JANUARY 1-5
770 Words
“Damn, you’re good!” Russell took another piece of garlic bread and mashed it around in the red sauce to soak up as much as he could.
Angelo’s kitchen was now in full swing. Dinner was happening with a crash of pans and calls back and forth across the cook line. Russell had grabbed some pasta and retreated to the sidelines to watch the mayhem. The kitchen ran with a smooth perfection that should happen only in movies.
“You should see what I sent out on the floor tonight. Exquisite. The Cingale with Truffle Sauce.” Angelo kissed his fingertips and threw the kiss to the kitchen’s ceiling. “Outdid myself even if I’m the one who says so.”
He slapped Russell on top of the head. “That’s grilled boar meat to you, you peasant.”
“I know what cingale is,” he cuffed Angelo back somewhat harder. “And your food is always awesome, buddy.” Russell kissed his own fingers and then made a show of l*****g them clean of the garlic butter.
“Yeah, you need to clean up. You’re messing up my kitchen, man. Just by breathing.” Angelo peeked into an oven and closed it again. He returned to slicing chives at an impossible rate for some garnish.
Russell looked down to inspect himself. His jeans were smeared with white fiberglass resin from the seals on the new decking. It had hardened into crackling streaks that wouldn’t let go of the cloth even when he picked at them. His shirt was clean, just a couple tears from where he’d caught it on the old decking he’d been tearing off the boat. Maybe he was a bit disreputable for the stainless-steel-and-white-tile kitchen.
Just because Angelo was right, Russell wasn’t about to admit it.
“Wait until I start the woodwork. Then I can offer you a healthy dose of sawdust on your tile floor to make it look properly lived in. You could eat off the damn thing now.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I think a health inspector would rather see a rat in my kitchen than you.” Angelo danced around a half-dozen desserts with a squirt bottle adding little swirls of reduced pomegranate sauce even as the waiters put them on their trays. A moment later his sous chef dumped a steaming cauldron of homemade pasta into a colander. Angelo attacked it with quick tongs and a bit of oil before plating it next to an Eggplant Parmigiana that still bubbled from the oven.
Russell licked another dribble of butter off the back of his hand.
He smelled her before he saw her. Like warm wood and something else he couldn’t identify but could never forget.
He turned to look and wasn’t disappointed. Trim and chic in a black pantsuit over a black turtleneck. The cut was perfect for her figure which was pleasantly womanly in its curves. It suited her five foot ten very nicely, making her look even taller and more slender than she was. He checked her shoes, okay, five foot eight without the heels, which fit her even better. Her face was so subtly made up it looked as if she wore no makeup at all. Her russet hair pulled back into a tight chignon from which not a single strand strayed. The shape of jawline to neck, of ear to cheek, was like a flash from the past.
For the first time in the month and a half since he’d closed the studio, he wished for lights and a camera. But she was everything he was leaving behind. Everything that had been wrong with his former life. He could imagine Melanie on his boat much easier than this one, even Melanie let her hair down on occasion—she actually made a trademark of just that.
Where Melanie’s voice was affected French, to cover her New York accent, this woman’s voice was throaty and warm as she did the “thank you so much” thing with Angelo. She glanced at him twice with intensely hazel eyes that were deeper than the ocean. A glance he could easily read. “What is this slob doing dirtying up Angelo’s pristine kitchen?”
Then she was gone and Angelo just stood there beaming.
“Hey, Buddy-boy.” Russell poked his fork into his pasta. He had to do it a couple times before he finally landed some. “She’s got you bad.”
“Oh yeah.” Angelo sounded a little dreamy. “You weren’t here. She’s just the nation’s hottest food-and-wine columnist. It took me six months to tempt her here.” He shook himself and then punched Russell’s arm hard.
“And she loves my food and my restaurant!”
“Hey! Ow already!” He knocked Angelo’s hat to the floor just as Angelo kicked Russell’s stool over backward. He landed hard against the refrigerator. Once he had his balance, he prepared to lunge forward.
Angelo moved faster and aimed his weapon at Russell’s chest.
“More garlic bread?”
Russell kicked the stool back into place and took another steaming slice from the wicker basket. He easily matched his friend’s grin.
- Writer
