Chapter 3 #2
I think of the photo of my parents, hearts in their smiles, love in their eyes.
They’re happy doing what they do, and that used to make me feel like Michael was wrong.
“I do have a home,” I told him before I asked for a divorce.
All you need is yourself, your pounding heart, and to listen to that feeling in your gut, Mom used to say when she’d pull out the map to show me the cities she and my dad were considering next.
I know I am my own home. But even though I can’t picture my parents ever settling somewhere, I know they’re happy because they’re together.
When Carmello called me yesterday, I had a twisting feeling in my gut that told me refusing to sign over my shares was the right move.
Since then, I’ve wracked my brain for a sensible reason why his mom would leave me part of her restaurant.
The facts: I left Providence at nineteen, and Celia and I kept in contact over emails, sharing recipes and updates.
But we hardly reminisced about my time working for her at Celia’s Place, even though food holds memories and some of my most memorable were rushing to bite into one of her perfectly crisped lumpia right after she fried them and trying not to burn my tongue, or stirring a pot of arroz caldo that smelled strongly of ginger alongside her in the restaurant.
The last time she and I talked was five months before she died.
That email was different from others. She asked if we could hop on a call because she needed advice on how to revamp the restaurant.
I was excited she wanted my opinion on anything at all, but I was also busy.
When I sent her my availability, she said she’d get back to me, then she never did.
I had guessed she changed her mind on talking to me about it, and I didn’t want to push.
This updated will situation could have been a slipup on her part. But two other theories are circulating in my brain:
There might be something Carmello still needs help with at the restaurant, but Celia knew he’d never accept mine without her forcing his hand a little.
Maybe this is her way of getting the two of us to see each other again. She always was a bit of a meddler.
Which is exactly why sensible me and dreamy me are battling for dominance.
With the latter whispering: It sounds like fate, something tethering you back to Providence and him. And what had I shaped my whole life around, but following the shifting winds, seeking out my own destiny?
It’s why I curl up on the couch and open Carmello’s text thread, trying to steady my hands and calm my racing heart by taking deep breaths before reading it.
Olivia,
Hope all is well. Writing to you because I’m wondering if we could set up a virtual meeting to discuss you signing over your shares. I have a couple of propositions for you that could benefit us both.
Warm regards, Carmello
I snort while rereading his fancy little outro. Is this an email or a text message? Warm regards, my ass. If someone else read this, they’d never be able to tell that this man used to enjoy having his head between my thighs. I chew my cheek while I quickly type up a reply.
Good evening, Carmello,
I’d love to hear these propositions of yours, and I may have some of my own. I’m not simply signing my shares away. But…if we put our heads together, I’m sure we can reach an agreement that we both feel good about. We used to come up with the best recipes together when we were kids : )
Tell me when you’re free.
Love, Olivia
I send the email-coded text message, and a rush of adrenaline washes over me, knowing it’ll get under his skin. Wishing that I could see his face when he reads it. Thinking he’ll probably simmer for a long while before he thinks of a smart reply.
But I’m wrong.
Bubbles appear on my screen straightaway, and I can’t bear to keep the chat open while he writes back. I throw my phone down for a second and stick my face in a pillow. When I finally glance at my screen again, his reply is waiting for me.
I exhale and click on the text message. Then promptly roll my damn eyes.
Great. Sending a link to my calendar of the available times I have this week and next. I truly appreciate your cooperation.
Best, Carmello
I stare at my phone until the words turn my thoughts petty.
I could tell him we’ll talk when I’m ready, have him wondering if it’ll be never.
But it has to be soon. I have no choice but to deal with this.
I’m between jobs now, but days before my divorce was finalized and Carmello’s life-changing call, I was asked to move with one of my favorite clients, who has work to do in Japan.
I’ll be contracted to cook for her for a year, which is a long time and far away from my life in Houston just when I’m starting to feel like I might really need to dig in on the relationships I’ve built here, but the money is great, and I’ve never been to Tokyo.
She has some other things to sort out first, and I still have six weeks to commit before she looks for another private chef.
Now that dreamy voice in me whispers, What if there’s a different path? What if this is the world’s way of saying there’s something still waiting for me in Providence?
So, I choose the 5:30 p.m. appointment slot on Carmello’s calendar for tomorrow.