Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Matteo
I feel exposed eating my own food with these two women—and a little embarrassed, given Iris’s reaction. I get the impression she’s been eating quick meals out of boxes, bags, and jars for most of her life.
She winds another long, coiled noodle around her fork. “Did you just come up with this on your own?”
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate this animated response.
“It’s a traditional dish,” I say, with a quick glance at each of them. “My grandma used to make it, but she never wrote anything down, so I’ve been trying to recreate as many of her recipes as I can. I have to decide if I should add it to the menu.”
“Yes,” Iris says firmly, shoveling in another bite. “Add. This. Right now.”
“It’s delicious,” Winnie says, in a much more dignified tone than Iris, who seems to have entered her own world.
“It’s insane. I didn’t know food could taste like this,” Iris says around another very large bite .
“That’s because you’ve been eating Tombstone pizza,” I say dryly, then take another bite. “I think the balance is off.”
“It’s not,” Iris says, mouth full. “I mean, maybe it is. I’ve never had it before, but if I had to choose a last meal”—she points at the plate with her fork—“this would be it.”
I chuckle to myself but conceal my smile. It’s nice. Even I can admit that. These days, I mostly stay in the kitchen rather than interact with customers, but I’d forgotten the joy of witnessing someone who appreciates my cooking.
Iris’s reaction shakes something inside me. A memory of something my grandma always said. “There must be joy in what you do, dear Teo.” She would move around her kitchen, tossing in spices, trying new things, tasting each dish with a kind of reckless abandon.
It’s not how I cook.
Not anymore.
Now I cook with calculated precision. My goal is to elevate cooking to an artform.
But here, watching Iris devour this meal, is a reminder that once upon a time, I fell in love with my grandma’s reasons for cooking. I wanted to carry on her tradition of bringing people together and making people happy. I wanted them to savor something I’d made.
I used to cook for the joy of it, spurred on by the memories of big family meals. Of sharing stories and loud laughter. Whooping and hollering over hand-spun Old Country delicacies.
With my grandparents, everyone was family. The table was always big enough for one more person, and there was always more than enough food for everyone. And always plenty of leftovers.
It’s like they picked up some tips from the guy who shared loaves and fishes.
Every summer, I’d stay with them at The Serendipity while my parents traveled. Even when I got old enough to go along on their trips, I always chose to come here. It’s why this place has always felt like home.
Always felt special.
Meals weren’t just something to “get through” with my grandparents. Food wasn’t just fuel. It was life . Meals were events. Something to look forward to all day and talk about all night. Sometimes they’d open their apartment to anyone passing by. Other times, we’d spill out into the courtyard, bringing dishes and plates and glasses and wine and a lot of raucous laughter.
Everyone was always welcome.
Nobody was turned away for being a stranger.
“Did you know my grandparents?” I look at Winnie. “I just realized you might’ve lived here at the same time, and they liked to entertain.” And then, I’m not sure why, but I add, “They used to host these big Italian dinners out in the courtyard.”
My mind lingers on that memory because those were some of the best moments of my childhood . . . and also because life and communities aren’t like that anymore. It’s not something I actively miss, and yet, as nostalgia sets in, I can see the part it played in my upbringing.
Winnie seems to consider this for a long moment. “I do vaguely remember the very loud dinners out in the courtyard. I never attended one myself—I wasn’t here nearly as much in those days, always out at charity functions with William, things like that.” Her smile is fleeting. “But I wish I’d met them. I bet they are wonderful people.”
I nod but don’t say anything else. The realization that things are so different now—for me and for the world at large—hits me sideways.
Winnie must sense the pang of grief at the lost memories, because she glances at Iris and thankfully pulls the attention away from me. “I’d say that empty plate is a raving endorsement.”
Iris wipes her mouth with her napkin, then tucks it back onto her lap. Her cheeks flush pink as her gaze falls to the plate in front of her.
It’s been literally wiped clean, because she used bread to sop up all the sauce. If I did that, my grandmother would say, “Bravo , ragazzo ! Bravo!”
Roughly translated, it’s “Attaboy!”
She winces, a little sheepish, because Winnie and I are still working on our meals. “It was really good.”
People compliment my cooking all the time but rarely to my face. For one reason or another, this simple sentiment sparks something inside of me. Something familiar but maybe forgotten.
I dismiss it, of course, because who gets sappy over a plate of pasta?
The kitten wobbles into the eating area, seeming to explore its new home, and I think about the article. It did mention that Winnie had recently lost her beloved pet.
I brought food, and Iris brought a cat.
For years, I’ve been sorting out the newspaper’s demands, and in all that time, I’ve never had any help. Which makes me wonder again . . . why now? And why her?
I watch Iris as she serves herself another heaping portion of the pasta, and she looks up at me and gives a quirky little smile.
“Yeah, I’m not going to apologize. It’s freaking good. You should feed this to the Pope, seriously.”
Something odd happens.
I laugh.
And an unfamiliar rush of attraction zips through me.
I glance at Winnie and find her watching me watch Iris. She gives me a knowing smile .
And . . . that’s my cue.
I’ve been around enough older women to know that the second they find out you’re single, they turn finding you a love match into their full-time job. “I should go,” I say.
“But you’re not done eating,” Winnie says. “And it gets my seal of approval too. I hope you’ll add it to your menu immediately.”
“I might,” I say, still undecided. I stand. “I don’t think it’s right yet.”
