Love in a Victorian Read online

  Santo Bellucci nodded. “Sweet girl,” he commented, waving his hand, gesturing for Rick to sit. Then he began, “We have the specials. We gotta the pork tenderloin stuffed with rabe and a nice cheddar. And then we gotta the best Boston veal. If you like, for you, I make a nice sauce with some fresh herbs, a little white wine… .”

  It took a moment for Rick to realize he’d been dismissed, but he came into that awareness with a bemused smile. In his line of vision, a guy seated in a booth with his young family offered a small apologetic grin. Gathering his dignity, Rick tucked his tie behind the lapels of his dark navy suit jacket and resumed his seat. Vera raised her delicate brows at him while the chef spoke on, oblivious.

  Santo spoke passionately of his offerings, the fresh ingredients he used and the care put into each dish. As he finished speaking, he fixed his sharp gaze on Vera, pen poised over his pad.

  The chef was a busy, important man. His commanding presence and the attention he’d attracted within the dining room indicated as much. His impatient look seemed to imply that Vera had been given ample time to peruse the menu. She’d heard the specials. She should be ready with her decision. This was not rocket science.

  “I’ll have a salad with grilled chicken,” she blurted under the pressure.

  Chef Bellucci rolled his eyes and huffed.

  The guy in the booth shook his head, sadly. She had insulted the chef.

  “Insalata,” cried Santo. “What’a you on one of those TV diets?”

  “Uh … no. But I am on the morning news, and I do like to watch my figure.”

  “You let this one watch your figure, okay?” he snapped, with a jerk of his head in Rick’s direction. “You worry ‘bout nothing,” he told Vera. “You beautiful lady. Okay, you want insalata? I fix special for you. Dressed baby greens with tiny marinated mussels. I bring you antipasti. Stuffed, roasted green pepper. Cantaloupe with thin slices of the pink prosciutto. Homemade mozzarella on fresh tomatoes and basil I grow myself.”

  Rick’s mouth watered. He caught Vera’s eye and gave her a look, encouraging her to agree. What she couldn’t finish, he would. “Indulge him,” Stella had instructed. Now he understood. Santo Bellucci was an extremely focused chef. Focused on his food and preparing it with no time to waste on pleasantries.

  And there were worse things to have forced on a person than an intensely flavorful selection of homemade Italian antipasto specialties.

  “Sounds delicious,” Vera consented with a smile.

  For the first time since he arrived, Chef Bellucci brightened, scribbling it all down. He glanced again at Vera. “And what you like for your entrée?

  Vera blinked her long lashes in disbelief. “That wasn’t the entrée?”

  The chef curled his lip in disgust.

  A middle-age man at the next table, who, from the unhealthy size of his paunch looked as if he dined at Bellucci’s often, mouthed “the special,” then kissed his fingertips.

  “It’s all good,” Chef Bellucci said. “Order something. It’s a night out.”

  “Exactly what I’ve been trying to tell her,” Rick said. At Vera’s cross look, he added, “She’ll have the salmon dish. Salmone E Zuccero,” he pronounced in perfect Italian.

  Vera nodded to the chef, then pinned Rick with a glare that clearly said, What kind of crazy place have you brought me to?

  Santo wrote down the order, but he wasn’t finished with her yet. “You like wine?” he asked.

  “I adore a good wine.”

  This pleased him immensely.

  “I have a nice Lambrusco, just arrived. I bring a glass with your antipasti.”

  “Oh, that’s … ,” Vera began, then caught herself and said, “That would be lovely.”

  “You?” Already, he’d moved on to Rick.

  “I’ll start with the calamari and have the pork special,” he quickly responded. “And I’d like a cup of coffee.”

  “No!” barked Chef Bellucci.

  He clapped a hand on Rick’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze, enough to make Rick wince. “Coffee, it ruins the palate. The taste experience of the food, it will not be the same. No coffee, I bring you wine.”

  “Wine. Perfect. Thank you.”

  Chef Bellucci smiled and released him. As he made his way back to the kitchen, he paused at a table by the windows. “What, you don’t eat the risotto?” His voice carried throughout the dining room. “What’sa matter, you no like? You wanna baked potato? I go in the kitchen and get you a nice baked potato.”

