Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Matteo
The newspaper doesn’t like to be ignored. I learned that the hard way three years ago.
And just saying that makes it sound like the newspaper—or more to the point, this building—actually has a personality.
It does. And it’s comically vindictive.
I’ve been inadvertently coerced to orchestrate happiness for dozens of people who have lived in this building over the years—and dozens more who only stumbled into the building to visit a friend or family member. People who never realize I’ve done anything at all.
This building? It has a mind—and a plan—all its own. And yes, I do realize that this doesn’t make sense. But I gave up on trying to figure it out a long time ago.
What I know is that the newspaper brings people together—long-lost lovers, rekindled romances, fractured families—and it uses me to do it. The Serendipity has made me into some kind of tailor for trauma, sewing the pieces of people’s lives back together.
It’s ironic. Maybe even cruel.
Thankfully, it’s not always about bringing lonely, lovelorn people together. Once, the newspaper practically turned me into a detective to figure out a crime was going to be committed at a local tea shop so I could set things up ahead of time to prevent it.
How the building knew the future is beyond me. Those are the kinds of questions that never get answered.
Another time, I had to rescue a German shepherd from an abusive owner. And a few months ago, with the paper’s prodding, I found the perfect tutor for a dyslexic teenager. And nobody knew I’d been involved at all.
Thanks to this paper, I make people happy. While remaining just barely north of miserable myself. After all, I know how fleeting happiness really is.
Not that the newspaper cares what I think.
I hate that I think about “the magic” and “the newspaper” as if they were people, or a tangible thing. I know how it sounds, but it’s just something I’ve accepted: I live in a magic building. Magic newspapers land at my door.
The worst thing? If I don’t carry out the wishes laid out in black and white on the pages of this mysterious newspaper, there are consequences. Nothing sinister—more like practical jokes. Like I said, the newspaper has a personality, and it seems to fancy itself a prankster. But its “pranks” are so disruptive that I’m better off doing what it tells me to do in the first place.
If I’d known the apartment would come with this bonus job, I wouldn’t have taken over the lease from my grandpa when he announced he was headed off on what he called “a grand adventure.” I was happy he was going—he deserved to do something fun. But when he mentioned he wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone, I got a little concerned.
“Don’t worry about me, Teo,” he’d said. “I just need a change of scenery.” My grandma hadn’t been gone long, and I knew the apartment was full of reminders of her. I also knew he wasn’t ready to let go of this place, so I wasn’t surprised when he asked me to move in and “keep an eye on the place.”
I needed a change of scenery too.
I soon realized that my grandpa had left out some very important details about living in this building.
We all assumed his “adventure” would be short-lived and he’d come home after a few months, but he met an Italian woman named Elena and moved to Tuscany.
That rascal.
I picture him sipping coffee on the terrace of a pristine beige and tan villa, next to a sprawling chianti vineyard, breathing in myrtle and cypress, eating the food of Tuscany—the panzanella , the castagnaccio , the cantuccini —and living his best life.
I glance at the photo he sent—him and Elena, smiling broadly on a gondola in Venice. I stare at the image, stuck to my refrigerator with a plain black magnet. I don’t have to turn the photo over to remember what he wrote on the back:
It is possible to love again.
Uffa .
I open the refrigerator and pull out the coffee beans, then move over to the counter to start my morning ritual. Grind beans. Boil water. Make breakfast—today, an omelette with some leftover prosciutto , mushrooms, and tomato—and sit down at the table and eat.
Slowly. I like to taste my food. And I’ve learned to appreciate the slow morning when I know what kind of chaos will come later. For me, mornings are sacred, which is why the disruptive nature of a newspaper that shows up whenever it wants to feels like plain old bad manners.
Which is why I often think about moving. I’m not sure if I’ve been hanging on to this apartment because of its proximity to the restaurant or because I’m too sentimental about the summers I spent here with my grandparents to let it go—but my life would be a heck of a lot easier without the constant interruptions.