“So . . . you’re a perfectionist,” Iris says—a statement, not a question.
“When it comes to my grandmother’s recipes? I feel like I have to be,” I say. Again, odd that I’m even talking, but especially about my feelings.
Iris shrugs. “This seems perfect to me. If not perfect, then perfect-adjacent.”
“I . . .” I stammer for a moment, then realize I’m being rude. “Thank you. It was a pleasure to cook for you.” I clear my throat. “Uh, both of you.”
Iris turns to Winnie and says, “I should go too, but . . .” She indicates the food she just heaped onto her plate.
There’s an odd moment between the women, and Winnie then, all of a sudden, says, “I’ll pack everything up and bring you a doggie bag. It’s no trouble at all!”
Winnie scoots her chair back and heads into the kitchen to start rummaging through cupboards. I freeze where I stand, because Iris is now looking at me with a knowing look.
If her face were a body, it would have its hands on its hips.
I’m hoping to avoid another confrontation with Iris, like in the hallway, but it’s obvious she’s not going to make that easy.
She stands and, still looking at me, walks her plate over to the counter and sets it down .
“Oh, just leave it, dear,” Winnie says. “You cooked. I’ll take care of the mess.”
Iris looks around the nearly spotless kitchen, then at me. “What mess?”
Winnie laughs. “Well, I suppose you’re right. Chef Matteo left everything neat as a pin.”
Iris watches me, and I can practically see the list of questions growing behind her eyes.
“You’ll both come back again, won’t you?” Winnie asks.
“I’d love to come back,” Iris says. “Maybe you can show me a few of your favorite paintings?” She motions around the space. “Looks like you’re a collector.”
Winnie smiles. “I would love that.” She looks at me. “And Chef? Will you be back?”
“I will,” I say, “I have many recipes that need testing.”
I like Winnie, which surprises me since I don’t like many people. But more than that, I don’t think my assignment here is finished. Sometimes, what the newspaper wants me to do is one-and-done—anonymously make sure two people enter each other’s orbit, for instance. Other times, there’s more. It seems like this is one of those times. I have a feeling there has to be more than a cat and a couple of meals to this one, I just don’t know what.
I’ve gotten used to waiting to figure it out.
There’s no rushing magic.
“Do either of you like to dance?” Winnie asks as I rinse my plate and file it into her dishwasher.
Behind me, Iris laughs, and I can’t help but notice it’s the kind of laugh that dances around in the air even after she’s gone quiet. The kind that seems to catch her off-guard.
“Is that a no?” Winnie looks at Iris, eyebrows raised.
“What a left-field question,” she says, still giggling. “Winnie, I love to dance. Just not in front of people.” The kitten pads over and winds a figure-eight around Iris’s ankles. She stiffens a little, almost like she’s not exactly comfortable with cats.
Still, she brought it here.
For Winnie.
“You?” Winnie looks at me.
I frown. I don’t remember the question.
“Do you dance?” She says this pointedly, as if she is speaking to a small child.
“Uh, no.” The question conjures the image of the first moonlit night in that tiny apartment with Aria, the day we got back from our honeymoon. The moon was so full, Aria asked to keep the lights off while she turned on a slow, jazzy love song and asked me to dance right there in our living room.
With her, it was easy to try things I was sure I wouldn’t be good at.
With her, everything seemed attainable.
It didn’t matter if I looked foolish or even ridiculous. She had such a big, larger-than-life personality, it pulled me out of my shell.
When she died, I retreated. I have zero interest in those things anymore. I’m much happier to stick to what I know, to what makes sense.
Which is cooking.
“Why do you ask?” Iris looks at Winnie, and I feel the second her eyes are no longer trained on me. Something inside me shifts.
“The community center down the block offers square dance classes. I thought it would be fun.” Winnie doesn’t hide her disappointment. “I used to do it all the time with my husband. He didn’t love it, but he indulged me.” Her smile is wistful. “If I’m going to eat this much pasta, I’m going to have to find a way to keep my girlish figure.” She shimmies, and Iris laughs .
I try to ignore it, but it’s like a song that gets stuck in your head.
“I’d love to help, but I don’t know the first thing about square dancing,” Iris says apologetically. “But thank you both for letting me crash your meal.” Then she looks at me. “I honestly haven’t had food that good since I moved here.” It’s so kind and unexpected, especially given how rude I’ve been to her.
“He’s good. I might keep him around for a bit.” Winnie winks at her, then scoops up the kitten. “And don’t be silly. You didn’t crash anything. We were happy to have you.” She pets the cat between the ears. “I haven’t had this much company in . . .” Her voice trails off as if she’s trying to remember the last time she entertained. “A long time. Let’s just say that.”
Iris looks at me, and I quickly look away. I don’t need to be exchanging meaningful glances.
“I should go.” I take purposeful strides across the apartment, hoping I can reach the door before Iris is ready to leave, but when I turn back to say a final “goodbye,” I find her right behind me.
Same look on her face. I take in her features—the not-quite brown, not-quite auburn hair, the wide eyes, the trail of freckles across her nose. She’s a great blend of adorable and pretty, and that is not something I should be thinking. I look away.
She clearly has no intention of letting me escape, and I brace myself for whatever interaction I’m about to have.
I know she’s got questions.
I know I probably have the answers.
The last thing I need right now is to have to navigate a nosy neighbor on top of everything else.
So, I do what I always do—slip on my resolve, which feels a lot like armor, and prepare to drive her away.