  “Oh-no, thanks,” the young man said. “Really, that’s not necessary, Mr. Bellucci. I’m fine.”

  Chef Bellucci scowled down at him. “You no like baked potato, either? What’a you one of those picky guys?”

  Chapter Four

  A harvest moon shone over the village as Jamie cruised down Elm Street. Fallen leaves swirled and danced in the street as cars blew past. A full moon was good for business, her mom liked to say. It made people mezzo pazzo. Half crazy. It filled them with passion. And when people were full of passion, they wanted to eat.

  Jamie didn’t believe in such things, but one thing she did know — she was so hungry right now you’d think she lived on the moon instead of having recently moved back home with her parents and grandfather.

  She pulled her van into Bellucci’s rear lot. The night wind whispered eerily as she opened her door, sending dead leaves skittering over the asphalt. The parking lot was packed. It was a busy night. Mom had been right.

  A melancholy dampness hung in the autumn evening air, and Jamie quickened her steps toward the warmth and brightness of the kitchen. She entered through the back door. At once, her senses were infused with the spicy, robust aroma of rustic Italian cooking and a cacophony of kitchen chatter, the sizzle of the cook stations, a clattering of pots and pans, and the hum of Italian music.

  “Hey, look who’s finally decided to visit,” Sous Chef Eddie Giacomo announced without missing a beat from plating up a beautiful platter of fresh steamed littlenecks on a mound of spaghetti drowned in a plum tomato wine sauce.

  The rest of the staff glanced up from what they were doing to welcome her. All except for her younger brother Matt, who stood at the sink washing dishes. No job too small, as their grandfather would say. At twenty-three, Matt seemed to have a talent for the restaurant business and was being groomed to hopefully one day take over Bellucci’s.

  “Good. You’re here,” he said. “Joey has a cold. Roll up your sleeves and relieve me.” Sweat beaded on his brow beneath the white cap he wore along with rubber boots and an apron over his jeans.

  Jamie walked on past. “No way. I’m here to eat.” Dishwashing was hard, dirty work with all its heavy lifting and standing for long periods, which made her physically fit brother perfect for the job … and eye candy for the female staff with his rugged jawline and biceps that bulged from beneath the short sleeves of his white undershirt. Their mother’s Italian blood dominated his looks, whereas Jamie was an even blend of her mother’s Mediterranean and her father’s Celtic genes.

  Lots of chefs had started off as dishwashers, Santo Bellucci often reminded his grandson. No job was beneath you when your name was on the door.

  Careful not to get in anyone’s way, Jamie sampled a piece of frittata at the prep station, then moved on to the fryer for a taste of calamari. Having been exposed to working kitchens from an early age, the frenzy and the high volume didn’t faze her. She found the hubbub of activity familiar and comforting, just the environment she needed after a tiring day of construction.

  Her thoughts raced ahead to dinner. Fish or pasta? Maybe both. Maybe a plate of that “Zuppa Enrichetta” Eddie had just plated up, named in honor of her late grandmother. Mmm, yes, littlenecks and pasta with some chewy, golden Italian bread to dunk in the sauce. The anticipation was so overwhelming, she popped a crispy ring of calamari fresh from the fryer into her mouth and bit down, scorching her tongue.

  “Aaaaaa… !”

  “Here kid. Gna
w on this.” Mike on salads hurled a small heel of bread through the air. Jamie caught it with one hand and bit quickly, mixing the cool bread with the hot, fried squid as she chewed, until she was able to swallow.

  “Tha’ was hot.” She spoke with her tongue hanging out, giving it some air.

  At the prep station her Grandpapa Bellucci shook his head. He gave a small chuckle without glancing up from the meatballs he was rolling. Jamie made her way over to him, stopping to inhale the marinara simmering in a pot on the stove.

  She sighed with pleasure. This kitchen was the heart of Bellucci’s Ristorante.

  Stepping up behind him, she kissed her grandfather’s weathered cheek. “I’m feeling like a big plate of littlenecks tonight, Papa.”

