Yesterday's Stardust (20 page)

She clicked both locks then hung her coat on the tree by the front door, petting the black fox fur as she stuffed her gloves in the pockets. “I’m home,” she called, soft enough not to wake Franky.

The rattle of a cup and saucer answered her.

“Good movie, Suze. I was rooting for Jean Hersholt’s character, but he didn’t win the girl.” She set her hat on the side table. “Pola Negri’s part was a bit overdone, I thought, but she wore this hat that was ab-so-lute-ly delish. I have to make one just like it.” She kicked her shoes off. Swinging them by the heels, she padded in chiffon stockings toward the kitchen. “Did you know ‘The Secret Hour’ was originally a play called—Tag.” Her pulse thundered in her ears. “H-how was your mother?”

Diamond cuff links caught the light as he folded his arms across his chest. Cold green eyes nailed her. “Who is he?”

Francie blinked into character with a vampish flutter of her lashes. “The boy? Don’t be silly.” She leaned forward, letting her rope of pearls brush his knee. “You’re not jealous, are you, Tag?” Straightening, she put one finger on her chin. “Oh my, I believe you are. I think I rather like that.”

The eyes didn’t change. “Who is he?”

With a move calculated to be alluring, she skimmed her hands along the pale blue crepe flowing over her hips. “His parents own the diner in the South Bank building.” No need to mention that Albert’s parents owned the bank, too. “We made a Sunday visit to his poor grandmother.” Albert’s poor grandmother had not seemed to take note of them as they’d snuggled in the car near her headstone at Mount Carmel Cemetery. “Just doing a favor for his mother.” But he’d heard the part about the movie. “Thought we’d stop and catch a movie on the way home.”

“I give you everything you need.” His eyes roved to the opposite end of the kitchen. Suzette stood with her back pressed against the refrigerator, anger glowing in her eyes. “What do I ask in return? You stay true to me. I don’t mind a little hanky-panky. I’m a tolerant man. But this—”

“He’s just a friend.”

Tag stood. Blazing eyes locked on her as he reached for his coat on the back of the chair. “Don’t lie to me. I got eyes everywhere you go.” He stepped toward her, bent down, and picked up Franky’s fire engine.

“Tag.” She ran her fingertip down the front of his coat and tried playing dumb. “You see other wom—”

“What I do is none of your business. We have an agreement.
Capisce?”

“I won’t do it again.”

He grabbed her chin and jerked her head up. “I know you won’t.” He lifted her hand and slammed the truck onto her palm. “You’ve got a lot to lose, doll. A lot to lose.”

He turned and strode through the living room, stopping only long enough to lift her coat off the tree and loop it over his arm before walking out the door.

W
hy don’t you buy it from your grandfather?”

Nicky opened one eye and glared at the clock. Five after eight—a.m. The middle of his night, but he hadn’t slept. Dani’s questions invaded his personal space like swarming honeybees. He turned on his side.
“Have you ever thought about striking out on your own?”
He angled a pillow to block the light.
“Why? Does he drink?”
He yanked the sheet free from the foot of the bed.

He’d read somewhere that people who fell asleep in less than five minutes were sleep deprived. It never took him more than a minute. He’d counted clock ticks and rarely made it past thirty. This morning he could have topped ten thousand.

Hiring, firing, inventory, and unpaid bills didn’t keep him awake. What gave the girl with hair the color of a sun-licked beach the right to mess with his sleep?

She’d be a lot easier to dismiss if she only looked good. If she didn’t also make sense. He got up, yanked the door open, and walked across the hall to the bathroom. He drank a glass of water and splashed his face. Trying to trick his body into starting over. But the questions followed him back to bed.

Footsteps climbed the stairs outside his door. Too heavy to be Rena or Gianna. His father knocked.

“Yeah?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” Nicky sat up and stuffed two pillows behind his back.

“I heard you up.” Carlo Fiorini took the rounded-back wood chair from the corner, flipped it around, and straddled it. Thin blue and black lines formed small squares on his short-sleeved white shirt.
Why was it he never wore T-shirts?
Khaki pants sported a sharp crease. It had never occurred to him before that Gianna ironed his dad’s clothes.

“What’s your take on things, Nick? Anything I need to know?”

Your daughter might be involved in a gang. I might have a girlfriend. I’d like to buy the business.
“We need to get the new menu printed and think about hiring a new waitress. Maria’s going on maternity leave. Friday night was nuts. Rena wasn’t here and we got two ten-tops…” He rattled off facts as if reciting a grocery list. His father would look thoughtful, nod, slap his knee, and leave.

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“Hey. A journalist friend of mine was asking about our history. I was wondering if we had any old letters or anything.”

“You have a friend who’s a journalist?” A thick black eyebrow, scattered with gray, peaked. “Sal’s got all that stuff.”

“Why?”

“Why does Sal do anything? He’s the oldest. He can call the shots. He can walk away and start his own place and still call himself a partner. He can bad-mouth our business and tell people it was my son’s fault his—”

“Dad.
So tell me what you know about the early days, about your grandfather. You used to tell stories.” Nicky cleared his throat.

His father rested his chin on his arms on the back of the chair. His eyes lost their dullness. “This was a place full of music. My grandfather and his three brothers took turns cooking and singing. They played the
vihuela,
the
guittaron,
the trumpet. They say my grandfather had a voice to make ladies swoon. If my grandmother caught him serenading a particular lady, she’d pull him back to the kitchen by his apron strings. Can you imagine the laughter?”

Yes. I can. Maybe we should try that with you.
“We should try live music.”

