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“Fifteen percent of nothing is still nothing,” she husked out. “But all is not lost. They’re meeting right now and my source at NBN says Stone Carter had quote, unquote, a twinkle in his eye. Fat old fart. The ratings for Kilroy’s Kitchen re-runs are better than the original broadcasts, and with the premiere of Jack of All Trades moved up to next week to capitalize on your current popularity, interest in the Jack Kilroy brand has never been higher. People can’t wait to see your great Italian love affair told with real production values and commercial breaks.”
His cells tingled with a pain he couldn’t ascribe to his hangover. It was looking increasingly likely that he’d be getting reacquainted with Johnnie W. the night of the premiere.
“But?” he prompted, because he could hear it as clear as if she were blowing smoke in his face.
“You’re going to have to cool it. Defending your Rubenesque girlfriend might appeal to the horny housewives of middle America, but it can’t last. Once or twice is heroic, any more will be seen as downright moronic. They won’t tolerate it in the long term.”
Jack was well aware of that. On cable, he could be humping goats and roasting them on a spit afterward and no one would bat an eyelid. Network, as everyone insisted on telling him, was more suited for eunuchs. He’d been called a lot of things but testicularly deprived was not one of them. Anyway, the woman he would happily surrender every one of his Michelin stars for had no more use for Jack Kilroy’s personal bodyguard service, so Tough Guy Jack could officially retire.
“The cookware people phoned again and they want to set up a meeting this week. And Random House needs to nail down the proposal for the next book.” She coughed long and hard. “Relax, Jack. Everything’s coming up roses.”
The countertops, dappled with the remains of his elusive search for perfection, screamed back their dissent. His hand started to throb again.
Bloody roses with a mess of fucking thorns.
Thirty-Nine
For the second time in as many weeks, Lili almost crashed the Vespa. The first time she had been thinking about dinner and had failed to notice a suddenly-open car door along Ashland Avenue. Luckily, her hunger meant her usual carb-dazed reflexes were nowhere in evidence.
Now, she was on her way to her parents’ for dinner and had just swerved out of the way of an SUV that decided to do a last-minute non-signaled lane change.
That time, she’d been thinking about Jack.
Her chest hurt something awful with a pain she hadn’t experienced since she’d first heard the news of her mother’s cancer. Back then, after a couple of days wallowing, she’d put that behind her and got on with the business of living, or more specifically making sure her mother lived. Getting past Jack should be easier than that. There was nothing life-threatening about a broken heart.
Every night since he’d left, she’d tossed and turned, her body aching. Aching for the one person who could put her straight and do her right, the man she missed more each day instead of less. The smile that scrambled her brain, the sexy, lickable scar, even the atrocious singing, all part of Jack’s armory of slash-and-burn. She needed to force herself into a place where Jack didn’t exist, which was near impossible when every thought was filtered through her time with him. Every word she hadn’t said. Every decision not taken.
Once she had threatened to leave all she knew, move to New York, live her life at full tilt.
Francesca’s illness had changed all that and not in the way she liked to think. She might have fooled herself that the relief she felt when she handed her savings over to pay those medical bills stemmed from putting her mother back on the road to recovery, but it was just as much about helping herself. Giving Little Miss Do Nothing an exit strategy so she wouldn’t have to take that chance. She hadn’t even tried to find another way.
For the longest time, she had been stuck in a shell of her own creating. The overweight teen who lost the pounds but not the baggage. The artist who lived in the space behind her camera because the shadows felt safe. The good daughter who used her family to keep her grounded, and caged. She knew that. Hell, she lived it. Because, no matter what way she parsed it, she was afraid of trying and failing.
Or trying and succeeding.
When she got to her parents’ house, she slipped around back to where they sat with Tad—and sigh, Marco—at the outdoor table, already set to bursting with a glorious spread. Without asking, her mother piled a plate high with ziti and put it before her.
After the taping, Marco had gone missing for several weeks, ducking all the burning questions Lili longed to ask about moonlighting as viral video producer and saboteur. Now, her self-loathing kept him safe as she internalized all her anger and tried to focus.
“Well, where are we at?” Marco asked, glancing at his watch.
“We’ve definitely seen an uptick in reservations since news of the show taping got out.” Lili slid an oblique glance to her father who sat stoic and unyielding. “With the broadcast of the show next week, we’ll probably see some additional business for a short time but it won’t last.”
“Unless we find a way to hold onto them,” Tad chimed in.
“If they like the food, they’ll come back,” Her father shot back, his refrain familiar but tired. “We have steady customers now who return monthly, sometimes weekly.”
“Right, Dad, but we’re not getting any new blood. It’s not just about the food. It’s an environment, an ambience—”
“So, we should play loud music and baseball games over the bar?” Her father made a disgusted noise. “Those are not the type of customers we want.”
“Dad, we’re a neighborhood institution, but there’s a lot of competition, and we look like old hat. Tad and I have some ideas for a design makeover, maybe trim the menu so it’s not so overwhelming. Just a few touches to make it more modern. Appeal to how the neighborhood has changed.”
Tony’s gaze grew narrow and hard. “When you are in charge of the business, Liliana, then you can make these decisions. Until then, you must abide by my rules.”
“Then why am I even here? You asked me to take over as manager when Mom became sick but you second-guess every decision I make. Every suggestion I offer. There’s no trust there.”
“This is not about trust. It is about what is best for the family, something you don’t seem to know anything about.”
