Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Matteo
Iris read the newspaper.
She read the paper, and she . . . understood it? Did it move? Did it fly around? Did the words disappear from the page like they do for me?
Had to.
Had to.
There’s a soft meowing at my leg, and I feel tiny pricks of claws on my sock. I reach down and gently pull the kitten from my leg and drop it, pointing it in another direction.
She read the paper, and it told her what to do, and she did something about it.
I knew things were starting to happen to her when she tried to stop me in the hallway. I recognized the familiar panic behind her eyes. Still, I thought I did a great job covering up the fact that I knew exactly what she was talking about.
But now? What the heck made me quote the last line of the article? I basically admitted out loud that yes, I am here because of the newspaper. And yes, I pretended not to know what she was talking about .
My mind spins back to my own introduction to these nuisances. I tossed the first newspaper in the trash, the same way I would any other junk mail. The next day, it was back in front of my door.
This went on for days, and every time I thought I’d finally succeeded in getting rid of the papers, they would multiply and reappear. On a table. On a nightstand.
One morning it was in the fridge.
Clearly, something was trying to get my attention.
Had the same thing happened to Iris?
Had to.
One time, when I was trying to make sense of what was happening, my grandpa paused on the other end of the phone, then said, “Some things about The Serendipity don’t follow traditional rules of logic, Teo. Best to embrace the magic.”
“I don’t believe in magic,” I said.
He laughed at that. “Nobody does . . . until they do.”
Real deep, old man. Real deep.
But his words turned out to be true. I had no idea what to do . . . until I did. But I don’t talk about it. Not with anyone.
Ever.
Because the few times I’ve broached the subject, I’ve been met with skepticism and concern, and I don’t need to give anyone more reasons to worry about me.
Not only that, but people don’t seem to remember anything I tell them about the magic, so what’s the point? This magic, whatever it is, is not something that wants to be found out. Which is why I acted clueless when Iris asked about the newspapers.
But after all this time, the magic is suddenly including someone else—her.
Why?
I should probably be more sympathetic—after all, I remember how confusing and terrifying it was when it started happening to me. But Iris’s questions only raise questions for me. There’s been very little change in the way this magic works . . . until now.
I’ve been turning over this whole conversation in my mind while I'm cooking in the kitchen.
Since Iris showed up with the cat.
A cat. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Okay, Chef,” Winnie says, a gleam of mischief in her eye. “I don’t think we can eat without a proper presentation.”
The day after Iris showed up with the newspaper, I spotted Winnie in the lobby. I’d already done a Google search so I knew what she looked like, and the newspaper had given me enough information for an introduction.
My plan on that first day was to prepare a meal and drop it off around dinner time, but Winnie mentioned she was tired of eating alone. She told me she would only give me her opinion on the food if I stayed and ate with her.
I knew better than to make up some reason why this wouldn’t work.
If you try to outrun, outsmart, or outwit the magic, it will find a way to bulldoze, bury, or bully you.
So, I stayed. And Winnie bombarded me with questions about my restaurant, my favorite foods, how I started cooking, how long I’ve lived in the building . . . basically, my entire life story.
Not my favorite subject to discuss—but not wholly unpleasant, either.
Kind of nice, actually. No pressure. No expectations.
She’s not trying to fix me or set me up with her granddaughter, which are major plusses in my book.
“You’ll come back again, and we’ll get into the good stuff,” she said that first night when I was heading out the door. At my frown, she smiled. “Don’t look so worried—I’m not talking about your love life. I have a feeling you won’t indulge me.” She laughs to herself. “I just know there’s more to your story than you’re sharing, Chef.”
I felt a strange, unspoken kinship with her, knowing that, like me, she’d also lost the person she thought she’d grow old with. Life had stolen that from both of us, and now, here we were.
But she was right. I have no intention of telling her anything other than what you could find with a simple Google search, no matter how much she digs. And if there’s one thing I’m certain of, Winnie is a digger.
For that reason, it’s good to have Iris here, even if it is unsettling not to know the reason for the sudden shift in the way the magic is working. Maybe the old woman will be so interested in her she’ll forget all about me.
I unfold my napkin and clear my throat.
“Chef,” Winnie says, her tone chiding.
I look at her, and she motions with her hand for me to stand.
“Properly, please.”
My eyes jump to Iris’s, and she presses her lips together, like she’s trying not to smile.
I nod to Winnie. “As you wish.”