I think of what my grandpa said when I finally got up the nerve to ask him if he knew what was happening—and why. He chuckled, almost like he’d been waiting for this, and told me to “be open to whatever the building brings you, Teo.”
Open? To a building?
“It chose you for a reason,” he said. I argued with him, telling him he was the one who’d asked me to move in.
He smiled and handed me a newspaper.
On page six, circled with a highlighter, was a small pull quote in the middle of a larger story.
If you’re looking for someone to trust with all you’ve done, look no further than your grandson. He needs to find himself again.
Cryptic and plain at the same time.
He added, “And it won’t let you go until you’ve figured it out.”
The memory makes me pause because I don’t think I’ve figured anything out except that I’m not a good matchmaker, I still don’t believe in love, and I really don’t need people complicating my life.
I look slightly past the photo on the fridge, the one of him and Elena in Venice, and I see, stuck under the same magnet, the highlighted section of that very paper, ripped out.
Someone to trust, I think. More like someone to dump on.
I’m better off alone. Life decided that for me, and I don’t need some magic building to remind me of it.
After I drink my first coffee, eat my omelette, and finish getting ready for the day, I head downstairs and walk outside, inhaling the chilly January air as I walk down the block and around the corner to work .
The sign on the front of the building comes into view, prompting another morning ritual. “All for you, Aria,” I whisper to myself, pushing back memories of late nights and quiet dreams and the way she convinced me that one day, I could open the restaurant I’d always dreamed of.
She was right. I did it.
I grit my teeth and will away the memories that try to surface. It happens every time I realize I’m talking about her in the past tense.
She isn’t here to see it. And I know the pain of that will never go away.
I let one memory slip through.
At night, after a long shift, we were unwinding with a glass of wine, in pajamas, snuggled under heated blankets, talking the dreamy talk only soulmates can indulge in.
As usual, she prodded me to talk about what I’d do differently if I finally had the chance to run my own kitchen.
In my mind I can see the light of the fireplace in her eyes, the way she tipped her head down and raised her eyebrows, and I knew exactly what she was thinking.
Stop. Stop it.
I shake myself to the present and look up at the logo on the front of the building.
This place is the result of those late-night conversations. Aria, the restaurant— our restaurant—is exactly what we intended it to be—small, intimate, and sought-after, featuring the special family dishes my grandma taught me to make in the kitchen of the very apartment where I live now.
“Food brings people together, Teo,” she said, hands floured, pinching tortellini . “Don’t forget that. And don’t underestimate how important it is.”
That’s why I started cooking. I was a young, idealistic chef with a mission to connect people through delicious food.
But that’s not why I cook now .
Now I cook because the kitchen is the only place where life makes sense.
I walk the familiar path around to the back of the building and enter through the kitchen. My manager, Val, is standing near a counter next to our pastry chef, Nicola, and their best friend, the espresso machine. It’s the smaller one, mostly used by staff, relegated to the kitchen when we upgraded to a much larger, fancier machine last year.
Nicola convinced me that genuine Italian espresso was an essential part of the dessert experience, and she was right. The machine has paid for itself two times over already.
“Chef!” Val calls as I walk in.
I wave as she holds up what will be my second coffee of the day. It’s routine by now, a rite of passage, as if the only way to gain access to the kitchen is to accept the fine gift of espresso.
It’s the same every day. And I like it that way.
No surprises.
Nicola faces me. Her blond hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing an expression I instantly recognize—the look of success.
I don’t say anything as she produces a small plate from behind her back. On it sit three cannoli, the recipe Nic’s been trying to perfect for months.
I can see the flakiness of the crust, the creaminess of the filling . . . wait . That’s custard. Not ricotta. It’s also baked, not deep-fried.
Venetian. Not Sicilian.
Judging by the smug look on her face, she’s confident she’s finally done it, but she and I both know I’m the only one who can judge whether she’s figured out Grandma Vivi’s recipe.
