Chapter 25
LORENZO
Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask Emily once we’re back in the apartment.
I dab hydrogen peroxide on her blistered shoulder skin revealed by her torn dress.
“Yes. But I think it’s time to take you up on that glass of scotch you always seem to be offering.”
“Gina didn’t give me the full picture,” I say, as I walk to the bar. “Why did you go to that restaurant alone tonight?”
“I wanted to go first, just by myself, and give Gina the full report.”
“Report on what?”
I take a deep breath. “Yesterday Gina invited me to see her murals at the restaurant. She explained about the liquor license expiration and the need to move forward with the restaurant’s opening.”
“But the restaurant has nothing to do with you.”
“Exactly,” she says, her voice suddenly cold. “I’m only in New York another week or so. Then I’m gone forever.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it as bluntly as that.
“You’re right. I am only here another few weeks. But I had nothing to lose by taking it upon myself to have a look and give Gina a report.”
“And? What did you think?”
“Chef Rodriguez is brilliant,” she says, after a brief hesitation. “But your restaurant doesn’t need a famous chef. It needs a strong manager who understands how to borrow fashionable trends and make them the restaurant’s own. But that’s a conversation for another day and another time.”
“No. Tell me now.”
I listen, somewhat surprised, as Emily tells me about her conversation with a guy named Mike. And her family’s historic Fisher House restaurant.
“Are you interested in building out the Ricci restaurant?” I ask, surprised by the interest she’s taken.
“No. Especially yours. And like you just said, I’ll be out of this ‘golden prison’ in a few weeks, so why bother?”
We sit silently for a moment. Then she rises. “I’m going to take a bath.”
“I’ll run it for you. You sit here and relax.”
I turn before she can argue. The bathroom tiles are cold through my socks.
I twist the hot tap until steam begins to rise, then sit on the edge of the tub and watch the water climb. When I come back out, she is still in the same spot, the scotch glass cradled in both hands.
“Thank you,” she says, without looking up.