Winnie smacks Iris’s arm. “Just like that guy from that movie!”
Iris giggles and then looks right at me, standing, staring back, waiting. She dips her head in mock surrender. “Farm boy. Fetch me that pitcher?”
Winnie lets out one single hoot of laughter. “Very nice accent.”
“Thank you,” Iris says.
Winnie must sense that I’m not amused because as she glances my way, she wipes the smile from her face and gestures for me to carry on, please .
I take a deep breath. Great. They’re two peas in a pod already.
I place the napkin back on the table. And then, as if presenting my dish to a panel of judges, I look at Iris, then at Winnie, and nod again. “Today I’ve prepared for you a Sicilian classic, busiate con agghia pistata . This is a handmade pasta paired with a traditional Trapanese pesto. Buon appetito .” I gesture for them to begin eating, as Winnie claps her hands in front of her face like she’s genuinely impressed.
“Wonderful, just wonderful .” She reaches over and squeezes my arm.
As I sit, my eyes flick up, and I find Iris watching me, curiously.
Her curiosity isn’t something I’m interested in entertaining.
Winnie makes a show of unfolding her napkin and laying it across her lap, then surveys the meal on the plate in front of her.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Winnie in the brief time I’ve known her, it’s that she values well-made and well-prepared food. I’ve gotten the distinct impression she has a refined palate, which really does make her an excellent person to sample new recipes.
Iris, on the other hand, seems amused by the entire scene. “Oh, my gosh, this smells a- ma -zing .” She picks up the saltshaker.
“Don’t do that.” I nod to her hand.
She looks at the salt and frowns. “But I put salt on everything.”
“Taste it first,” I say, trying not to be annoyed.
She pauses. “Fine, but I reserve the right to add it.” She sets the shaker down.
I nod .
She picks up her fork and starts winding the pasta around it. “So you made this by hand?”
“That’s usually what ‘handmade’ means.” I try to keep my tone light but not teasing. I don’t want her to think I’m flirting. Unfortunately, the second I finish the sentence, I hear the sharpness in what I’ve said.
She deflates a little, and I look away. If they were here, Nicola and Val would both be kicking me under the table.
I’m not great with people.
Not anymore.
My “table side manner” is a topic of conversation in the kitchen more often than I want it to be, but I don’t see the point. I’m not interested in widening my nonexistent social circle. I can be polite and withdrawn at the same time.
Politely withdrawn.
But now, thanks to my rude comment, there’s an awkward silence in the room.
Winnie picks up her fork and turns her attention toward Iris. “Do you cook, dear?”
Iris coughs, then laughs. “Uh, no. Not like this. I do a lot of frozen pizza.”
At that, I wince.
Winnie lets out a long, “Ohhhh. Your words have wounded the chef.”
Iris pulls a face. “Yeah . . . sorry about that. My mom wasn’t very good in the kitchen. I never learned.”
I meet Iris’s wide, apologetic eyes for a moment, then quickly look away.
“Chef Matteo learned to cook right here in this building,” Winnie says.
Iris lifts her fork and looks at me again, one eyebrow raised. “Oh?”
“His grandma taught him,” she says, as I lower my head, which is what I do when others are talking about me while I’m sitting right next to them. Which happens often. Because I don’t talk about myself. She turns to me. “I bet you have a lot of good memories of this place.”
“I do.” I take my first bite, the flavors of garlic and tomato and almond and basil settling on my tongue as I chew, slowly, assessing the flavor, the balance, the notes.
“Oh, my gosh.” Iris’s fork drops onto her plate with a clang. She goes quiet, leaning back in her chair. Is she choking?
“Are you—?” I stop short, frowning at her, worried she’s allergic to pine nuts or something.
But she holds up a hand to silence me, still chewing, not waiting to swallow the bite before asking, “You made this?”
“Yes.” I’m confused by the question.
She looks at me. “This. Is. Amazing.”
I look back. The compliment is so genuine, it catches me off-guard.
Huh.
She takes a huge bite, and then, after only two chews, she mouths, “Ann you’re righ, dis doesn’t meed sall aht awl.”
Winnie brings her napkin up to her mouth to stifle another laugh. “Iris, you and I are going to get along just fine,” she chimes.
I’m shocked to realize I find her enthusiasm incredibly endearing. Iris doesn’t seem to take herself too seriously, and it’s refreshing. And she’s funny. If I wasn’t working so hard to remain straight-faced, I probably would’ve laughed too.