“No kidding,” he says, shaking his head at me. “You seriously think those dishes are too fussy?”
“For a cookbook,” I say, carefully.
“But for a restaurant?”
“This is for the cookbook, Leo,” I say, feeling a creeping dread.
He’s talking about Nicky’s. I realize this exercise was only partially about the cookbook. Leo wants to show me he can cook.
“Which was your favorite?” I ask, steering the conversation quickly back.
“Well,” he says, shaking his head. “Honestly, maybe the fourth? But I have to say, Olive...” He puts both his hands flat on the surface and leans in. “I think it’s probably too soon to be making dish selections.”
“Hang on a minute,” I say, laughing in disbelief. “My text just asked if you knew the dish. I didn’t ask for all this.” I wave my hand over the multiple dishes.
“I’m trying tohelp,” he says, like he’s talking to a toddler who needs a Band-Aid ripped off.
“Youarehelping,” I say, exasperated. “This, all this cooking, was amazing.”
He looks across the kitchen, staring into the middle distance for a moment.
“Olive. Are you actually going to listen to me? To accept any of my ideas?”
I narrow my eyes on him, confused. “Yes. Of course I am. You’re a chef, and I am not. Plus, Dad wanted you here.”
“He did,” he says with a nod.
I can see the depth of his frustration, and I wonder if he’s bringing some serious baggage to this conversation. I know I am. A thought penetrates, just for a moment.
Is he comparing me to Dad here? Did Dad shut Leo down like he shut Mum down? Does Leo think I’m going to do the same to him? I feel my heart start to race and the heat rising in my cheeks. Then Leo leans back against the sink and folds his arms. I know what’s coming. It’s been in the subtext of the last thirty minutes.
“I don’t get it,” he says. “He said you’d come back to Nicky’s. He said, over and over again, Olive will be back and she’ll run this place one day. But you never came back, and now you’re selling it. Do you hate him? What did he do?”
“Please stop,” I say, shaking my head.
Do you hate him?How can I defend myself? How can I answer such a horrible charge?
“I just don’t understand,” he says. “I know it’s not my place to ask, but I wish you’d tell me.”
I take a breath, looking hard at a tear in the linoleum on the floor. I imagine explaining it all to Leo, the feelings of rejection, the hurt he caused my mother, the confusion I feel now. But like the pages of Dad’s book, which are too painful to read, it is too painful to speak. All I can do is stare at the floor and wish he would stop asking.
“Let’s just meet tomorrow for lunch.”
“Tomorrow we’re going for lunch at Rocco’s house,” he says impatiently.
“Oh yes, Rocco’s,” I say, biting my lip nervously. Another anxiety I can’t share with him is seeing my dad’s beloved mentor and admitting that I’m selling the restaurant. “Shall we talk afterward, then?”
“You’re the boss,” he says, sighing as he turns, clears the first plate of pasta away, and drops it into the bin.
9
GUESS WHERE Iwent yesterday,” I say into my phone as I take one last look in the full-length mirror. I’m readying myself to join Leo downstairs. We’re going to meet Rocco outside his restaurant, and then he’s driving us to his home for our planned lunch. I used to love going to Rocco’s home, but it’s been fifteen years, and now I’m dreading every moment of it. I look good, though, in one of my hasty new purchases: a summery full-length cornflower-blue skirt and white T-shirt. At least there is that.
“Where?” Mum’s voice sounds hopeful.
“Taormina. Do you remember? You used to make Dad take you shopping there every holiday. And we went to a cake shop you loved?”
“Oh yes. The little pastel-yellow one on the corner with the canvas chairs. So pretty, underneath that pink bougainvillea. I remember,” she says wistfully.
