own it.” He was studying me with an amused expression.
“You’re tall,” he added.

I sighed. “Yes, you’re the first person to have ever pointed that out.” I paused and added, “Your restaurant? Your name is
Michael, but you own a restaurant named Adriano’s?”

He laughed again. “It’s named after my father, who ran a restaurant in Italy with his brother before he died. Is that acceptable
to you?”

“Oh,” I said.

“So,” he said after a moment, looking amused. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing back here?”

I felt a little color rise to my cheeks. I did look pretty foolish. “Well,” I said slowly. I didn’t know where to begin. “I’m
the maid of honor in the wedding.”

Michael smiled again. There was something about the way his green eyes danced that made me melt a little. “I know,” he said.
“I was sent to look for you.”

“You were? By whom?”

“The groom. He said you vanished, and he was worried. Actually, come to think of it, so am I. Or is hiding among the olive
oil barrels some strange new wedding tradition I’m not aware of?”

I laughed, despite myself. “Yes, the hiding always precedes the cutting of the cake.”

“Ah, I see.” He looked at me closely. “So do I have to guess what’s really wrong? Or do you want to tell me?”

I looked down and felt the smile fall from my face. “No,” I mumbled.

“No?” Michael repeated.

“I’m totally okay,” I said.

“Of course,” Michael said. “Women who are totally okay are always sneaking away to hide in my kitchen.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t say anything. After a moment, Michael sat down on one of the barrels and motioned for me to
do the same. I paused, glanced from side to side, and sat reluctantly back down.

“So it’s your little sister’s wedding?” he asked after a moment. “How much younger?”

“Five and a half years.”

“Is that why you’re upset? Because she’s getting married before you?”

I looked up sharply. “What? No!” I took a breath. “I mean, she’s my sister. I’m nothing but happy for her.”

“Of course,” Michael said slowly. He was looking at me like he didn’t quite believe me.

“I’m really not upset about that,” I insisted. “I mean, I’m
so
not ready for that, you know?” I paused and took a deep breath. I didn’t know why I was telling him all this, but I didn’t
seem to be able to stop once I’d gotten started. “It’s just that my grandmother made a scene in church, and everyone keeps
asking where my boyfriend is and what’s wrong with me that I’m about to turn thirty-five and I’m not married yet,” I blurted
out.

I looked at him miserably. He raised an eyebrow.

“And?” he asked.

I stared. “What, now
you’re
asking me why I’m not married yet?”

He laughed. “No, I’m asking you where your boyfriend is.”

I narrowed my eyes at him again. I hesitated and mumbled, “I broke up with him a month ago.”

“Hmm,” Michael said instantly. “Why?”

“Is that any of your business?” I asked, bristling.

Michael shrugged. “Probably not.” But he seemed to be waiting for an answer.

I glanced down at the barrel I was sitting on and took a deep breath. “Fine,” I said. I thought about my answer for a minute.
“He just wasn’t the right guy,” I said. “I liked him, but I didn’t love him.”

“Okay,” Michael said. He looked interested.

I took a deep breath, looked down at my lap, and continued. “He was good on paper. We should have fit. I guess I thought that
if I stayed with him long enough, maybe I’d fall in love, you know? But it doesn’t work that way.”

“No,” Michael agreed. “It doesn’t.”

I looked at him again, then back down. “It just seems like everyone wants me to settle, you know? And I apparently just turned
down the best chance I had at getting married.”

Michael was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Would you really want to spend the rest of your life with someone
you’re not in love with?”

“No,” I said softly.