The Devil Served Desire (24 page)

Not only did she need something waterproof this time around, but she also needed to double the
Wow
factor on her next dress selection. It had to completely wipe out Antonio's memories of their last date and make her desirable again.

Not an easy feat for a piece of material.

Thanks to her three-day eating frenzy, she'd bumped herself back up into the twelve range. That afternoon, she'd stepped on her scale after getting naked, removing all jewelry, going to the bathroom and letting out all the air in her chest.

The needle gleefully pinged upward again.

Which meant she needed to move upward in the clothes closet, too.

Maria walked up to Mamma's house and tried the door. Locked. No one home. She checked her watch and remembered it was Early Bird Potluck Bingo night at the Sons of Italy hall. Mamma wouldn't be back until she'd exhausted her red stamper and her pull-tab funds. Nonno had probably been smart enough to head down to the corner bar for a few pops before Nonna dragged him back home and chewed his ear off for getting drunk again.

She unlocked the door with her key and headed up to her old bedroom. At the top of the stairs, the linen closet door was ajar. Maria went to shut it, in case the cat climbed in there and shed all over the towels, and noticed a box sticking out of the top shelf.

Had it always been there? Plain cardboard, it sat there like a lonely Christmas gift, unwanted and unopened.

Maria flicked on the hall light switch to read the writing on the side. Her mother's script, in Italian:
Save for Maria
.

It was probably an early birthday gift. Except Maria's birthday was seven months away and Mamma never shopped early. She was one of those people who seemed to love the scattered rush of last-minute gifting, charging through the mall like an army commando with no intentions of failing his mission.

She should shut the door. Leave it alone. Let Mamma tell her what it was in her own good time. With Maria's luck, it was probably an entire wedding trousseau.

Except the box was too small. And something about the handwriting seemed ...

Old. Like Mamma had packed that box years ago and set it away, with the intention of giving it to her daughter years down the road.

Maria turned away, shutting the door. But it didn't quite latch. The skinny oak door drifted open again, as if inviting her in.

She hesitated, then continued past the door and went into her old room. It took some searching, but she found a red wrap dress in a forgiving twelve that came to a daring V at the neck. A nice match for the Ferrari. And for her second date with Antonio.

With the dress over her arm, Maria headed out of her room and past the linen closet again. Her gaze went to the box.

Save for Maria.

Save what? Probably Mamma's wedding veil. Or some handkerchief from a great aunt that had been handmade in the Old Country. Or maybe one of those roosters her mother collected, meant for Maria's-kitchen someday.

She reached for the door handle.
Shut the door. Don't look.

She reached for the box instead. The dress slid to her shoulder, the hanger banging against her back. She slid the cardboard forward, now on her tiptoes. It wasn't a rooster. Too light to be anything ceramic.

She pried back the lid.

Staring back at her was a college degree with Biba Pagliano's name on it. A bachelor's degree in art history from UMass Boston, just a few T stops away on Morrissey Boulevard.

Mamma? In college? After she'd married Papa?

She'd never said a word. Never held a job at a museum. Never even bought a Picasso, not that there'd ever been money for something like that.

The only collection Mamma had was those silly roosters. They'd become her hobby, her only thing outside Maria, the quilting club and bingo.

Maria ran her ringer over her mother's name on the degree. She'd never known. Had no idea her mother had any ambitions at all. Instead, she'd always thought Biba had been pouring her own goals into Maria by pushing her to go to college, to finish her own dual degrees in business and marketing.

"
Cara?
Is that you?" her mother's voice carried up the stairs. "I win the bingo!"

Maria shoved the box back into the closet, shut the door and hurried down the stairs. "Mamma! I just stopped by to get a dress." She held up the evidence.

"Ah, another date? With Dante?"

"No. Antonio."

Mamma pursed her lips. "I don't like him. He not treat you right when you know him before."

"Mamma, that was years ago. He's a grown man now."

Mamma wagged a finger at her. That makes them worse, you know."

Papa came trundling into the house, heading straight for the recliner and the remote. "Mamma won," he told Maria.