I motion for her to hand it over, and when I take the first bite, I’m instantly transported back to big family dinners and holiday parties, to hiding under the kitchen table when my parents thought I’d gone to bed just to sneak another cannoli when nobody was looking.
Ever since she started at Aria about a year ago, Nicola has had one task—to perfect Grandma Vivi’s cannoli. I gave her no recipe, only a blindfolded taste, and finally, after many nearly there attempts, I think she got it.
But I let her sweat for a few more minutes as I slowly chew another bite.
She and Val are both staring at me now, wide-eyed and hopeful.
“Come on , Teo,” Val says. “Did she get it?”
I pause, letting the flavors settle as I look for every key ingredient, including the Marsala wine she’s left out so many times.
She stares at me, hopefulness on her face, waiting, until finally, I reach out and give her a Paul Hollywood handshake. “You got it, Nic.”
Nicola gasps, grabs my hand and shakes it, then picks up the rest of the cannoli and finishes it off in one bite. “I got it!” she says, mouth full. “Woo-hoo!”
She and Val do a celebratory dance as I take a sip of coffee, then pick up another cannoli and take a bite. It’s Grandma Vivi in a dessert. My heart pangs with grief, a reminder of the love I’ve lost.
Food has a way of awakening things, bringing the past into the immediate present.
“Did the produce arrive?” I ask, setting down the mug.
Val stops dancing and looks at me. “You know, you could celebrate for a tiny second.”
I frown. I don’t celebrate. She should know this.
Val widens her eyes with a weird nod toward Nicola, then back to me. There’s a hidden message here I’m supposed to pick up on, but I have no idea what it is .
She sighs. “Really proud of you, Nic. You are amazing.” She says in what I’m guessing is an impersonation of me.
“That’s what I sound like?” I muse.
“No,” she quips, “because you never give compliments.”
I shrug. People don’t usually deserve them.
She scowls at me. “Yes, the produce arrived. It’s all ready for you.” She motions for me to hand over the empty plate, and as I do, I don’t miss the disappointed expression that seems to indicate I’m going to get an earful later.
I look at Nicola, who’s moved on to washing raspberries. I feel a nudge in the back of my mind that feels like Aria. I walk over to Nicola. “Good job, Nic. Really.”
She looks over at me, eyes wide. “Well, thank you, Chef!”
Val quirks a brow that seems to ask, Now, was that so hard ?
I make a mental note to be more complimentary.
It’s not that I don’t value the staff—I do—but I get busy and distracted and forget to let people know. It’s something Val has brought up more than once. It’s why she’s here—to keep everyone on task and point out shortcomings, even mine.
She’s one of two people in the world I trust to do that.
The other is most likely tanning on a veranda in Tuscany.
I walk over to the counter where Val has stacked the produce. I look through the carrots and potatoes and leeks, making sure we’ll have what we need for today’s lunch and dinner service.
“So, Chef . . .” Nicola says from behind me.
“Yes, Nic.” I don’t turn around. Instead, I pull a small notebook from my back pocket and look over one of the new recipes I’ve been working on at home— maiale al latte— a milk-braised pork loin.
“Val and I were, um, we were just talking . . .”
I don’t even have to look at her to know where this is headed. I can tell by the cautious tone of her voice. “Not interested,” I say.
“You don’t even know what she’s going to say,” Val says in a reprimanding tone.
“Did you call in extra help for the weekend?” I ask, moving the potatoes from a basket to a colander.
“Don’t change the subject,” Val says.
“We have that big bridal party,” I say. “We’re going to need more wait staff.”
“Yes, I called in more help,” Val says. “Can you just listen to Nicola for five seconds?”
I sigh. “I don’t need to listen. I already know what she’s going to say.” I look up at Nic. She looks back, eyebrows raised, face hopeful.
“She’s wonderful,” Nicola says. “I promise.”
“Not interested.” I move the colander to the prep sink and run water over the potatoes.
“Why?” Val asks. “Just go out for a drink. You don’t have to marry her.”
