I’d managed to get the job done, but only just, and I hadn’t gotten the same satisfaction as I once had. One time, and I was scrambling out of the bed and into my clothes, claiming an early morning as an excuse to get the hell out of there.
Since that night, I hadn’t bothered trying to pick up another woman. Instead, I’d thrown myself into work, coming in early and staying late. That plan had paid off one day two weeks ago, when one of the servers had come into the kitchen and told me that a customer had asked to meet me.
I’d sighed and rolled my eyes. This kind of thing didn’t happen often in a restaurant like ours, where we catered to families and our diners tended to be the same people, year after year. But every so often, someone from Philadelphia or New York was passing through and stumbled on us. If they liked my desserts, they might ask to compliment me in person. I understood that it was part of the restaurant game, but I didn’t have to like it.
Since my mood at that moment wasn’t great anyway, I’d snarled something and stomped out of the kitchen, following the server to the table, where an older couple sat. The woman had half a cannoli on her plate, while her husband was enjoying my tartufo. After the server had introduced me as the pastry chef and left us, the man stood up, offering me his hand.
“Your tartufo is excellent, son, but I called you out here because I had a bite of my wife’s dessert, too.” He pointed to her plate. “This is the best damn cannoli I’ve had in years.” His eyes were bright and shrewd in a face that I estimated was pushing eighty pretty hard. “Reminds me of my own mother’s, may God rest her soul.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s quite a compliment.” I smiled, some of my irritation dissipating. This wasn’t some idiot trying to look like a big shot by calling out the chef. This was someone who’d truly enjoyed my work, and I had no problem with that.
“How long have you worked here?” The man glanced around the dining room. “Nice place, but it seems a little out of the way for someone with your talent.”
“This is my family’s place,” I admitted. “It’s the only restaurant I’ve worked in, except for during culinary school, when I interned at a bakery in Ocean City.”
He fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “My name’s Peter Romano. I own a boutique hotel in Philly. We have a small restaurant there—nothing flashy, but we do okay. If you ever think about making a move, give me a call. I’d like to talk with you.”
I took the card, glanced at it, and tucked it into my wallet. “Thanks. I don’t have any plans to make a change, though. Like I said, this is my family’s business. I’ve never thought of working anywhere else.”
Mr. Romano nodded. “I understand. My place is family-run, too. Our daughter handles the hotel part, our son is the head chef in the restaurant ... and Midge and I oversee them.”
His wife beamed at me. “Come see us the next time you’re in town. Even if you don’t want a job, we’d love to show you around and let you see what we do.”
I’d nodded, smiled and thanked them before making my way back to the kitchen. My dad had looked up as I came in.
“Another satisfied customer?” He’d patted my arm. “Nice work, son. Don’t know what we’d do without you.”
I’d grunted, feeling unreasonably guilty about Peter Romano’s card in my pocket.
Since that night, I’d taken out the card and looked at it more often than I cared to admit. I’d done some on-line research on the Romanos, too; after all, being Italian myself, I wasn’t stupid about what people could be involved in. But everything I saw looked like it was on the up-and-up, and the hotel, located in a desirable area between Chestnut and Sansom, had glowing reviews. It was clearly a business that had been around for a long time, and its reputation was well-established.
Still, I didn’t call. I didn’t dump the card, I didn’t throw it away or forget about it, but I didn’t call, either. The card burned a hole in my pocket while I worked in the kitchen at Cucina Felice, when my mother drove me crazy, when my brother shouted at me, or when my dad told me that we were behind on orders.
On the other hand, its presence did serve to distract me from the annoying memories of Amanda, so there was that.
The door swung open again, and Ma poked her head into the kitchen.
“Vincent! Mrs. Shepherd called. She’s bringing in her granddaughter tonight, for her thirteenth birthday. It’s last minute, but you know the Shepherds. They’ve been coming here for years. I told her you’d make a special birthday cake. The granddaughter likes chocolate.”
Gritting my teeth, I closed my eyes as my hand wandered to my back pocket and touched the pocket where Peter Romano’s card lay. Maybe change wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe I should investigate all my options.
And the fact that Amanda Simmons lived in the city where one of those options lay ... well, maybe that was just a happy coincidence.
Or maybe not.
