Chapter 37
GINA
When I open my eyes, the sky is dark, but I can tell New York is still wide awake. Dante’s chest rises and falls beside me in my bed, his arm draped heavy across my waist.
I carefully wiggle free from his warmth and pad over to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Thirty-eight floors below, bright yellow taxi cabs crawl along the grid of streets like luminous beetles, ferrying tourists to fancy dinners and Broadway shows.
The city lights twinkle against the inky backdrop. Despite the dark sky, the sidewalks are dotted with people.
Tiny figures from this height, but all on the move. It must be earlier than I think.
My stomach rumbles, and it all comes back to me.
The burned lasagna.
And though it was delicious, the salty snack I enjoyed earlier with Dante has left me hungry for more.
When Dante stirs in the bed, I dive back under the covers and snuggle against his warm body.
I press my lips against that sweet spot I love, right where his shoulder curves up to meet his neck.
I can feel his pulse against my mouth, steady and strong. His stubble scratches my forehead a little as he shifts position.
He snuggles me instinctively, and then, as if he’s forgotten himself, he sits up and reaches for his phone. “What time is it?”
“Early,” I say, dismayed as he flips through his messages.
“Are you hungry?” I ask hopefully.
Instead of responding, he clicks on a message to read it more closely.
I fight a sigh. Once he gets hold of a message, once he returns a call, there’s no coming back.
“Please, Dante, let’s spend the whole night together.”
He looks at me, seeming slightly amused. “What do you mean the whole night?”
“You said something about wanting to spend more time with me. You said I was beautiful.” I count off on my fingers all the incredible things he said about me earlier tonight, and even some things he didn’t.
“What do you want to do?” he asks.
“We’re living in New York. We could do anything we want. Go to a Broadway play. Maybe even crash a gala. Nothing is beyond Dante Ricci.”
Then I smile at him. “Remember what Lorenzo said the other day?”
“Lorenzo says a lot of things,” Dante says. “What are you talking about?”
“He said you should take me to Little Italy.”
“And his reason?” he asks.
I throw a pillow at him. “So I can see genuine Italian pizza chefs at work. I’m meeting with my professor tomorrow, and I want to show him a genuine Italian face. Besides, I’m starving. Can we go?”
“Why not? Pizza sounds good right now.”
“Goody,” I say, bouncing on the bed like a little kid.
In less than half an hour, we’re in the limousine with Thomas driving.
“Your secretary was able to arrange a VIP tour of several good restaurants at short notice,” Thomas reports from the driver’s seat. “You’ll get VIP treatment tonight. No worries about that, Mr. Ricci.”
“That’s the least of my worries, Thomas,” Dante says with a secret look at me.
I stifle a giggle. “Do the chefs know I’m going to be sketching them?”
“It’s all been taken care of, Mrs. R.,” Thomas says.
Since we can’t eat five pizza dinners, the plan is for Thomas to double park outside each restaurant. He’ll remain there just long enough for me to get a sketch of the chef owner.
Dante puts a possessive arm around me as he leads me up the concrete stairs of the first restaurant on the list.
Once he opens the door, the place is pretty much what I expected. An overheated large space with an Italian flag and tables of happy-looking people.
“Mr. Ricci,” says the hostess. She’s attractive in an old-fashioned, Italian way, pleasingly plump, glossy black hair, big red lips. “We’ve been expecting you. Let me take you to your table.”
The woman escorts us to a table with a red-and-white checked cloth and paper napkins.
“We understand you’re on a tight schedule, so we’ve arranged to have some small dishes brought out to you,” she says. “And we’ll send special wine from our cellar.”
“Oh no,” I say, glancing at Dante. “Instead do you have wine in a jug inside the wicker basket?”
“Yes,” says the woman.
“I’d like that.”
As soon as she leaves us, Dante turns to me, an amused smile on his lips.
“I know you don’t understand wine, Gina, but that style of Chianti is rotgut. Attractive to look at the bottle in the rustic straw basket, but don’t dare drink it.”
