Chapter 13
Thirteen
LUCA
I just get off the phone with Eleanor before I get to Venetian Dreams. She congratulated me on a great date. I’ve known Eleanor since we were kids, and she was married to my cousin briefly. After they divorced, we stayed friends, and I introduced her to her current husband. I value her opinion as much as that of my family. The fact that she’s excited for me makes me feel pretty good.
By the time I’m walking into the restaurant, I’m feeling pretty good about the day. That ends the second I step inside. Even though it’s nine in the morning, I can already hear my father screaming in the kitchen. A bunch of waitstaff are standing in the dining room itself, all of them looking concerned.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask one of the waiters named Damian.
He gives me an appraising look before returning his attention to the kitchen. “Your father is losing it on the produce delivery guy… again,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.
I want to ask him where my mother is or even Angelo, but it isn’t Damian’s job to tell me their whereabouts or what’s going on with my family. It’s my responsibility, as part of the restaurant’s management, to determine what is actually going on. My mind flashes to the conversation I overheard yesterday, and the fact that I had promised to go to some kind of recon yesterday. My date with Marissa let me delude myself that I could live a different life and hope for the best with my family.
With a sigh, I head through the swinging door into the kitchen. The head chef and the sous chef are standing by one of the prep tables staring at my father, who is standing by the loading dock, screaming at the delivery driver. The poor man looks like he wants to run away, as far and as fast as he can.
“Dad,” I say as I come up next to him. “What’s going on?”
“This imbecile says that they don’t have our regular order,” my father screams. “After the incompetence this company showed yesterday, and now this, I don’t know why I should continue using them!!”
“Why don’t I try to sort this out for you?” I suggest. “Then you can get on with the menu for the day.”
This seems to calm him down a degree. He turns abruptly, and stalks off without another word. The delivery guy looks like he might faint from relief. I know that my father can be intense. That’s why I try to be the one to deal with him.
After giving the guy a moment to calm down, I ask, “So how did this mix up happen?”
The delivery driver takes a deep breath and consults his clipboard. “So we have part of the order,” he says. “I don’t think that anything happened. It looks like we just might not have had everything for the delivery this morning. I’m sure that we can get the rest out by early afternoon.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry that my father didn’t listen to your explanation. I do have to admit that it feels odd. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“Look, I’m pretty new here,” he says. “I can tell you that there are some supply chain issues currently. That could be affecting the things we are able to supply at the moment. I’m sure that my boss would be willing to cut you a discount if you insist.”
“No need for that,” I say. “Let’s just see if you can get everything here by this afternoon.”
After signing for the delivery, I leave the guy to get it all unloaded. I head to my father’s office to see if he has calmed down yet. He can be pretty hard to deal with, but I like to think that he can be reasonable when he calms down.
“Hey, Dad,” I say. “I sorted out the produce.”
“Thanks,” he grunts. He doesn’t look up at me. Instead he keeps his eyes fixed on the computer screen.
I sit down in the seat across from him, and wait. And wait. And wait. He isn’t doing anything except staring at his computer screen. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t type. He doesn’t look up. He just stares straight ahead. What is going on with him?
“Dad?” I ask again, trying to get his attention. When he still doesn’t look at me, I reach out and smack the top of the table. “Dad!”
He looks at me then, annoyance clear on his face. “What are you doing here?” he snaps.
“I just got the produce order sorted out,” I repeat.
He blinks at me like I have confused him. “Did I ask you to do that?” he asks coldly.
I’m confused because he was fully there when I sent him to the office. I know that he has all his mental faculties. My mom insists that he goes to the doctor every year to be evaluated. She’s constantly worried about dementia in either one of them because both her parents passed due to the condition.
That doesn’t help me much at the moment, though. Something is going on with him that is making it hard for him to focus, concentrate, and remember. There are plenty of reasons that he might not be able to do any of those things. But it doesn’t help me figure out how to deal with him right now.
“Yep,” I say. “The rest of the order will be ready this afternoon, so we’ll have everything for tonight. No worries.”
“How do you think they did it?” my dad asks.
