I stuck out my hand. “Thank you for everything. I appreciate what you tried to do.”
He stood, and we shook. “Don’t be a stranger, son. Keep doing what you’re doing, and stay true to who you are.” His eyes twinkled. “And I know trying to handle Francisco is as futile as attempting to contain a hurricane, but good luck to you both. I hope you’re there for each other.”
“He handles me just fine, thank you. I guess we’re learning—at least I am. Fortunately, I’ve always been an adept pupil.”
“I will miss you.” Edward hugged Frisco.
“I’ll be in touch. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
We left Edward, and I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, noticing the stares and people whispering as Frisco and I walked past. Once I gathered up the few personal items from my desk, I signed the paperwork Steph had ready for me, and with one final hug and promise to keep in touch, we left.
“Shall we celebrate?” Frisco pulled out his phone, and I grimaced.
“Is there a reason to?” I leaned against a lamppost, watching the people rush by and the snarl of midday traffic. Everyone had someplace to go to, but I was back where I started, and I wondered, belatedly, if I’d made my decision in haste. Maybe I could’ve sat down with Edward and Webster and shown them my ideas for the upcoming year. I’d thought about having a stand at Smorgasburg to advertiseUltimateand my blog. I was thinking of a podcast where I’d interview aspiring chefs and up-and-coming restaurants. So many plans….
Now I stood with defeat on my shoulders, and I wasn’t sure about anything anymore.
“Hey.” Frisco peered into my face. “What’s going on in that brain?”
“Eh, I’m not sure.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” To my surprise, Frisco took me by the shoulders and forced my gaze to meet his. “Don’t second-guess yourself. You made the right choice. Now come with me.”
“Where?” The prospect of going home and staring at a computer screen held little appeal.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be half as fun.”
Knowing Frisco as I did, it could either be a very fun and exciting time or something outrageous. Or both. So I let him take me by the hand, we entered the car he’d sent for, and soon we were traveling uptown.
“Are we going to see Press?” I figured if we were heading to the Upper West Side, the logical place Frisco would go to would be to his best friend.
“No.”
He remained unaccustomedly tight-lipped, but I knew him well enough to see that devious light in his eyes. We stopped on Central Park South and West 59th, in front of Marea.
“Are you serious? I can’t go in there dressed like this.” I pointed to my jeans and button-down and then his. “And neither can you.”
“Be quiet and follow me.” He exited the car, and I had no choice but to scramble after him.
“Frisco, this is embarrassing.”
“If I have to shut you up by kissing you right here, that might embarrass you more. Now come.”
And like a dutiful child, I walked at his side. But I still wanted to punch him.
Marea was beautiful, possibly the finest Italian restaurant in the city. It had a Michelin star, won a James Beard Award, and the chef, Michael White, was renowned for his innovative, fresh ways of presenting classic Italian meals. The man was truly an inspiration, and I knew Mike had bought Chef White’s cookbook and watched his videos on cooking.
Walking in like he owned the place, Frisco was greeted by a large man with brown hair, a roundish face, andholy shit, that was…holy shit.
“Chef Michael White, this is Salvatore Grant, or as I call him late at night, Torre.” Frisco’s eyes twinkled, and my face burned. “He runs the blogNew York for Real New Yorkers.”
“So it’s you. The man behind the magazine.” Chef White hugged Frisco. “Sorry to hear about what happened atUltimate, but it’s nice you’re finally able to come out of anonymity and I can know who Francisco Martinelli really is.” He let go of Frisco, and we shook hands.
“Torre, it’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard of your blog.”
I gave him a bit of a sickly smile. “Should I apologize now?” What the hell was Frisco thinking, bringing me here? He knew I’d done a spread on overpriced Italian restaurants in the city, and Marea was one I’d featured.
Chef White let out a belly laugh. “No, don’t be silly. We serve one clientele, and your blog serves another, but you should know I yearn for the real, rustic homemade food, the traditional Sunday dinners.”