I shrug. “I don’t care what it tastes like. I’ve seen those bottles in romantic movies. I want to see one on my table here with you tonight.”
Waiters quickly fill the table with small plates of food.
A few moments later, the chef arrives.
His white outfit is relatively clean, except for a red splotch of spaghetti sauce near his breast pocket. He’s old and craggy with protruding eyes and a big honker of a nose.
I start sketching him immediately.
“Please have a seat, Chef,” I tell him. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions while I sketch?”
He swallows and nods like he has no choice as he pulls the chair out.
“Of course, Mrs. Ricci.”
“When did you first start cooking?” I say, outlining his deep-set wrinkles. I pay special attention to his curiously shaped nose.
Imbued with a life of its own, the nose looks as if it’s been caught sniffing something suspicious.
I ask the chef a few more questions, but nothing in his words or face is very usable. His guarded expression will ruin the chef composition I have in mind.
Knowing Dante’s taking time out of his busy schedule to indulge me, I smile, thank the chef, and we make a quick exit.
The next restaurant is a little more upscale. The crowd younger and trendier, with more attention placed in the decor.
There are cloth napkins here, not just paper ones. The chef who comes to our table is young and self-assured.
His uniform is so spotless I’m curious whether he does any work in the kitchen at all. When I ask him about his upbringing and culinary school experience, he deflects my questions.
“None of that is important,” he says, sounding misinformed about the reason I wanted to see him. “If my image is to be the focus of your restaurant, I want to see the contract upfront. I want full creative control. And I’ll need to approve the advertising budget tonight before anything else.”
I clear my throat. “I was under the impression that this restaurant has stood at this location for more than one hundred years. That your grandfather ran it and his grandfather before him.”
“Correct,” he says with a dazzling Hollywood smile. “But the family that owns it recently sold to a corporation, and they hired me.”
That explains it.
We spend just a short time in the next three restaurants, each authentic in its own way.
It’s not until we enter the last restaurant of the evening that the chef who comes to sit at our table treats Dante with the respect he deserves.
Unfortunately, this chef doesn’t have the round jovial face I had hoped to find either.
What is it with these old Italian chefs and their gaunt features?
But this chef does have the bright brown eyes of my fantasy chef.
And when I ask him about his favorite recipes, his face comes to life.
And he actually puts his fingers to his lips and kisses them.
“Mamma mia,” he says. “You should taste my lasagna. My grandmother taught that to me when I was eight years old. Let me go into the kitchen and make it personally for you.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” I say, laughing as I sketch his vivid expression on paper. Every time I ask him about his grandmother’s dishes, a new expression crosses his face. Which means I’m not satisfied with one sketch of him. I end up filling my sketchpad with his image.
By the time I look up from my sketchpad, the once-bustling room is mostly empty. Waiters clean the tables while the hostess closes down her stand.
“Thank you so much for your words and your time. Do you mind if I sketch the decor? I know you have to get back to the kitchen.”
“Of course, stay, sketch, be my guest. I’ll send you out some grappa,” he says, looking at Dante. “You’ll love it. Homemade.”
Dante does indeed enjoy his grappa and phone scrolling while I sketch the charming interior of this intimate restaurant.
The sketches are good, I think to myself, looking each one over. Damn, I’m good.
“Content?” says Dante, catching me admiring my own work.
I nod. “I’m so excited to show the sketches to Professor Washington tomorrow. I can’t wait to see the expression on his face. The look of this last chef is what I’ve yearned to capture since I first conceived of the idea.”
Dante looks at me. I can’t even begin to understand the expression in his eyes. He’s smiling, but his eyes seem dead serious.
“What’s wrong, Dante? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Was I looking at you in any particular way?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “If I was a sleuth, I would say you were looking at me in a questioning way.”
He laughs. “Sorry, Gina, I didn’t mean to stare you down.”
“Then what is it? Explain what you’re thinking.”
He puts his hand on mine. “I was thinking how lucky I am to have you.”
I feel a surge of happiness. Things are finally coming together. “Right back at you, Dante.”