Carlo Fiorini laughed. “No one wants that these days. They want to eat fast and get on with their lives. People don’t linger anymore. My grandmother used to tell of meals when she was growing up in Bracciano. Meals that didn’t start until eight o’clock at night and lasted two hours.”

“Is that what they tried to recreate when they moved here?”

“No. Americans were too busy, even back then. Even Italian Americans. They had to adapt to a whole new way of life. And remember, they opened during Prohibition. The words my grandfather used to describe the idiocy of an Italian restaurant that couldn’t serve
vino,
I would never repeat.”

“So they didn’t serve drinks?”

“Never a drop of alcohol in this building. My
nonna
would not allow it. Her father was an alcoholic. An angry drunk. She joined the Women’s Temperance Union as soon as they moved here. So”—he slapped his knee—“Friday night was good, huh? Things are looking up.” He stood. “Go back to sleep. But maybe later we can talk, huh?”

“Friday was nuts, Dad. We got buried. Alonzo and I can’t keep this up. We need another cook.”
To take your place.

His father chewed on the inside of his cheek and nodded. “That won’t be necessary.”

Nicky scrunched the sheet with the hand his father couldn’t see. “Why’s that?” Stupid to ask when he knew the answer.

“It won’t be necessary. I’m going to be staying home more.”

Sure, Dad, whatever you say. Now, about that new cook…

“Dani!”

The laughing voice floating across the church parking lot stretched Dani’s smile. “You
do
exist!” She waved as Anna broke her connection to Jon’s arm and ran toward her.

Anna, three inches taller than Dani before the three-inch heels, engulfed her in a citrusy scented hug. Strange that the girl who had it all dabbed her pulse points with Covet.

Sunlight concentrated on a square diamond as Anna pulled away. Dani shielded her eyes. “You just destroyed my retinas.”

Anna laughed. “Oh, I’ve missed you. I’m so sorry I’ve been hard to get in touch with. Mom and I have been trying to pack as much as we can into—what happened to your arm?”

Dani tugged at her shirtsleeve and covered the gauze peeking out just above her elbow. She lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “It’s nothing. I ran into a tree branch while I was covering a story on Friday. So what did you and your mom get done?”

“I took her over to the hall and we figured out where everything’s going to be and took pictures of the chapel and—”

Jon cleared his throat.

“Let’s save the details for this afternoon over dress patterns.” Anna waved as Evan walked toward them. “Where should we go for lunch?”

“Applebee’s? Olive Garden?” Dani positioned herself between Anna and Evan.
Anywhere but—

Evan stepped next to her. “Dani found a cute little Italian place about ten blocks from here I’d like to check out.”

“Love Italian. Let’s go.”

“I…um.” Dani lagged a yard behind Evan as they headed for the H1.
I wanted to…wash my hair…do my nails
… She slid her hand into her purse in search of the prayer list in the church bulletin. There must be someone in the hospital she needed to visit.

Evan stopped and waited for her. “You okay with this?” He leaned down, forcing her to look at him. “Is it dangerous for us to be in that neighborhood after Friday night? Will anyone recognize us?”

“I don’t know.” That was the least of her concerns. She hadn’t had a chance to tell Anna or Evan about Nicky. Evan might not catch on, but Anna’s radar would pick up the heat, and she’d ask questions. So many questions. She glanced at her watch. Nicky would sleep for another hour. Maybe he’d go for a run after that. Maybe he’d run far, far away from Bracciano.

She pictured the dynamics of the gorgeous Italian walking into the dining room like a grid of laser beams. Dani staring at Nicky. Nicky staring back. Evan watching her then Nicky. Anna gaping at Nicky then her. Draw another line between Rena and Evan and what she had was a diagram of a mess.

“It said on the sign they have cinnamon rolls.”

“Mm.” Butter slid across the soft dough of her mind. Cinnamon drifted like gold through royal fingers. She tried to swallow but couldn’t. “Delicious.”

“Nicky!”

Rena’s voice clawed through layers of exhaustion. Nicky woke feeling exactly like he should after four hours of sleep. “What?”

“The fryer’s overheating.”

“Is Dad still here?”

“He said to wake you. We’re in the weeds.”

And he’s cooking?
What was happening to his nice, predictably dysfunctional family? His father was cooking at noon on a Sunday. “Eighty-six the fried stuff and drain the oil. Give everybody a fifty-cent discount and apologize profusely.” In the latest ad, he’d posted testimonials about Bracciano’s calamari and fried eggplant. Now they couldn’t deliver. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

A shower would feel good. A run first would be even better. He picked up his jeans from the floor and stumbled into them. If he owned the place he would have replaced the fryer months ago. If his dad had to actually pay for repairs, he would have gotten rid of it. But repairs were free.
Go wake Nicky.

He took time to brush his teeth. A small act of rebellion. He’d fix the thing but on his terms. Frank Sinatra sang in his head.
I did it my way….

In the storeroom, he set his toolbox on the wrought-iron table then took down a box of hi-limits, thermopiles, and gas valves. He shouldn’t have to keep all of this on hand. By the end of the weekend, he’d show his dad the jump in revenue since he put out the ad. That amount was going toward a new fryer.

Right.

He nodded at the three-legged chair the way he’d acknowledge an old friend. He needed think time. Hand on the light switch, he stared at a patch of wallpaper. Did Nonna Renata decorate this place as a refuge from the busyness or a respite from the man who serenaded customers a little too intently? He called up his one dim memory of his great-grandmother. Bumpy white hands with blue veins that reminded him, at six or seven, of angleworms. “Dominick,” she’d whispered, her accent thick, “you have the light of God in your eyes. Never let it go out.” One hand had lifted slowly and rested on top of his head as she prayed for him in Italian.