  “How come we don’t see you around here so much for supper?” He placed the perfectly round meatball on a sheet of parchment along with others he had rolled and moved to the sink to wash his hands.

  Jamie followed. “Sorry, Papa, but with the late hours I’ve been putting in on this project, all I’ve felt like doing at the end of the day is to go home and shower. But no more. The owner has moved in, and I intend to be out of the house before he gets home from work.”

  “I hear all about the Victorian house from your mother,” he said over the running water. “The man, he eat here tonight.”

  The man? “You mean, Mr. Damien?” She’d managed to avoid him today by working outside. She and her crew had made final repairs to the three-columned porch that lined the entire front of the house. Jamie loved its width and design, with an overhang and a gabled portico over the entryway. Early this morning, just as they’d pulled up in the van, Mr. Damien had bounded down his front steps wearing a T-shirt, sweatpants, and a five o’clock shadow. He had jogged off down the hill towards the gazebo at the village common, where Jamie assumed he was going for a run along the wooded bike path that ran through a large part of the state. Broad-shouldered and tall, he looked impressively fit for a man who spent his days sitting behind a desk. Not that she’d been watching him.

  By the time he’d returned, she and Sean were replacing the old railing with the new spindlework balustrades Sean had handcrafted to replicate the originals. Mr. Damien offered them a quick “good morning” before entering the house, only to re-emerge about a half hour later, clean-shaven and dressed for work. And that was the last she’d seen of him, as they spent the rest of the day prepping the porch for painting.

  At quitting time, Jamie had told the guys to take the weekend off. They’d heard from her dad earlier that Mr. Damien had expressed his desire to have her stick with the job through its completion. The news came as a relief, and it was Jamie’s intention to forget all about Mr. Damien and his Victorian until Monday, when she’d have to confront him about choosing paint colors and discuss the fireplace mantel. She figured she deserved the break, as hard as she’d been working. But mostly she wanted to give him a little space so he could comfortably move into his house, get used to Boo Boo and hopefully fall in love with her.

  She never expected he’d show up at the restaurant, invading her turf. Her plan to remove him from her thoughts and enjoy her weekend had lasted all of an hour.

  “Is he still here?” she asked.

  Her grandfather nodded, already back at the stove preparing the sauce for her littlenecks. “He order the pork tenderloin I stuff with rabe and garlic and cheddar cheese. You want I fix some for you?”

  “Maybe later. If I still have room after the pasta. Where’s Ma?”

  At her grandfather’s shrug, Jamie made her way past the stainless steel prep tables in search of her. Outside her mother’s office hung the staff schedule board, while pinned to the door was a calendar marked with birthdays and her grandfather’s appointments. Her mom was not there, but looking at the calendar, Jamie was reminded she needed to buy a gift for her mom’s birthday.

  The restaurant doors by the wait station swung open and Jamie heard her mother’s voice calling her. As she turned, Stella waved her over. She welcomed Jamie with a kiss on the cheek, even as she urged her to peer through the kitchen window. “That handsome Rick has come,” she whispered. “Look.”

  “I don’t need to look. Papa’s already told me. Mr. Damien is here.”

  “Your grandpapa hasn’t told you everything. Look,” her mother said again, pointing to the small round windows of the swinging doors.

  “Should we really be spying on him while he’s eating dinner?” Jamie asked, even as she obediently lifted her face to the window, cautious should a wait person come storming through and smack her with the door. “I don’t see him.” She quickly backed away.

  “Look again. He’s by the fireplace with that pretty blonde woman who tells the traffic on the morning news.”

  “You mean Vera Andersen?” Jamie looked again, but all she could see was the back of a dark blonde head and the slim, straight shoulders of a woman who could very well be the traffic reporter.

  Vera Andersen also covered special events. Only last evening, Jamie had sat with her tablet answering emails and watching Vera report from the state’s annual jack-o-lantern exhibit, where some five thousand artistically-carved and illuminated pumpkins decorated a woodland trail set to piped-in music and theatrical lighting. She recalled thinking how much she’d like to tour the exhibit, and now that she had decided to take the weekend off, she just might.

