Epilogue
MARIA
It’s several weeks before we get any news from Brooklyn.
For obvious reasons, we haven’t wanted to make too many inquiries, or push things too much, but Grant feels confident that his friend Henri is trustworthy, and I am equally certain about my own friend, Gabi.
She may love talking, but she knows how to keep a secret.
Besides, I know several secrets about her that I am quite sure she wouldn’t want the public at large to know about.
Chefs are busy people, but eventually, Henri drops in for breakfast at Casa Romani and introduces himself to Gabi.
After his visit, Henri calls Grant to let him know what happened, and it just so happens that we’re all in the kitchen having lunch, so Grant puts his phone over to the conference speaker, so we can all hear his friend’s voice.
“Still there, Henri?”
“Absolutement.”
“Well, go ahead, we’re all listening.”
“Very well, mon ami. I did as you asked and visited Casa Romani for breakfast… this was the day before yesterday, if that matters.”
“Great. Did you get to speak to Gabriella?”
“Mais oui, but of course. I took my time when I entered the restaurant, so I could see which tables she was responsible for, and I picked one that was right in the center of her patch, so it was easy to arrange.”
“What did you say?”
“Well, I ordered breakfast—just a cappuccino and a croque monsieur, I wasn’t all that hungry. Anyway, the coffee was delicious brewed to perfection. But the croque monsieur was a little disappointing. Bread was not as fresh as it should have been, and the cheese was?—”
“Jesus Christ, Henri! We don’t give a shit about your goddammed breakfast!”
“Alright, alright, you want me to tell you what we talked about? A bientot, my friend. I will tell you.
“We got chatting about the weather, and then I said I’ve got a friend who used to live around here and work in this restaurant, and she recommended it to me, so I thought I’d try it out. All nice and natural.”
“Perfect. What did she say?”
“Well, she was very surprised when I mentioned your friend’s name—Maria Contarini—said she was really glad to learn Maria was alright and that she’d kinda just upped and left one day without telling anyone—her and her father together, apparently—and everyone had worried about what had happened, although they’d kinda guessed it was to do with the Morettis because a rumor had been going around…
something about Maria and this Tony Moretti getting engaged and then Maria getting cold feet and making a run for it, or something.
Anyhow, she thought it was maybe to do with that.
And of course, that was my perfect “in” to ask about the Morettis”
“Great. What did you say?”
“So, I said ‘the Morettis, who are they?’, and she said ‘don’t you know who the Morettis are?’ and I said ‘no’, and she said ‘Where have you been living all your life?” and I explained that I’d lived all over the world, but currently I was working as a chef, up the road in Manhatt?—”
“Yes, yes. We know about you already. The story please, Henri. Just the story, hey?”
“Sure thing, Grant, just the story.
“Well, she said that about three weeks ago, this incredible thing happened. Apparently they got burgled… or that’s what they told the police.
But in reality it was a turf war between the Morettis who apparently head up an Italian mafia gang in these parts, and some other, rival gang from Colombia, or something. ”
“I see. Did she tell you much about it?”
“Yeah, loads. She said there was gunfire, and bombs going off. She says there were dozens of these Colombians, all armed with machine guns and grenade launchers, and there’d been a massive pitched battle in the middle of the street.”
“Wow, she said that?” says Grant, and Regan whistles.
“Yeah. And she said that the Moretti’s leader—a guy called Tony who apparently was a bit of a hard nut that nobody liked but everybody feared—well apparently he’d come out of the front door with an Uzi in each hand, blasting a dozen or more of these Colombians to Kingdom Come before one of them shot him in the chest. Dies a hero’s death, she said.
His mother sobbing on his chest as he drew his last breath, right there in the street. ”
“Oh my God!” We’re all staring at each other, surprise written on our faces.
So, this is how the Morettis decided to play it? I thought to myself. Making up this bullshit story to save face.
“So, what happened in the end. Who won?”
