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“Mila, see if he’s willing to get a briefing,” I instruct and she sighs, but goes to the kitchen, with Phillip following.
I find myself alone in the middle of an empty restaurant, wishing I was the one talking to him. Helping him relax to ensure his genius will come across. But my presence would only spark the opposite, so I stay on the other side of the swinging door that seems more like an impenetrable fortress to me.
Alone.
Isolated.
Outcast.
Just what I deserve.
* * *
“Did you always dream about this?” Catira, the editor from theTimes, asks.
She’s leaning against the shiny counter, her phone next to her, recording. I position myself by the door, rationing my breathing—partially worried my presence might upset Massi and destroy the effortless, pleasant energy, and partially in awe.
When Catira arrived I briefed her on all the outstanding capabilities of the restaurant.
“I looked him up,” she said. “Massimo Cassinetti is the only apprentice of Frederick Beaufort who has succeeded in this business.”
Hearing the two names in one sentence formed a lump in my throat. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, there was gossip before Beaufort moved to LA that he’d been purposely jeopardizing their careers. Probably just jealous rumors.” She waved her hand, dismissing the comment. “Can I ask him about that?” But she was clearly interested in thegossip.
“I don’t think they parted on good terms, but it’s ancient history, Catira. Let’s not add to the rumor mill unnecessarily.”
Luckily, that did the trick and she abandoned the topic and moved on. As she asked me a few more questions, I couldn’t help but watch Massi as he stood by the bar with Mila. She whispered in his ear, probably coaching him on how to answer the questions and remain civil.
He was still, his eyebrows slightly together, his jaw set, listening. He cocked his head slightly to hear better, while he kept looking at nothing in particular.
At that moment of complete concentration, I saw the man I used to know. But I also saw the man he’d become, focused and dedicated to his craft, a successful businessman.
The small lines around his eyes that somehow made him look more attractive deepened as he squinted in concentration. He was relaxed, and it wasn’t just in his visibly loosened shoulders, but the features of his face also seemed somehow playful.
The whole time I talked to Catira I kept stealing glimpses at him, hoping not to be discovered. That wouldn’t be professional. Not that my body cared about being professional because it was reacting in all the inappropriate ways.
My heart pounded, my stomach twisted in nautical knots, and at one point I did spontaneous Kegel exercises.
Massi leaned in and whispered into Mila’s ear, and a pang of jealousy and yearning swam through my bloodstream. And then something really extraordinary happened. Mila threw her head back and laughed, and he did too. It was a sound that did all sorts of things to me.
Unfortunately, the most prevalent was inciting regret. I wanted to be the one who laughed with him. Who talked to him about the interview. Hell, about many other things.
Even Catira turned to see what was going on. And then our eyes met and Massi stopped laughing. But he didn’t glower—a smile lingered on his lips and I might have just imagined it, but he nodded, acknowledging me. Our eyes locked, his searing through me with equal parts caress and curiosity.
I shivered, barely realizing how shallow my breathing became. I wanted to pull him aside and force him to listen. To explain my actions all those years ago. Or to just touch him, tell him without words how wonderful he was under all the bravado of an angry grump.
Mila interrupted our moment, possibly because neither of us sensed it was uncomfortable for her and Catira. She facilitated the introductions and Massi invited us all to his kitchen.
The plan had been to just let him talk to Catira this time. We wanted to invite her later for a private dinner to solidify her interest in the story, but Massi decided on a spontaneous dining experience. My eyes met Mila’s and she shrugged.
But it’s obvious now that being in the kitchen was the best plan ever. It’s his domain, his territory, and if he was relaxed earlier, now he’s nonchalant, graceful and charming.
“Not always. I wanted to be a fireman or a policeman like any other boy. When I was thirteen my father died, and it was hard on me. Later, when I turned fifteen, I got my first summer job in a kitchen.”
He works with a small carving knife, shredding tuna steak into slivers, and I imagine this is how a sculptor creates art.
“I really didn’t want to work there at first. I was young and stupid, not seeing the reason why I should have a dirty job.” He chuckles at that. “We had money, but my mother made us all experience real life to build our work ethic, not allowing us to grow up spoiled brats with trust funds. The first day there I watched the chef working, and he reminded me of my father.”
