“Vincent, we give the people what they ask for. They’re the customers. What they want, we make. You want to be some kind of pastry artist, you go do it in your own time. Or work some other place.” Mr. DiMartino tore off a chunk of bread and sopped up some of the red sauce on his plate.
“Funny you should say that.” Vincent’s eyes glittered, and a small thread of dread worked through me. I wanted to grab his arm and beg him not to say anything he was going to regret, but I didn’t think it would have stopped him. He was pissed, but more than that, I felt his hurt. I laid one hand on his arm, more so that he could feel my presence and concern than anything else.
“Vincent—” I whispered.
He went on speaking, either not noticing my touch or ignoring it. “Because it turns out that there are people who want me. People who appreciate what I do and how I do it. People who don’t criticize me every time I turn around or tell me I’m no good.”
“Vincent, when have we ever told you that you were no good?” Mrs. DiMartino’s face was a mix of shock and anger. “Never. We would never say that to any of our children.”
“Maybe not in so many words, but every single time you make it clear that I’m not quite as good as Carl, who cooks the real food. Every single time you make it clear that I’m not as smart as Ava, who has an important job. Or even as Antonia, who probably was the best of all of us, but we’ll never know because she was taken away too soon.”
Panic made my heart pound. As much as I appreciated a good argument, I hated confrontation and tension and drama, and they were all three swirling around us now. Ava leaned forward again, her eyes round as she stared at her brother. Across the table, Carl had set down his fork and was watching the interchange between his father and his brother with a carefully neutral expression on his face. Angela bit her lip, and even Frankie’s small face was clouded.
“Vincent, how dare you? How could you? You bring up your sister who died—” Mrs. DiMartino’s gaze darted to Frankie. “And you try to say your father and I somehow treat you badly? That we think more of some of you than of others? When have we ever done anything but support what you want? We don’t judge. You decide you want to go to school a little longer, learn the pastry arts, we aren’t thrilled, maybe, but you came back and put your skills to good use, and you can still handle the real cooking, too. You don’t settle down, you take home strangers from bars, women you meet God knows where, and everyone around knows you’re some kind of crazy playboy, with all the—” Again, she glanced at her granddaughter. “All the shameful things. But we don’t say anything, do we? We just figure someday, you’ll grow up and pull yourself together.
“Today we were so happy, that you’re bringing Amanda here to dinner. First time you bring home a girl, and she’s a good one, a smart woman with a good future and a strong family, and we’re hopeful. Maybe Vince has finally pulled his head out of his ass. And then you jump over your father, and you say terrible things to him and to me, in front of everyone. How can you do that?”
Mr. DiMartino leaned his folded arms on the table and glared. “Who’re these people who like you so much and treat you so much better than your own family? Huh? Are you making something up because you’re mad just now? Or have you been doing something behind my back, setting up plans without talking to your own father?”
Vincent drew himself up, both of his hands gripping the edge of the linen-covered table. “I’m not making up anything. I don’t have to.” He paused, and for the first time, he seemed to remember that I was next to him. He hesitated, his eyes lingering on me before he went on. “I had an interview a couple of weeks ago, with people who own a hotel in Philadelphia. They were here, back last fall, and they liked my pastries and wanted to talk to me. I figured, what did it hurt? So I saw them, and they want to make me an offer. They want me to come over and work for them.”
The silence was deafening around the table that had been filled with happy chatter just minutes before. Mrs. DiMartino sighed and dropped her head into her hands, covering her eyes. Mr. DiMartino’s expression was a mask of fury and hurt.
It was Frankie who broke the spell. “What’s wrong, Nonna? Why’re you yelling at Uncle Vince?”
Angela shook her head and put her finger to her lips to shush the little girl. “Not now, Frankie.”
“Fine, then.” Vincent’s father stood up, sending his chair clattering across the floor. “Fine. They want you so much? You want to leave so much? You think it’s all going to be sunshine and roses working for these people? Go, then. Just leave. We don’t need you, anyway. Any of us can make cookies and cannoli. It’s not like it’s anything special.”
I sucked in a quick breath. I knew, on some level, that Mr. DiMartino was reacting, that he was spewing words out of his own pain, but that wasn’t going to help this situation one bit. I felt horrible for all of them—for the DiMartinos, who clearly were bewildered about the suddenness of this revelation and for Vincent, who was just as clearly acting out of his long-carried hurt. At the same time, I was just as blindsided by what Vincent had just shared. He’d had an interview in Philadelphia? And he hadn’t told me? He’d been offered a job, and he hadn’t thought to share that information with me?
Vincent stood up, too, slamming back his chair. “Good. I’m going.” He turned to me and reached out a hand. “Come on, Amanda. We’re out of here now.”
I didn’t have a choice, except to let him pull me to feet and drag me along out of the room and into the kitchen, where I managed to snag my purse from the table on our way out. Vincent stomped outside and slammed the screen door, and then we were striding across the lawn, with me stumbling alongside him.
Neither of us said a word as we got into his car. He turned the key in the ignition and peeled away from the curb, his speed alarming me. I sat very still, clutching the edge of my seat, as he made a squealing turn and then floored the car.
“Vincent—” I began, but he quelled me with a glare.
“Not now. I don’t want to talk about this now. I just want to get home.”
“Okay. I get that. But please remember that I’m in the car with you, and I’d like both of us to get there in one piece. Having an accident isn’t going to solve anything.”
His jaw clenched, but he slowed down to a reasonable speed, and I began to relax slightly.
A few moments later, the car bumped into the driveway to his house. We both climbed out of the car without speaking. The minute he’d unlocked the door and let us in through the front door, Vincent began pacing the kitchen, running one hand through his hair.
“Fucking crazy, that’s what I am. Why the hell did I put up with that as long as I did? Why the hell did I ever go work for them in the first place? I could’ve had a job anywhere right out of pastry arts school. I could’ve worked for anyone. But no, I gave them years, working the hours they wanted and never feeling like I could fucking do one thing right.”
I sat down in a kitchen chair, feeling as though I was numb all over. “Vincent ... the job in Philadelphia. Were you ... were serious about that? You really had an interview there?”
He glanced at me, frowning. “Yeah. I mean, of course I was serious. Why would I joke about something like that? The guy—Peter Romano. He and his wife were here last year, before Ava’s wedding. He gave me his card and asked me to get in touch if I ever thought about leaving Cucina Felice. I didn’t do anything, not for a long time, because I thought I was—I thought this was where I belonged. But then ...”
His voice trailed off, and he exhaled, bracing his hands on the back of the chair next to mine. “I started thinking last month. I hate how far apart we are. I want to see you more than just two or three times a month. I want to be with you all the time, Amanda. Or at least as much as we can both handle. This distance thing, it’s killing me, and I thought maybe I had a way to get around it.”
I swallowed. “But you never said anything to me about that. You never mentioned wanting us to live in the same city. I didn’t know that. We could’ve talked about it, and we could’ve figured out how to make it all work. It didn’t have to mean you giving up your job here.”
“But see, it was more than just wanting to live closer.” His brow furrowed. “It’s about needing to move ahead. If I keep working here at my family’s place, that’s all I’ll ever be—the pastry chef guy. As long as my dad is alive, I’ll be the one who makes the sweet stuff that no one cares about anyway, apparently. And then when my dad is gone, I’ll be the same for Carl, because he’ll be the one running the restaurant, and he’ll do it just like Pop. They’re the same.”