At that, my jaw tenses. “I don’t have time.” It’s technically true, but it’s not the reason I don’t date.
They know this.
“We both find time,” Nicola indicates to herself and Val.
“You don’t own a restaurant.” Or have my history. I turn the water off, then repeat the process with the carrots. “And Val doesn’t date.”
“I date,” she says.
“You’re married,” I counter. “And Bear works here.”
“Yeah.” She gives a shrug, as if to say, “What’s your point?”
“When was the last time you actually went out on a date?” I turn the water off and face her, waiting while her eyes scan the air overhead. After an appropriate pause, I say, “That’s what I thought.”
The back door opens, and Bear walks in, as if on cue .
Val shoots him a look, and he freezes. “Whoa. What’s that look for?”
“You need to take your wife out more,” I say.
Val crosses her arms as Bear’s gaze jumps from me to Val and back again. But then, as if to prove my point, he holds out his arms and says, “When would I have time for that?”
I shoot Val a See? look and go back to prepping while Nicola moves around to the opposite side of the counter to face me. Val whips a towel at Bear, and they walk out of the kitchen, presumably so he can apologize.
I settle in and prepare for whatever sales pitch Nic is about to feed me.
“So, Danny’s sister is going through a divorce?—”
I hold up my hand without looking at her.
“She’s really great, just in a bad situation?—”
“No.” I feel like I’m repeating myself.
“She’s not falling apart or anything. Just . . . lonely.”
The word is like a shock to my system. Because I know a little something about lonely. But I’ve grown comfortable with my solitude, no matter how much my employees—or a stupid magic building—try to force people on me.
And here I thought I could go a good half-hour without thinking about the building.
“Nicola, I appreciate you wanting to take care of me, really. But let’s stick to desserts and espresso and leave my love life out of it, okay?”
Her face falls. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to push, I just . . .” She pauses. “I’m worried about you, Chef,” she says. “We aren’t meant to be alone.”
“Apparently some of us are,” I mutter, grabbing my knife roll.
I don’t have to glance up to feel how her face looks. I can be a real piece of work sometimes.
Hiring Nicola changed our relationship. We’d been friends back in culinary school—she and her then-boyfriend, Mark, and Aria and me. Good friends, actually.
But now that she works for me, she’s not a friend anymore. At least, I can’t see her as a friend anymore. She’s an employee.
The problem is that she might be right, and I don’t like it.
I try to soften. It’s difficult when people are constantly pressing on an open wound.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to brush you off like that. I’m actually good with it, Nic,” I say. “This is how I prefer it.”
“Yeah. I know,” she says, with an oh, ooo-kay undertone. “I know you’ve convinced yourself you’re better off alone.” She chews the inside of her lip thoughtfully. I’m about to change the subject when she says, “I know you miss her.”
The sting of her words sparks something inside me.
A mental image of blue and red lights surrounding an overturned car flashes through my mind.
I look up.
“I do. But I’m not doing this right now. Let’s drop it,” I say.
She goes still. I look back at the vegetables on the counter, relying on muscle memory to chop them because my mind is elsewhere.
Nicola walks around to the side of the counter and lays a hand on mine.
I stop cutting.
It might be the first time someone else has touched me in months. It reminds me of what I’m missing. It reminds me how it felt to connect to another person. Even on a purely platonic level.
“It’s been six years, Matteo,” she says. “And I know Aria wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life miserable and alone.”
“Miserable?” I scoff .
She raises her eyebrows at me as if to say, I mean . . .
“I’m good, Nic,” I repeat. “I promise.”
“But—”
Enough . I can’t talk about this. A familiar mental gate slams shut.
“I said I’m good.” I cut her off with a stern look, pulling my hand back. “I need to get everything ready for lunch service.”
Her smile looks more like a wince as she nods, makes a fist, gently knocks it twice on the counter, then walks out of the kitchen.
Finally, I’m where the universe has decided I should be.
Alone.