Chapter 47
Chapter Forty-Seven
GOING TO THE ZOO
Celeste
I'd always wondered why Max went all caveman on Shane during our reception.
Last night, as we lay tangled in sheets after making love, he finally told me: even then, standing at that altar with our fake vows, something primal in him had already claimed me.
I nearly choked on my wine. The man I thought was glaring daggers at me that day had actually been staking his territory—marking what he already considered his.
Mom stands beneath the entrance arch, her colorful silk scarf catching the evening light.
She'd chosen it over the wig that never sits right against her scalp.
The emerald wrap blouse brings out something in her eyes I haven't seen in months.
"My son-in-law rented an entire zoo," she whispers to her friends, who exchange looks of delighted disbelief.
Max's eyes sparkle mischievously. "Before anything else—dinner awaits.
" He extends his arm to my mother, who accepts it with a blush and a giggle, shooting me a look of excitement I haven't witnessed since before her diagnosis.
I trail behind them as our little procession moves toward an elegant table set beneath the night sky.
White linen drapes the surface, flickering candles cast golden light across polished silverware, and a formal waiter stands nearby, napkin draped precisely over one forearm, crystal water pitcher poised in his hand.
When Max had asked what Mom craves most, I didn't hesitate.
"Pizza," I told him, "but not the greasy meat-lover's kind.
" I described how she'd close her eyes in bliss over a pie loaded with mushrooms, artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes.
"She used to pair it with red wine," I added, my voice catching slightly, "before everything changed.
" I found myself smiling as I detailed her perfect side dish: a Greek salad with black olives nestled among tomatoes, more of those artichoke hearts she can never get enough of, crumbled feta, peperoncini for kick, homemade croutons, all dressed in that particular vinaigrette that walks the line between zesty and overwhelming.
We take our seats at the table, and within moments, steaming plates appear before us—pizza, Mom's favorite.
One bite tells me this isn't from any delivery joint.
The mozzarella melts like silk against my tongue, clearly imported from some Italian village where cheese-making is religion.
I detect fontina's nutty whisper beneath it, and asiago's sharp greeting at the edges.
Sun-dried tomatoes burst with concentrated sweetness, while mushrooms—not those bland supermarket buttons, but varieties I can't even name—add earthiness.
Artichoke hearts, clearly fresh-trimmed, punctuate each slice.
Beneath it all, olive oil and garlic form a fragrant foundation, with basil leaves scattered like confetti across the top.
I bite into the pizza and close my eyes.
"Oh my god." The word 'pizza' feels inadequate—like calling the Sistine Chapel a 'ceiling.
' My taste buds are still dancing when the server sets down our Greek salad.
The feta crumbles like it was made this morning, nestled among plump Kalamata olives and crisp pepperoncinis.
Every cucumber slice snaps with freshness.
The tomatoes burst with summer, and the croutons shatter perfectly between my teeth.
I drag a piece through the dressing—tangy, spiced, with just enough oil to coat my tongue without drowning the ingredients.
My mother seems as transported as I am by the food.
Her eyes flutter closed with each bite, and her smile—a real one, not the brave face she's been wearing for months—lights up her whole face.
"One perk of this chemo break," she says, dabbing her lips with a napkin, "is that I can actually taste things again.
No more metallic aftertaste, like I've been licking dirty pennies.
" She has a week's reprieve before starting the new Keytruda treatment her doctor prescribed.
She takes another bite of pizza, then presses her fingertips to her lips in that classic chef's kiss.
Raising her sparkling grape juice, she simply shakes her head. "Heaven. Absolute heaven."
Max's smile gives it away. Some culinary genius with Michelin stars pinned to their chest crafted this pizza—the flavors just dance together so exquisitely that this pizza had to have been prepared by somebody with some serious culinary skills.
I take another bite and glance around at the empty zoo pathways, illuminated only by string lights and the moon above us.
The giraffes are sleeping somewhere beyond that fence, the lions tucked away, and it's just us here celebrating Mom's birthday.
My throat tightens. I refuse to think this could be her last one.
The immunotherapy will work. Next year we'll be back here again, watching her feed the elephants.
