Chapter 35
GINA
“Hey, Biscotti, how are you doing?” Lorenzo greets my dog as he pops into my office now that I’m at the restaurant for the afternoon.
Biscotti’s ears perk up as soon as he hears Lorenzo’s voice. He leaps off the comfy new doggy bed I bought for his lounging pleasure and waddles over to my brother-in-law.
“Biscotti, no!” I say, as he ignores me and parks his paws on Lorenzo’s silk pants.
“Please excuse my shameless dog,” I say as Lorenzo scoops up my puppy and clutches him to his chest.
“It’s okay. Feels good to be admired,” he says, walking around my desk to look at my notepad.
“Is this your new chef design for the mural? I love it.”
“But will Dante?” The words rush out before I can stop myself.
Oh, man. I must sound like a junior high schoolgirl crushing on her teacher and angling for a gold star.
Lorenzo laughs. “Dante will like anything you do, Gina. He’s crazy about you.”
“He doesn’t show it.” I sigh, folding my arms across my chest.
“That’s just Dante’s way,” Lorenzo says. “He adores you.”
I allow that pleasant thought to wash over me. Even though I wonder if Lorenzo’s just trying to smooth over Dante’s brusque manner.
“Well, the sketch isn’t quite finished. Not for the final presentation I’ll be making for my professor, anyway. I’ve narrowed the chef figures to three from the original five. But I’m only satisfied with the expression on one of the faces.”
“You’ll figure it out,” he assures me. “It’s all coming together, Gina. I can already see the opening night six months from now.”
“I’m betting it will be longer than that,” I correct. My mind flashes back to Alice’s parents struggling to build their upscale bistro years ago.
It seemed like it took forever.
I was a kid, but I still remember her parents complaining about tough-talking contractors, plumbing issues, and the endless wait for permits.
“There’s so much we still have to coordinate. It’s never as fast as you think,” I tell him.
“Ah, but you forget that not every restaurant has the Ricci magic touch,” he says with a wink.
I know what he’s implying. In New York, the “Ricci touch” means the kind of influence that makes city inspectors look the other way and contractors show up on time out of pure fear.
“How are you doing in your search for a mural installer?” he asks.
“Good. I’ve narrowed the list of candidates to Eugene Dureff. He installed the murals for ABC Delight and a few other celebrity-chef restaurants downtown. I’ve had a few phone conversations with him already.”
“And?”
“He impressed me with his questions. He asked if our existing walls need prep, priming, or repairs. Details that never occurred to me. I’ve scheduled a meeting with him at his Long Island City warehouse next week. Will you come with me?”
“Sure. But will your caricature of the chefs be finalized by then?”
“Probably not,” I say, laughing a little.
“I’m always looking for new inspiration. But the important thing is to lock down the mural installer. So much of the success of the restaurant design rests on his shoulders. If he delays, the restaurant opening could be set back months.”
Lorenzo shoots me a look that’s part pride, part brotherly amusement.
“Gina, you’ve done the research, and you have the vision. If you don’t get the right vibe from this Eugene Dureff guy, choose another mural installer. One you trust. You’re the boss on this one.”
The word boss sends a jolt through me.
I’ve spent the last three nights researching the famed, reclusive muralist Eugene Dureff. I know his industrial process, I know the way he uses large-format projection for his murals.
And I know exactly how he’ll turn my chefs from a notebook sketch into a twenty-foot masterpiece.
When I emailed Professor Washington with his name and the reasons I wanted to select him, Washington agreed with my choice and my reasoning.
“Thanks for the encouragement, Lorenzo.” I close my notebook as I stand. “I’m going home early to cook lasagna for Dante tonight. A surprise.”
“Why a surprise?”
I shrug as I put Biscotti in his carrier. “Dante and I live in a literal castle in the sky. We had a fantasy wedding, and it’s been great…” I turn to Lorenzo. “But we’ve barely had time to talk.”
“Hence the home-cooked dinner trick, huh?” says Lorenzo with a knowing smile. “Well, have fun.”
“Ciro, hi,” I say, arriving in our penthouse to find Dante’s house manager in the kitchen organizing the groceries I had delivered.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ricci. Would you like me to help you prep the sauce?” His hand hovers over a jar of imported tomatoes.
“No, Ciro. I’ve got it.” As I speak the words, I notice a slight disappointment on his face.
Ciro’s only trying to make himself useful, I remind myself.
But all day, I’ve looked forward to this small act of domesticity.
I need the scent of garlic and the heat of the stove to prove I can be more than just a contract bride for Dante.
I want to be a real wife.
“Thanks for understanding. I just want a quiet night with my husband.”
“You’re the boss!” Ciro raises his hands in mock surrender. Then he gives Biscotti a doggy biscuit and gathers his things to leave the apartment.
Once I’m alone, I pull out the heavy glass pans from the cupboard. Then I open a cardboard box of pasta, feeling the weight of the task.
I’m not a natural cook. But I’ve watched Alice’s mother enough times to know the rhythm of it.
After changing into a feminine skirt and freshening my make-up, I pour myself a glass of wine and turn on the stereo.
Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the kitchen, smooth and timeless, matching the hot housewife fantasy I’m building for Dante. Biscotti looks up as I sing along.
“If I can make it here,” I croon, picking up my puppy and giving him a whirl. We dance around this ten-million-dollar apartment in the clouds above the Big Apple.
By 9:15, the table glows with candles. Lasagna bubbles in the oven, filling the apartment with the scent of oregano. And the memory of that Sicilian summer when I first cast my eyes on Dante so long ago.
The oven timer is still ticking when I hear the heavy click of the front door. The penthouse door opens and Dante steps inside.
“Welcome home!” I say, gesturing to the martini I premade, waiting for him in its gleaming silver shaker.
Dante takes in the candles flickering in the dining room. And then the lace-trimmed apron I tied over my skirt as a last-minute touch of domestic theater.
“Surprised?” I ask, wondering if the famous Iceberg took the time to read the text I sent him.
“What are you up to, Gina?” he asks, his voice low and cautious.
“Just making dinner for my husband. Can’t you smell the lasagna cooking?”
His nostrils flare. “I smell lasagna burning.”
I whirl around just as a plume of gray smoke billows out from the oven vent.
Rushing to the kitchen, I find my masterpiece a blackened, bubbling wreck. What went wrong?
Then I feel Dante’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s a sweet gesture.” He tucks his fingers under my chin to pull my face toward his. Then he kisses me tenderly on the lips.
“Shall I order out?”
“No. I have another idea…”