“A no score draw, so far as I can work out, mon ami. Only now there are hardly any Morettis left. And old Mrs. Moretti—this is that guy Tony’s mother—she’s gone back to Italy to live with her own family, and their house is up for sale.
Five million dollars, apparently… in Brooklyn! Can you believe it?”
“Anything else?”
“No, that was about it. I tell you what though, mon frere, that Gabi girl is hot stuff. If I wasn’t happily married I’d be plowing her furrow, let me tell you!
You should get down there, she’s just your type.
Young, long dark hair, Mediterranean looks, smoldering eyes, great legs, a big rack…
and she’s definitely the dominant type, just like you always said you love them. ”
Grant blushes to his roots, and the rest of us are shaking with laughter, trying our best not to make any noise.
“I’ll err… bear it in mind, old friend.”
“Yeah, you do that. And of course, if you do ever come this way, make sure you drop in on me and Helene. You remember Helene, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Please send her my best wishes.”
“I will. Well… nice to catch up, old soldier. Salut, my friend. Try to keep out of trouble.”
“Good advice,” confirms Grant, drily. “Take care, Henri, and thanks for this favor.”
There’s a click, and Henri’s gone.
“Just your type eh Boss? You like those sultry Mediterranean types—the ones with an attitude, eh? Will you be wanting to borrow the truck again, Boss?” Regan is practically falling off his chair, he’s laughing so hard, and even Abe has a big grin on his face.
“Fuck you, Regan. In fact, fuck the lot of you.” And with that, Grant stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him. We can hear him muttering something about this being the type of repayment to expect for helping people out as he walks away.
“Will he be alright?” I ask.
“He’s just a little embarrassed. He’ll survive.” Abe says. “So long as we don’t harp on about it forever.” He says this whilst aiming a firm frown at Regan, who quickly sobers up enough to reply.
“What me?” he says, innocently. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Abel old chap. You should know me better.”
A couple of months slip by, and summer slowly changes to fall. The leaves change color on the trees, and suddenly, West Virginia is beautiful all over again, but this time in a different, more somber way.
No doubt the snows of winter will be another revelation for Papa and me to experience, in the months to come.
For now, though, I have moved into the main house with my three men, and the cabin has become “Sandro’s house”.
He’s taken over completely and is going through it, room by room, gradually restoring, refining, improving, and decorating to his taste.
Abe and Papa have worked hard all summer long in the vegetable garden, and right now we have more pumpkins and squashes than we know what to do with. We’re all sick of pumpkin pie, and I’ve even tried making pumpkin chutney, just for the hell of it.
I still work at Shane’s and he’s been asking me if I could work a few more hours each week for him, because he’s so busy.
I really enjoy the work, but the problem is that just in the last few weeks…
well, I’ve kinda felt a little queasy first thing in the mornings, and I’ve been off my food, which isn’t like me at all.
And then my period didn’t come and… well, with one thing and another, I have a strong suspicion I might be pregnant.
Thing is, if I buy a pregnancy kit in town…
well it’ll be all over the countryside by the same afternoon, and I want to just find out for myself first, so I’m waiting, and saying nothing until I’m a little more certain before I tell anyone, even the boys.
Regan’s not changed one little bit. Still as boyish and roguish and lovable as ever.
I doubt he’ll ever grow up, but then of course, that’s part of his charm.
Abe—of course—will never change. Abe is like a force of nature, an island of granite in a sea of sandstone.
Reliable and steady. And Grant? Grant got over his embarrassment within about twenty minutes and Regan’s actually been true to his word and never mentioned the incident again.
It was funny though. I guess it was particularly funny just because…
well just because Grant is so the opposite of Regan in so many ways.
A little stuffy, a little reserved, but one hundred percent reliable, and ready to take control at the drop of a hat to lead us… where?
Who knows where? Who can really foretell the future? If I could, then I would foretell a grandson and a happy retirement for Papa in Sandro’s House, and a growing, equally happy family in the Big House.
And of course, if I was in charge of the story, everyone would live happily ever after.
THE END