Page 17 of The Vow

“Prego,” the waiter said, leaving the wine on the table.

“Excuse me.”

“Si, signore?”

“Why is the Chianti wrapped in a straw basket?”

“It’s in a fiasco, or basket as you say, because that’s how they used to protect the fragile glass bottle. Now,” he said, shrugging, “it’s simply nostalgic.”

“Interesting, thank you.”

“You are welcome, sir.”

Alex insisted that she meet me at the restaurant. I wondered if she refused to let me pick her up because she didn’t want me to know where she lived. Although I could easily find her address in the phone book, it was far more important to respect her privacy. “Never go through a woman’s purse,” ma has always said, “Some things are none of your business.”

The dining room feels intimate. Among the diners, a group of businessmen occupy a round table for five. A young couple with a well-behaved child are enjoying dessert, and a silver-haired man and woman are laughing spiritedly. I had to look away. It still hurts to think of pop. We didn’t dine out often, but when we did, it was a celebration of life. He was vocal when he loved a restaurant and always made sure to speak to the owner to rave about the food, or service. There were times when he was disappointed, and he was vocal then, too. I’ll never forget the look on the waitress’s face when on one occasion, my father asked if she had eaten. She told him no, but she was due for a break. He handed her his untouched plate and said, “You can have my dinner. There’s only a bite missing. Don’t worry, I’ll still pay for it. Conti men aren’t freeloaders.” Later, as we drove home, he kept repeating that the veal was disgustoso. Disgusting. Ma eventually told him to get over it, but the second we arrived home, she whipped out her frying pan and made him her famous Veal Piccata. Ever since then, I’ve equated food with love.

“You started without me?”

“Alex,” I said, standing. I expected her to come in riding a pony considering the way she let herself into my house. “You look... stunning.”

She was ethereal in a red, tulle, floor-length dress. Delicate gold hoops adorned her ears. It matched the thin, gold chain she was wearing around her neck that sparkled like stars. Her hair was secured on both sides, and on her lips, she wore the kind of smile that could haunt a man’s dreams. What truly captivated me, were her perfect imperfections: the strands of gray in her hair, a beauty mark by the ridge of her nose, and a small scar in the shape of an “L” on her forehead. Masterpieces aren’t flawless, they resonate with different meanings.

“Please. Let me,” I said, pulling her chair out for her.

“No one’s ever done that for me before. Is this dress too fancy?” she asked, looking around the restaurant.

“Not at all. You’re enchanting.”

“Good, because the thrift store made a whole fifteen bucks off of me today.”

She was charming and making it difficult to concentrate on the speech I’ve been rehearsing. “Wine?”

“Sure.”

While I was pouring the wine, the waiter returned with our menus. Before I could ask her what she was craving, she surprised the hell out of me. “I was an accident,” she said, reading her menu. “Dad didn’t want me. Neither did mom. As soon as I was old enough to take care of myself, they moved to Florida.”

“I’m so sorry, Alex.”

“It’s fine,” she said, sipping at her wine. “That’s why I started writing. My characters are my family.”

“Why’d you stop writing?”

“I’ve always wanted to come here,” she whispered to herself. “Cheers,” she said, poising her glass in the air.

“Cheers.”

Before I could ask again about her reasons for quitting writing, the waiter brought us a complimentary bottle of sparkling water and two crystal glasses. “Do you need more time to decide?”

“What’s your name?” Alex asked him.

“Vito.”

“Hi, Vito. I’m Alex. I have a question since most of this is in Italian. Do you have rabbit?”

“Coniglio. Si, signorina. Right here,” he said, pointing. “It’s slow-braised and then served in a whisky cream sauce.”

“Sounds delicious. I’ll have that.”