Chapter 21 Vi’s
VI’S
Brendan
Thirty minutes later, my driver steered the Aston over the cobblestones of Hanover Street.
The North End was the oldest continuously inhabited part of Boston, a neighborhood that had been reinventing itself every hundred years or so as a new wave of residents displaced the previous generations.
A hundred years ago, the area was home to a substantial Italian population.
Now, it was still called Little Italy, but the Italian storefronts were nestled between thirty-dollar-a-plate brunch spots and renovated apartment buildings—many of which were owned by Blackguard.
I pointed out a few as we passed, but Simone’s reactions were minimal.
“Not impressed?” I had to wonder.
Most people had the decency to at least fake it.
She shrugged. “When I was a kid, we would visit this area and hear people speaking Italian. Now it’s mostly investment bankers or tech workers since they’re the ones who can afford the apartments. I can’t help wondering where the families who lived here before went.”
Part of me wanted to argue. Something like thirty-five percent of current North End residents were of Italian descent, according to the last census.
The city had been a pain in the ass to work with (or at least to bribe) when we started doing construction in the area because of all the heritage buildings.
To grease the wheels, Blackguard had donated a substantial amount of money toward maintaining the “cultural character” of the area.
But then we passed another one of our buildings, a nineteenth-century brick apartment building that Blackguard had gutted in order to turn four floors of three-bedroom apartments into one-bedrooms that cost the same price to rent.
A twenty-something man who probably did work at the Prudential or maybe even for Blackguard, someone who would stay in the area for five to ten years until he could afford a house and a family in Brookline or Newton.
Definitely not long enough to shape any kind of cultural roots.
The car turned down a quieter street where most of the shops were closed except for a solitary window bearing Italian-style cakes and cookies set atop pink satin and a scatter of cheap confetti.
Written over the top of the entry, in neon red cursive with flowers on either end, was simply: “Vi’s.”
I stepped out of the car, then turned to help Simone out.
“Well, this is it.” She waved a hand toward the door, in case I hadn’t gotten the clue.
She seemed…unsure of herself, even though the storefront wasn’t hers. She peered up at me as if expecting me to spit on the place.
Was that really what she thought of me?
That I was just some rich asshole who never experienced anything beyond Michelin stars and designer clothing?
Then I had to ask myself: was she even wrong?
Yes, I’d grown up in South Boston. I’d been raised on cheap pizza and donuts for a good part of my childhood. But the more I thought about it, the more I had to admit that those indulgences hadn’t been a part of my life for very long.
When had I last stepped inside a Dunkin’?
I couldn’t even remember the taste of a hot dog at Fenway.
Christ. The evening had just taken a significant turn, and we’d barely even started.
“Dessert for dinner?” I asked in a tone I hoped sounded more playful and less depressed. “I like your style.”
The grin reappeared. “It would seem that way.”
A bell above the door rang out as we entered a humble bakery with cracked plaster walls and paneling that needed to be repainted.
“Sugar & Spice, eh?” I pointed at a chipped pink sign over the register. “Do they serve everything nice?”
God, it was good my brothers couldn’t hear me. These jokes were worse than the ones the priests used to make for the kids on Sundays.
Simone just giggled.
Worth it.
“Simone, honey!”
A middle-aged woman with gray ringlets covered by a hairnet rushed from behind the counter. As she and Simone threw their arms around each other, I watched, feeling like an awkward vulture. I didn’t think I’d ever hugged anyone like that in my life. Not even my own mother.
“Pearl, this is Brendan.” Simone beckoned me closer. “Brendan, this is Pearl, the owner of the shop.”
“I thought the shop was called Vi’s,” I said.
“Vi was her grandmother. This shop has been around since the 1800s. It’s one of the oldest bakeries in Boston.”
“I know who he is,” Pearl said in one of those thick New England accents only a few people still had.
She came over to me and placed twin kisses to each of my cheeks.
“I saw your face in the papers, announcing your marriage to my Simone here.” Then she surprised me with a hug as tight as the one she’d given Simone.
Unsure what to do exactly, I patted Pearl’s back. “It’s, ah, nice to meet you, too.”
Pearl turned back to Simone and wagged a finger in her face. “You. You’ve been keeping this hunk of handsome from me all this time? When did this happen, my girl?”