“How did who do what?” I ask, confused.
“Those fools over at Little Italy, ” my father says. “How do you think they ruined our produce order?”
Oh boy. “I don’t,” I say.
“You don’t know either?” he asks.
“No, Dad. I don’t think that they did anything,” I say.
My father suddenly snaps. His eyes fiery, he yells at me, “How can you be so blind?”
I lean over and push the office door closed. I know that the whole staff already heard him screaming, but I don’t need them to hear him screaming at me, too. Studying my father from across the desk, I have to wonder what strangers see when they look at him. For me, I see the man I grew up idolizing, who built this restaurant into what it is. The same man who pushed my dreams of opening my own Greek restaurant aside so that I could be by his side here at Venetian Dreams. At the time I was flattered, but over the years, I’ve gotten bitter about the whole thing.
If I was a stranger, though, I would see a man spiraling out of control. A man who was losing his grip on reality. I don’t know how to get that man out of the hole he is digging for himself.
“Dad, I just don’t think they care that much,” I say. “Why do you see them as rivals?”
“Because they are out to get us!” my dad yells.
I swallow back sadness. How could this really be what he thinks? “Dad, is there a way that we can maybe work through this? Is there something I can do?”
My father’s face brightens at my words. “I knew that you would see my side of things eventually,” he says. “I will come up with a plan.”
He missed my point entirely, and suddenly I just want to get away from him. “Sure, Dad,” I say. “Just let me know what I can do. Um, I’m going to go find Mom.”
After leaving my father’s office, I head down the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the dining room. I spot my mom across the way, and make a beeline for her. Surely someone on the waitstaff has dialed her into what is happening. She should have a solution for me.
“Mom, hey,” I say.
My mom looks up at me with a smile. She’s generally a calm, generous-spirited woman who doesn’t jump to conclusions or rush judgements. If there is a counterbalance to my father’s rashness, it is this woman.
“Luca,” she says warmly. “What brings you in this morning? I thought you weren’t working until later.”
“I was on the schedule for nine,” I say.
She frowns at me. “No, you weren’t. I did the schedule myself this week. I had you coming in at three.”
I decide not to argue with her, because it won’t do any good, and there always is the chance that I might not be right. It doesn’t matter anyway. I need to figure out how I’m going to convey my whole bizarre conversation with my father to her.
“So, Dad seems out of sorts today,” I start, changing the subject as gently as I can.
“Does he?” she asks.
“He does,” I say. “He kind of lost his temper with the produce delivery driver. It was not a good look for the restaurant.”
“What do you mean?” she asks. Everything about her goes still, and I know that’s my cue to go. She’s getting upset, but I need her to understand how bad it was.
“Just that the delivery guy wasn’t at fault, and Dad was screaming at him for things out of the guy’s control,” I say, pushing forward. “I think that something is really bothering him. And…he keeps blaming Little Italy for every problem that has happened here since the food poisoning.”
“Luca, your father has every right to be concerned that another restaurant might be out to sabotage us,” she says in a clipped tone.
“Right, of course. Sorry, Mom,” I say. “I think I’m going to step out for a few minutes. But then I’m going to come in and work my shift.”
I step out of the restaurant, feeling disheartened by my interaction with my mother. I had hoped that she would step in and fix everything. Since that didn’t happen, I know that I need to call Marissa.
I wait anxiously as the phone rings. Urgently, I silently will Marissa to pick up. When she does, I don’t even bother with a greeting. “We need to get together to talk about this mess between our families,” I say.
“Hello to you, too,” she says. “Did something happen to make you think we need to do it sooner?”
“My father is losing it,” I say. “He’s on a weird conspiracy kick now. We have to do something to end this nonsense.”
“I agree,” she says. “Let’s compare notes over pizza later today?”
We decide I should pick her up at the library again, after our shifts at work are over. There’s a pizza place in Grand Junction, about forty minutes away that will be perfect. No one should recognize us there. That would defeat the purpose of us getting together in the first place. I mean, seeing Marissa is thrilling, but this is getting out of hand. We need to figure this out before our family fued ruins our relationship.