Chapter 35
EMILY
“Hey there, Emily,” says Mike, pushing through Salvatore’s kitchen door, cradling a paper coffee cup in both hands.
He’s been gone since nine a.m.
In the quiet of the morning, I had let my daydreams get the better of me as I filled out some paperwork from our new suppliers.
“What’s up with that little smile wiggling around your lips?” Mike asks, catching me unaware.
I tighten my lips immediately. “I wasn’t smiling …”
“Okay,” he says with a little “gotcha” grin as Gina’s dog Biscotti trots forward to greet him.
I watch them embrace for a moment.
Mike was right.
I was smiling as I thought about Lorenzo and the experience we shared at the Koko lunch club yesterday.
It was the most incredible experience of my life. I had always thought that when it came time for sex, I’d be the romantic, old-fashioned type.
That I’d want my husband to make love to me in the classical the missionary position, where we could look into each other’s eyes and kiss on the lips.
And of course, in the utmost privacy.
To my surprise, I loved the thrill of having sex in unexpected places. Like the museum, especially since all the well-to-do muckety-mucks were audible just outside the gallery.
“And of course, the powder room at Koko, with the most influential Manhattanites just beyond the door. The memory of Lorenzo’s mouth moving down my neck, the way he pulled me by my new collar—or necklace, as the rest of New York saw it—when he was entering me from the back, makes me melt even now.
To my surprise, all I can think of is wanting more. I don’t want it to end with the collar. I want more restraint. I loved the way Lorenzo made me feel helpless and powerful at the same time.”
“I don’t think Gina would like the way you’re spoiling her dog,” I say, my voice coming out a little hoarse.
“Gina wants him to be spoiled. And entertained,” Mike says, scratching Biscotti’s belly. “Otherwise she wouldn’t ask you to bring him here nearly each day like it’s a doggy day care center.”
“True enough,” I agree. Gina must figure that having Biscotti here is a way to maintain a connection to her beloved restaurant project.
That’s probably the same reason she had the video monitor installed above the new prep counter.
That way, she could dial in and feel a part of our meetings, tastings, and unfortunately, the occasional argument that breaks out between me and Mike. We share the big-picture vision, but sometimes small things get in the way.
Still, it’s a shame Gina can’t be in the kitchen physically and smell the aroma of Chef Paul’s delicious pizzas.
Under Mike’s tutelage, the kid is always experimenting with new techniques and more esoteric toppings.
When the restaurant finally opens, I have complete faith a glowing review of Salvatore’s restaurant will be all over the New York Times Food and Dining section.
“Hey, boss,” says Paul, his tall, lanky frame entering the kitchen. Delivery at the front door. Needs your signature.”
“So sign it.”
“I tried,” Paul says with a shrug. ”He said he needs to give it to you personally.”
Then Paul turns to Mike. “You said you wanted to check out that new spice shop with me. Better go now before they close.”
“Now is good. See you later, Em,” says Mike. Paul waves goodbye.
After they leave, I focus on the work at hand. Biscotti yawns and settles into his daybed on the kitchen floor.
The insistent sound of the doorbell jars me. I’d forgotten completely about the delivery.
I wipe my hands on a red and white checkered dishcloth, then answer it.
“Mrs. Ricci?” a man wearing a bright yellow and red DHL uniform asks me.
“Yes. How can I help you?”
“I have a delivery for you,” he says, holding out medium-sized box.
“That’s me,” I say, reaching out to take it.
The chill hits my palms through the cardboard immediately. It’s that frosty ice cube tray in the freezer kind of cold.
I shift it in my arms and feel the weight redistribute. “Wow. It’s freezing. And heavy too.”
I don’t remember ordering perishable supplies. What can it be. Meat?
Then I remember Mike suggested I order alligator meat from Georgia.
“I’d like Mike to spice it up, see how it works as a pizza topping. I bet a “predator-based” protein would appeal to our core clientele.”
I remember laughing and thinking it was a great idea, but not ordering it.
“Great,” I say, signing for it. “Thank you.”
“I was told that you should look it over and make sure it’s okay before you stick it into the freezer.”
“Got it.”
He salutes me with his cap and walks off in a jaunty fashion.
Happy guy, I think to myself, walking back inside the restaurant.
Biscotti moves closer, takes a sniff, then lets out some sort of doggy squeal as he backs away to a corner of the room.
“Biscotti, quiet,” I say, thinking he can’t be hungry. People feed him snacks all day.
Anxious to get on with my other work, I lift the top as the delivery man instructed.
The stench hits me first.
Something copper and animal, like the back of a butcher’s shop in August.
Then I look down into the box and see it.
A dark, glistening pile, still wet, threaded through with something pale.
I don’t know what I’m looking at. I take one step back, then another, my heel catching on the tile, and scream.