"I know. I heard."

"She's the big spender now. She keeps winning like that, I can quit my job." He added a shake of the remote for emphasis.

"And do what?" Mamma said. "Sit around my house and get dusty?" She swatted at him with an imaginary feather duster.

"Keep you happy all day." Papa caught her hand, pulling her into his lap for a loud, dramatic kiss.

Mamma laughed, the sound of it tinkling like wineglasses at a party. "Oh, you old fool, you already do."

Maria dove for Arnold like a drowning woman after a life preserver. "Arnold, I need help."

She'd stopped by the Chubby Chums meeting before she went over to Vita to face the mother of all temptations. There was nothing she could do about her weight tonight, but she could change the future and get an extra dose of willpower before heading into the restaurant. Arnold had thankfully been outside on the stairs, talking to a new member.

He turned now and beamed at her, giving her a tight one-armed squeeze. A few of the others were milling around, discussing the merits of tofu in meat loaf. "What's up, Chubby Chum Maria?"

"My scale. By about ten pounds in the last week."

He waved a hand at her figure. "Oh, honey, you'd never know it."

Always count on Arnold to be nice. "Lycra is a gift from God."

"Oh, don't I know it." He patted his stretch jeans rump.

She drew him to the side as Bert and Audrey filed in. Bert carried a bag of Burger King contraband that he scooped from regularly as he walked. Audrey was lecturing him about the cholesterol level in a single French fry.

"Listen," Maria said, "I can't seem to stick to my diet no matter what I do. And I really need to. I have this class reunion coming up in a month. I need to lose weight fast. I have to fit my dress."

Arnold wagged a finger at her. "You know what Stephanie says. If you lose weight for your attire, it won't improve your inner fire."

"Arnold, I really don't want a platitude. I want some real help. Advice. Support. Anything. I'm desperate." She grabbed the front of his shirt and gave it a little shake. "I ate an entire Sicilian ricotta cake yesterday."

"Oh, wow." Arnold blinked. "You
have
strayed, Chubby Chum."

Maria closed her eyes for a second, releasing Arnold. "More than you know."

"Why are you asking me?"

"Frankly, you're the only normal person in this group."

He laughed and drew her into a second hug, nearly suffocating her this time before releasing her for oxygen. "I don't know about that, but I'll support you if you'll be my Chubby Chum, too. I need a little help getting off my plateau." He patted his stomach. "Right now, it's one big cliff."

"You've got a deal."

"Chubby Chum Maria, you are my rainbow," Arnold said, stepping back to beam at her. "You take my blue and make it into yellow."

Dante's The-Only-Thing-That's-Simple-is-the-Fettuccini Alfredo

12 ounces fettuccini

2 tablespoons butter

1-1/4 cups heavy cream

1 cup Parmigiano Reggiano cheese

1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

Salt and pepper

2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley, for garnish

When everything else is going wrong, cook something simple like fettuccini. Anything more complicated, and your brain will go into overload, because it's working so damned hard trying
not
to think about her.

Cook the pasta in boiling salted water until it's al dente. Meanwhile, melt the butter, alternately adding 1/3 each of the cream and Parmigiano, then another third, and the final third. Finish with the nutmeg, salt and pepper. Stir until the cheese has melted and the sauce has thickened. It really doesn't get any more basic than that. Stir in the drained pasta, add the chopped parsley.

Eat the whole damned thing and ignore the thoughts of the woman sitting right outside your kitchen, breaking your heart with the precision of a ball peen hammer.

Franco's smile of satisfaction would have put a well-fed cat to shame. "She returns."

Dante tasted the Alfredo sauce the new line chef had made. Not quite Vita material. Not yet. He scooped in some more Parmigiano Reggiano. Then he sprinkled in a dose of nutmeg and whisked the ingredients into the cream sauce. When Franco didn't elaborate, Dante turned to him. "They do better puzzles in the Sunday
Globe
, Franco. Who do you mean?"

"Maria. Your intended."

His hand stilled for a second like the whisk had a stutter, then went back to work. "She's not intended for anything with me."