  Stella indicated Vera with a jerk of her head. “She’s says she’s his girlfriend, but they will never succeed as a couple, those two. You mark my words.”

  Jamie laughed at the absurdity. “That’s crazy talk, Ma.”

  “What? Nobody ever broke up? It happens all the time. Especially when two people are not right for each other.”

  “What makes you think they’re not right for each other? She’s gorgeous, a local celebrity, which I’m sure makes her well-connected, and she’s obviously younger than him. All the things men want in a woman. He must be very attracted to her. Or more. Maybe he bought the house because he’s thinking of settling down.”

  A waitress carrying a tray forced them to step aside.

  Her mother shook her head emphatically. “Men do not know what they want until the right one comes along and shows them what they are missing.”

  Once the doors stopped swinging, her mother took her arm and dragged Jamie back to the windows. They peered out together and this time Jamie saw the smile on Mr. Damien’s face as he enjoyed his meal, conversing with the beautiful Vera across from him. He reached over with his fork to sample her dish, while it seemed to Jamie that Vera had not once lifted her own fork.

  “Food speaks the language of love,” her mother said as she pulled Jamie from the doors and safely away from incoming traffic. “I know this because my whole life I’ve worked with food in a restaurant, in a kitchen. Food brings people together. It reminds us of home and comfort and being cared for. Your nana used to say, ‘a good meal warms the heart and soul.’ I remembered this when I married young. When I got home from work, I always cooked for my husband and children. The smells fill the house and draws the family together. I never had to worry about where my husband was. Every night he drove straight home to my cooking. He wasn’t stopping for a drink with the guys. And your brother, when he was a teenager, he didn’t get into trouble on the streets, because every night he came home for supper. We ate together as a famiglia always. No one who comes to my table wants to leave.”

  This was true, Jamie agreed.

  “But those two,” Stella said, gesturing toward the dining room with a jerk of her head, “they sit across the table from each another, but they do not eat together. They do not enjoy the beautiful experience of sharing a meal with someone you love.”

  Jamie eyed a tray of cannellini bruschetta and a Caesar salad as it passed by. She understood what her mother was saying. She just didn’t believe it applied to Mr. Damien. “Ma, this is the first time you’ve seen them together as a couple. How could you know what’s in their hearts?”

&nbs
p; “A mother knows things.”

  “Maybe she does. But you are not either of their mothers.”

  Stella waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Those two will never be man and wife. It would be a sin against marriage. Only two people passionately in love, with souls as one, should wed. And those two, they have nothing in common. He is a lonely man crying out for love but who doesn’t understand what true love is. And if he doesn’t know love, then how can he know what he wants, eh? And Vera, she is a woman who doesn’t have the time to love such a man. She is too consumed with herself.”

  “I don’t know, she’s always seemed an okay sort on screen,” Jamie said with a shrug. “Then why do you suppose she’s with him if she’s not interested in love and marriage?”

  “Because, cara mia, like most women, she desires to have a man to pamper and adore her. A handsome man to complete the package of having it all. Vera is a beauty but still insecure. Lots of those TV people are. A man is proof to the world that she is a desirable woman. And Rick … well, who would say no to such a man? He is a good man. A good catch. I know. I did the googly thing to him on the computer.”

  Jamie refrained from rolling her eyes. Mama Mia.

  Her mother pressed closer, adding softly in her lovely Italian-accented voice, “Rick needs a woman who can teach him what it means to truly fall in love. A fine, lovely, Italian woman. A woman like you, cara.”

  “Me!?” The idea struck Jamie as so fantastical she didn’t know which she felt like doing more — laugh or choke. “More crazy talk, Ma? I can’t believe you actually checked him out online. A good man, really? I thought he was kind of a jerk. He stole my house. But he did tell Dad he wanted to keep me on the job. This was after I had finished all the structural work, mind you. Whatever you’re thinking, Ma, forget it. Even if he were available, which he is not, I’m not his type. He obviously likes beautiful women, and when he first met me, he thought I was a boy.”