Simone’s cheeks flushed, and she gave a tight smile that even I could see was designed to mask her discomfort. Simone was too sweet to lie. And yet, what should have been a clear liability only made me like her more.
“Eh, what can you do? Sometimes secrets can be fun and sexy.” Pearl seemed oblivious as she adjusted the collar of her no-nonsense shirtdress and waved us into the shop.
Simone glanced up at me, and we exchanged our own secret smiles as we followed.
“How are you? It’s been a few months, I know.” Simone looked back at me. “Pearl and I usually have a standing appointment on Mondays to test recipes.”
“It’s my day off,” Pearl added before giving a big sigh. “Been all right. You know how it goes.”
“So, how is…everything?”
It didn’t take a detective to understand Simone was asking about the shop’s finances. Considering we were the only ones in here, I had a feeling they weren’t great.
This time, Pearl’s sigh ruffled the collar of her dress. “The kids don’t want traditional desserts no more. Restaurants neither. It’s either that ‘molten’ chocolate garbage in mason jars or fancy fusion crap blending five different recipes into one. Whatever happened to classics, I ask you?”
Simone took Pearl’s hand and squeezed, and I fought the sudden urge to make it twenty million instead of ten.
And yet, I had the distinct feeling that no matter how much money I gave her, it would never actually go to her, but to others she wanted to help.
“So, what can I get you two?” Pearl moved behind a glass counter full of Italian pastries. One tray was filled with cannoli shells, several dipped in chocolate or pistachios. There was another shelf of cheesecakes and two others with a variety of small cakes and desserts.
Simone rubbed her hands together as she looked. “I think a pistachio cannolo and…” She looked up at me shyly.
“Whatever’s the house special,” I replied.
It was the right thing to say.
“Coming right up, kids. You take a seat. The one in the window.”
“You really want cannoli? Out of everything she has in that case?” I asked after Simone and I sat down at the table Pearl had indicated.
“I actually do like the classics. Sometimes things are better when they are simple.”
“‘Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication’?”
“That’s well put.”
I shrugged. “That’s because Da Vinci said it, not me.”
She chuckled, and I sat back, enjoying the way she seemed to relax here. Was that because it was closer to the way she was in her home, covered in flour? Or because she could see now that I liked the place too?
“Tell me about how you started baking,” I said.
That shy smile returned. “My mother taught me when I was little. I still use her original sourdough starter, the one she got from her mother, who got it from hers. It has to be at least seventy-five years old.”
I blinked. “Do they live that long?”
“Oh, yeah. There are some in San Francisco that have been in use since the mid-1800s. And I read about someone who extracted some from a four-thousand-year-old Egyptian artifact and actually made bread with it.” She hummed with a curious kind of excitement. “I wonder if it was any good.”
Her curiosity was contagious. “Explains your thing for heirlooms.”
“Baking ones, I guess. Anyway, when I was little, my mom and I took a trip to Boston, and she brought me here to see what a real master can do. What can I say? I fell in love.”
“With baking or Boston?”
Her smile seemed to come from somewhere deep inside. “Both.”
We sat quietly for a moment, and it wasn’t unpleasant. Simone wasn’t the type of person who was uncomfortable with pauses. She was at ease in her thoughts.
A rare talent these days.
“So, the farm,” I wondered after a moment. “Tell me about it. In Woodstock, right?” These were things I would be expected to know about her. Things beyond the dossier my lawyers had already worked up. “I drove through there once on my way to a retreat. It’s nice.”
“Yep. I already told you about the business. What else do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Things that are specific to you. Or what makes you want to save it, maybe. Does it have a name, or is it just called Bishop Dairy?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, my family was a little more creative than that, since there are approximately ten thousand Bishops in New England. It’s called Dandelion Farm.”
I frowned. It sounded…familiar.
“Dandelion?” I repeated, trying the words out on my tongue. “Cute. Where, ah, did it come from?” And why the fuck was it bothering me so much?
“Well, I can’t say why my four-times great-grandfather named the farm that, but I can tell you they are everywhere on the property.
And the family lore says they were planted there by the first Bishop settlers who got them from an ancestor off the Mayflower.
Rumor has it that’s how they came to the colonies to begin with.
One of the Puritans brought them for medicinal uses. ”
I grinned. “Mayflower, huh? You’re an original pilgrim.”