“Lucky for him.”
She waited a respectable three seconds. “So who was he? He was very,verygood-looking and so well dressed. You know how I love a man in a suit. And polite. I like that. He helped me refill the can and asked if there was anything else I needed. Then a car pulled up in front, and he left. Are you going to see him again? What does he do?” And then she either ran out of questions or air, because she stopped talking.
“I met him last night. His name is Frisco.”
“And?” She cocked her head like an inquisitive little bird.
“And nothing.” I popped the rest of the brownie into my mouth and chewed vigorously.
“Why did you tell me you only went for a drink?”
While I enjoyed being part of a close-knit family, this was not one of those times.
“Because I didn’t think that at my age, I needed to tell you everything about my personal life, Ma. There are some things you don’t need to know.”
The doorbell rang, and I groaned. “I can only imagine who that is.”
My mother left me sitting to answer and then returned, as I feared, with not only Mike, but Val as well.
He dropped into the seat next to me but directed his question to our mother. “Did you ask him?”
Without giving anyone a chance to respond, I snapped, “She did, and I’ll tell you what I told her, but not as nicely. None of your business.”
Val slapped Mike on the shoulder. “See? I told you he’d say that. And he’s right. If Torre wants us to know something, he’ll tell us. Other than that, lay off.”
Mike slouched. “I was just curious. You seemed to really hit it off in the restaurant, and it made me happy. You should’ve seen it, Ma. The guy was really into him—everywhere Torre went, the guy followed him with his eyes.”
“When I met him he seemed very nice and polite.”
No words could adequately express how much I loathed discussions about me, in front of me when I wasn’t made a party to the conversation. I wiped my face and hands with a napkin and pushed my chair away from the table.
“Well, I’m out. Have a nice time dissecting me, but if you think this is going to make me more open to discussing my personal life, you’re going about it all wrong.”
Amid my mother’s and brother’s cries that they were only looking out for me, I blew a kiss to Val, the only sane member of the bunch, and left. A walk around the neighborhood cooled me off until I came to the Wine Bar and remembered Frisco’s hands in my hair and his tongue in my mouth.
“Fuck it,” I growled to myself and went back home. I had a business to run. Once safely inside, I stripped the bed linens and dumped them into the wash. A shame, really, because Frisco smelled so damn good.
While the wash ran, I couldn’t help checking Google, but as I suspected, there were no Frisco Evanses who looked like the man I had in my bed. I decided to channel my anger toward someone who truly deserved it and clicked open the digital magazine where Francisco Martinelli worked, looking to see what overpriced, uninspired restaurant he’d been unleashed on this week. Instead, I read with growing fascination a letter from Edward Harvey, their senior food editor, a man I’d met at multiple events and truly respected. We’d spoken several times, and he impressed me with his quiet humor and thorough knowledge.
“In every step we take along the path of life, we can choose to remain on a smooth, unbroken terrain or take a risk and face the unknown. Here atUltimate NYC, we never want our readers to think we are out of touch with the city we love, and that’s why we are sending our extremely talented food and wine critics to new and undiscovered restaurants that might not receive the spotlight they deserve. Make sure you keep your eyes open for our critics’ choices in the coming months.”
Son of a bitch. I couldn’t help but feel I might’ve had something to do with this change inUltimate NYC’s direction, and if so, it made me feel pretty damn good. Which reminded me, I had to make sure Mike followed up on our discussion the night before. Annoying or not, Mike was my brother, and nothing would ever come between us. I knew he’d sunk almost all his money from working as a line cook at different restaurants in the city into Mangia, and I wanted him to achieve the success he deserved. I picked up my phone and called him.
“Hey, look, Torre, I’m sorry for teasing you. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yeah, you did, but I’ll cut you some slack. And that’s not why I called you.”
“No? What’s up?”
I quickly explained what I read inUltimate NYCand how if he implemented the changes I suggested, it would be a way to catch the eye of a dinosaur looking to prevent extinction.
“Spruce up the menu like I said, focusing on the fresh ingredients and what you grow. Maybe write a little introduction about how you started Mangia. And for the love of God, get a fucking website already.”
“You know I don’t know anything about that technology shit. I can’t afford to hire anyone either.”
I had a hundred things on my to-do list, but nothing was more important to me than family. “I’ll do it for you.”
“No, I know you’re busy with tons of shit.”