She'd made that damned clear. Why had he ever been stupid enough to think differently?

"Then why is she here again?" Franco pointed toward the swinging door that led to the dining room. "And she brought her friends. Maybe to show her prize stallion to the herd?"

The whisk skipped against the pan, spattering Alfredo on his apron. "I am not her stallion."

"Hey, Franco. Did you say there's a whole table of women out there?" Vinny asked.

"All
bella donnas
, too," Franco said with a nod.

Vinny abandoned his pasta making and dashed over to the swinging doors. "Hey, Boss, come here. You gotta see this."

Only for curiosity's sake, Dante crossed to the oval glass on the kitchen door. He
didn't
want to see Maria. She was clearly done with him and he was definitely done with her. She'd given him the message—by not returning his calls.

Then why did he peer through the glass, anyway?

"That one with the tiara's quite the looker, huh?" Vinny said.

"Which one?"

"You know, the bride-to-be." Vinny gestured through the window at a woman wearing a rhinestone crown. "Hot as a butane flame, that one."

"I hadn't noticed." Dante supposed, looking at her now, that the woman at the head of the table could be considered pretty. If a man liked his women as shapeless as a stick of angel hair pasta and with a face that had the pinched look of someone who needed a good meal and a good laugh.

Maria, on the other hand—

She looked as she had the last time he'd seen her. Like she enjoyed everything. Her life. Her body. Her food. She sat at the other end of the table from the bride, her face animated, full of expression. She laughed at something the blonde woman beside her said and something in his gut reached out, as if he could taste that laughter. Bottle it for later.

For those nights when he came home after a long, draining day to an empty, silent apartment.

He missed her. Damn it all. More than he wanted to acknowledge. She'd been avoiding him since their night together. It had to be fear. Because he knew—he
knew
— she'd had a damned good time.

He'd heard how good in his ear. Many times over.

But there'd been more to it than that. The way she curled into his arms that night and slept there, as vulnerable as a hummingbird. When Maria Pagliano let down the barriers between herself and the world, she became a woman filled with more dimensions than perfect Waterford crystal.

She was smart, funny, beautiful. What had Sal said about Ada? The only one with a leash strong enough to keep him in line. And that leash was wrapped right around his heart.

Too bad she'd left the other end flapping in the wind.

Rochelle pushed through the opposite door with a tray of dirty dishes in her hands. "If you two gawk any more, you'll harden into salt. Just like in Sodom and Gomorrah."

"Hey, I don't get into that kind of kinky stuff," Vinny said.

"It's busy out there again. Not as busy as last week, but good for a Friday night."

"Busy is good for tips," Dante told her. He stepped away from the door, and reluctantly brought his attention back to his kitchen. Rochelle was right. It was busy. He had a restaurant to run. He couldn't stand there staring at Maria all night like a teenager with an unreciprocated crush. With that new restaurant garnering the elusive five-star review, he couldn't afford to take his eyes off Vita for a second.

As she left the kitchen with two salads, Rochelle muttered something about men and their inability to function when a few pheromones were in the air.

Dante dragged Vinny back to the pasta and returned to his Alfredo sauce.

"Why is Maria here, I wonder?" Franco said to no one in particular.

"Don't look at me for the answer," Dante said. "She hasn't returned any of my calls. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was trying to dump me. But then, she shows up here?" Dante shrugged. "Women speak a whole 'nother language."

Franco shrugged. "I go out there. Talk to her. Find out her intentions."

Dante dropped the whisk to the counter with a clatter. "You'll do no such thing. I'll go."

Franco's smile widened.

He'd been had. "Damn you, old man. You're good."

"When it comes to
amore
, Franco is always right." His maître d' bustled around him, removing the apron, patting at a wrinkle in Dante's shirt.

"I'm not meeting the queen of England, you know."

"Ah, no. Someone more important and with a nicer—" Franco made the outline of an hourglass with his hands.

Rochelle swung into the kitchen again, clipping a new order onto the stainless steel board above the counter. She turned and began loading a tray with finished meals marked table twenty-eight.