fitful night dreaming of Gabe coming to her, waking her with kisses, and roaming his hands over her body—only to be interrupted by Mario and Eddy bursting into her bedroom, their eyes wild, their teeth gnashing like rabid dogs and their hands, long furry claws like a monkey’s, reaching for her. Several times she woke wanting to call Gabe. But she had no way to reach him. Even if she did, she would not call him. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in her.
The next morning, Gianna jumped into the shower, then started to replicate what Tressie had done to her the night before. And though she tried, she could not make her hair look anything close to the miracle Tressie managed. Instead she settled for it hanging straight, letting the wispy edges frame her face and decided it didn’t look too bad. After she applied the few cosmetics she possessed, Gianna looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad. Better than before Tressie had her intervention but not the sultry siren who walked out of here last night.
Gianna found herself immersed in the daily operation of the restaurant. The cozy red and white checkered tablecloths beckoned her with friendly warmth. The bottles of Chianti that lined the wall behind the bar promised a smooth companion to the pasta dishes Marlene and Dante could whip up in their sleep. Gianna had taken more interest in the kitchen these last few years. She enjoyed the solitude of creating, but more than that, she enjoyed the sharing of her efforts. Several of her own recipes were featured on the menu, and every once in a while, when one of her chefs could not make it in, Gianna gladly put on the apron and spent the evening running between the kitchen and the hostess stand. One of her dreams was to go to Italy and spend a year working in various restaurants. In her entire life, she had never left the Bay Area. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to spread her wings. She smiled. Maybe. Someday.
The fresh scent of basil, thyme, and oregano wafted from the kitchen, mingling with the pungent scent of fresh garlic. It was perfume to her. She would never tire of the scents. As long as she lived, those herbs would give her comfort and joy. Like a teddy bear.
The restaurant was immaculate. Her family and guests who had cleaned up after the reception two nights before did a stellar job.
It was still early, not even seven-thirty. Paulie, her prep boy, would be arriving soon, followed by Marlene, who would make her fresh pastas from scratch. Soon the kitchen would be bustling with activity and scrumptious aromas.
And so the day went. At noon Tressie showed up, ready to melt Gianna’s credit card and leaving the hostess stand in Zia Cece’s capable hands. Gianna spent a whirlwind afternoon with her cousin trying on clothes, hats, and shoes and getting a full makeover at the MAC counter at Nordie’s. Gianna didn’t think of her dead father, Tucci, or his two goons, instead she thought of spreading her wings a little at a time, and, a certain dark-haired man who made her feel things she now craved more than any dish on the menu.
As the dinner hour rolled around, Gianna was dressed in a shirt and skirt, and not one that stopped at her ankles. While black, this skirt fell midthigh. She loved the shirt. The minute she’d spied the deep emerald-colored button-down cashmere form-fitting sweater in Nordstrom’s, she knew she had to have it. The color brought out the green in her hazel eyes. While it was form-fitting, it did not reveal too much of her ample cleavage but showed it off in simple classic tailored lines. She wore dark hose and three-inch Kate Spade peekaboo pumps Tressie insisted she buy.
Despite the smiles from her regulars, Gianna still felt like somehow she was an imposter. Not worthy of the smiles and looks she garnered. Even when old man Amato came in for his weekly penne all’Arrabbiata and Chianti fix, removed his glasses, cleaned them, then smiled and said, “I’m not seeing things.
The next morning, Gianna jumped into the shower, then started to replicate what Tressie had done to her the night before. And though she tried, she could not make her hair look anything close to the miracle Tressie managed. Instead she settled for it hanging straight, letting the wispy edges frame her face and decided it didn’t look too bad. After she applied the few cosmetics she possessed, Gianna looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad. Better than before Tressie had her intervention but not the sultry siren who walked out of here last night.
Gianna found herself immersed in the daily operation of the restaurant. The cozy red and white checkered tablecloths beckoned her with friendly warmth. The bottles of Chianti that lined the wall behind the bar promised a smooth companion to the pasta dishes Marlene and Dante could whip up in their sleep. Gianna had taken more interest in the kitchen these last few years. She enjoyed the solitude of creating, but more than that, she enjoyed the sharing of her efforts. Several of her own recipes were featured on the menu, and every once in a while, when one of her chefs could not make it in, Gianna gladly put on the apron and spent the evening running between the kitchen and the hostess stand. One of her dreams was to go to Italy and spend a year working in various restaurants. In her entire life, she had never left the Bay Area. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to spread her wings. She smiled. Maybe. Someday.
The fresh scent of basil, thyme, and oregano wafted from the kitchen, mingling with the pungent scent of fresh garlic. It was perfume to her. She would never tire of the scents. As long as she lived, those herbs would give her comfort and joy. Like a teddy bear.
The restaurant was immaculate. Her family and guests who had cleaned up after the reception two nights before did a stellar job.
It was still early, not even seven-thirty. Paulie, her prep boy, would be arriving soon, followed by Marlene, who would make her fresh pastas from scratch. Soon the kitchen would be bustling with activity and scrumptious aromas.
And so the day went. At noon Tressie showed up, ready to melt Gianna’s credit card and leaving the hostess stand in Zia Cece’s capable hands. Gianna spent a whirlwind afternoon with her cousin trying on clothes, hats, and shoes and getting a full makeover at the MAC counter at Nordie’s. Gianna didn’t think of her dead father, Tucci, or his two goons, instead she thought of spreading her wings a little at a time, and, a certain dark-haired man who made her feel things she now craved more than any dish on the menu.
As the dinner hour rolled around, Gianna was dressed in a shirt and skirt, and not one that stopped at her ankles. While black, this skirt fell midthigh. She loved the shirt. The minute she’d spied the deep emerald-colored button-down cashmere form-fitting sweater in Nordstrom’s, she knew she had to have it. The color brought out the green in her hazel eyes. While it was form-fitting, it did not reveal too much of her ample cleavage but showed it off in simple classic tailored lines. She wore dark hose and three-inch Kate Spade peekaboo pumps Tressie insisted she buy.
Despite the smiles from her regulars, Gianna still felt like somehow she was an imposter. Not worthy of the smiles and looks she garnered. Even when old man Amato came in for his weekly penne all’Arrabbiata and Chianti fix, removed his glasses, cleaned them, then smiled and said, “I’m not seeing things.
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