I take another bite of the pizza, the flavors still dancing on my tongue.
"Max," I say, setting my fork down. "Did you fly in some celebrity chef for this?
" The crust is so perfectly crisp, the sauce so rich—I half expect him to casually mention Bobby Flay or Giada De Laurentiis is hiding in the kitchen.
Max shrugs, sips his wine, and slides his arm around my shoulders.
"Giorgio Bartolin prepared this dinner," he says with practiced nonchalance, as if everyone has celebrity chefs cooking their meals.
I nearly choke on my bite. Giorgio's show Mangia on The Food Network has me glued to the screen every Thursday night, my kitchen counter littered with scribbled notes and ingredients I can barely pronounce.
Six months ago I burned three attempts at his famous risotto before giving up and ordering takeout.
Mom lets out a delighted giggle at the revelation of our chef's identity.
Beside me, Olivia's jaw drops, her eyes widening to saucers.
I can practically see the culinary worship radiating from her—the same reverence I feel.
After all, Giorgio Bartolin's techniques have shaped the signature dishes she's becoming known for in her catering business: that creamy seafood risotto, those miniature pizzas topped with peppery arugula, the shrimp scampi with just the right kick of heat, each inspired by Giorgio.
And now, somehow, the maestro himself has prepared our dinner. Pinch me.
Mom reaches for another slice of pizza and adds a generous helping of salad to her plate.
"No wonder this dinner is incredible," she says with a wink, then raises her glass toward Zoey and Grace.
The three women clink their glasses together in a toast. "Ladies, I promised you something special tonight, didn't I?
Just look at that sky—crystal clear, with that perfect chill in the air and a full moon hanging over us.
If there was ever a night for something magical to happen," she pauses, her eyes twinkling, "this is definitely it. "
We've just demolished three pizzas and a mountain of salad when Giorgio emerges from the kitchen.
I grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
Beside me, Olivia's practically vibrating, her eyes wide as saucers.
Meeting her culinary hero on tonight of all nights—the universe has perfect timing.
"So pleased to meet you," he says, each word precise and musical with his Italian lilt.
In person, he's devastating—those dark curls falling across his forehead, eyes like espresso, and that mouth that curves like a perfect bow.
No wonder the camera never quite captures him right. “I hope the meal is to your liking.”
My mother jumps to her feet and embraces Giorgio, her eyes wide with delight.
"This is the best birthday surprise ever!
" she gushes. "Celeste never misses an episode of your show, and Olivia here—" she gestures toward my friend, "—she's your biggest fan.
Just last week she was raving about recreating your risotto recipe.
Her kitchen shelves are practically a shrine to your cookbooks. "
Giorgio clasps his hands together as he studies my mother.
"Another Sagittarius! I knew it the moment I saw you—that spark of adventure, that generosity of spirit.
" His fingers fan outward dramatically, tracing invisible constellations.
I can't help but smile. Before the diagnosis, Mom was the woman who'd leap from thirty-foot cliffs into the Ozark lakes while I watched from shore, who'd gun an ATV through mud trails while I clung white-knuckled behind her, laughing into the wind.
The cancer may have temporarily dimmed her light, but Giorgio—meeting her just minutes ago—somehow sees past the hospital pallor to the shooting star beneath.
Some people just recognize their own kind instantly.
Mom's laughter bubbles up like champagne as Giorgio bends over her hand, his lips brushing her skin before he extends an invitation to dance beneath the night sky.
The familiar croon of Sinatra fills the air, and she takes his hand.
We fall silent, watching Giorgio guide her through expert twirls and dramatic dips.
Mom follows his lead effortlessly, her body remembering steps I could never master.
If I tried those moves, I'd be a disaster of tangled limbs and apologies, but she glides across the floor with feline precision, making it look easy.
After the dance, Giorgio and Mom are both laughing hysterically and Mom’s shaking her head.
“Oh, I feel like a girl of 20 tonight,” she says.
“Thank you for the dance, and for the best meal I’ve ever had,” she says to Giorgio.
“Would you like to join our entourage as we walk through the rest of the zoo?”