The Devil Served Tortellini Page 5

  While Mary Louise Zipparetto was being fed celery sticks by a naked Mr. America.

  Yesterday's kiss in her mother's backyard had been a momentary lapse of sensory judgment. Never again.

  She got ready, then walked the few blocks to work, dodging the commuters speed-walking along Atlantic Avenue and the tourists creating pedestrian traffic snarls every time they paused to gape at the Big Dig transformation or to note how lost they were.

  Finally, she walked into Gift Baskets to Die For. The little shop off of Atlantic Avenue had become a pretty successful venture, maintaining both the friendship of the three owners-herself, Candace Woodrow and Rebecca Hamilton-and a steady stream of work. Maria did sales and marketing, Candace kept the books and Rebecca was in charge of design. All of them had a hand in the cooking, though Rebecca was clearly the best at it. If there was one thing the trio had in common, it was a love for anything high in calories and fat.

  Friendships based on food tended to last. The only disagreements the three of them had sprung up when the cookie jar got low.

  "Something happened last night. I can tell," Rebecca said from her perch in the window as soon as Maria walked in the door. Rebecca had tape in one hand and spring decorations in the other, all designed to encourage the purchase of Easter Bunny bounty. She tore off a piece of tape and slapped it on the glass. "Come on, dish."

  Maria sipped at her diet shake, staying silent.

  Candace came around the counter, all thin and blonde, the complete opposite of Maria. If they hadn't been best friends, Maria would have had to hate Candace for being blessed with a metabolism that actually seemed to speed up with the consumption of chocolate. "Where'd you go Saturday night? You missed our standing movie date. Russell Crowe wasn't the same without you oohhing and ahhing in the background."

  Maria hung her coat on the rack by the door and took her time putting her purse behind the counter. "Sorry. I, ah, had somewhere else to go."

  Rebecca waggled a paper egg at her. "You met a guy, didn't you? I swear, you're like some kind of magnet. If there's a Y chromosome within fifty feet, he zones in on you."

  "It's the hips," Candace said, gesturing at her slim khaki-clad figure. "I wish I had some. I have the figure of a salamander."

  Maria snorted. "Are you kidding me? I'm rhino woman.

  "Hey, have a kid and then complain to me." Rebecca gestured to her stomach. "It's like there's a permanent airship under there."

  Maria had no intention of discussing her hips with her friends. The grass was always greener on the other side of the dressing room door.

  She'd gotten on the scale this morning, naked and sure her linguine resistance on Saturday had made a difference. It hadn't. Her weight was exactly the same as yesterday, not even an ounce of change. Hence the diet shake, which tasted about as appetizing as ajar of school glue but promised less than two hundred calories of nutrition.

  "So, what's on the plan for today?" Maria said, changing the subject and reaching for the planner on the front counter. "Great! We have a few more of those hospital baskets to do." Last year, they'd teamed up with an ad agency to send gift baskets to all the new moms in Boston. The program had been so successful, it was being tested in other nearby cities, too.

  Rebecca climbed out of the window and put the extra decorations into a box by the kitchen door. "Vogler Advertising's campaign with that formula manufacturer has really turned out to be a great year-round thing for our shop." She straightened, pressing a hand to her back. "Or it will be, as long as Candace keeps making Michael Vogler happy."

  "Oh, he's happy." Candace sighed, one of those contented sounds that said Michael wasn't the only one getting his needs met. "Very, very happy."

  'Wait till you get married and have kids," Rebecca said, emphasizing her point with a shake of some purple Easter grass, like a cheerleader for the losing side. "I can't remember the last time I had more than six minutes for sex." She covered her mouth and stifled a yawn. "Or the energy for more than four. Damn, I'm so tired."

  "And then at three this afternoon-" Maria said, running her finger down the page.

  Rebecca yanked the book out of Maria's hands and thrust it behind her back. "Oh, no, you don't. You'll have to get up earlier than eight to fool me. You're changing the subject. And I won't quit till I find out why. Where'd you go last night?"

  Candace grabbed the glass dome off the cake platter on the counter and removed a glazed doughnut from the dish. 'We have ways of making you talk," she said, waving the pastry in front of Maria's nose like a hypnotist's watch.

  Maria shook her head. "Nope. Won't work. I'm on a diet."

  Rebecca raised an eyebrow.

  "I'm sticking to it this time. I have incentive." "Incentive" Rebecca asked. "What incentive?" "Antonio."

  Candace replaced the doughnut under its glass shrine.

  "Is that who you met last night?"

  "No." Maria paused, fiddling with the top of her can.

  "That was Dan te."

  "Ah! I knew it!" Rebecca pounced forward. "You have

  that look."

  "What look?"

  "Like a cat with a chubby chipmunk."

  "I do not." She took a sip of her shake and forced herself not to gag on the taste. "Besides, Dante is totally wrong for me."

  "Why? Does he have a criminal background?" Rebecca asked.

  "No."

  "A wife?"

  "No."

  "A husband?"

  Maria laughed. "No, definitely not that."

  "Then what?"

  Maria let out a sigh. "He's a chef."

  "Perfect!"

  Maria danced her unsatisfying, bland, low-calorie shake back and forth. "Maybe in twenty-five pounds, but I can't date a guy who smells like Alfredo sauce. I'll end up cheating just by kissing him."

  "What's so bad about that?" Rebecca asked. "I think you look great, exactly the way you are."

  "That's what Dante said. I disagree." She finished the can and tossed it into the trash. "I'm really sticking to my diet this time. I joined ..." she paused, then lurched the words out, "a support group."

  "That's great!" Candace said. "One of our customers was just talking about a group like that. She said Mary Louise Zipparetto-"

  "I know all about Mary Louise," Maria said. "She had great success with the Chubby Chums."

  "Chubby Chums?" Rebecca bit back a laugh.

  Maria nodded. "The group is more than a little strange, and they say these stupid phrases all the time, but I think it might help to have people to report in to, know what I mean?" Maria plopped onto one of the stools behind the counter and rested her chin on her hands. "And they seem to really care, in a weird kind of way."

  "Are we talking tender group hugs here?" Candace asked.

  "I haven't had that pleasure yet." Maria laughed. Rebecca's eyes narrowed. "So where did you meet Dante?"

  "After the meeting. He talked me into an antipasto at his restaurant. You know me, I'm a weak woman when it comes to Italian food. I left, though, before things got too crazy. Well, except for a quick dance in the street with him. Then I left." For now, she left out the details about his visit to her mother's house yesterday.

  Rebecca shook her head. "You got it bad, girl."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have never seen you run away from a man before."

  "I didn't run away. I ..." Maria thought, then realized she'd done exactly that. "Okay, maybe I did leave too fast. But-" She cut herself off when she noticed the perfectly matched Chanel getting out of a limo parked along the sidewalk outside the shop. "Oh-oh. It's Monica."

  "Again? She was just here on Thursday to change her wedding theme from Elvis to Cher," Candace said. "She wanted peacock feathers in the chocolate centerpieces, for God's sake."

  Monica Thurgood had changed her mind seventeen times about her wedding decor, ordering all new desserts, dresses and decorations each time. Last month, she'd had a "vision" of a Cinderella wedding, complete with chocolate mice. Thi
s past week, she'd talked about an Elvis-themed wedding, with the bridesmaids wearing blue suede shoes and polyester suits.

  "Well, she's got a new idea now. She called me first thing this morning to warn us she'd be stopping by. Now, don't laugh when she tells you," Rebecca warned, biting her lip and suppressing a grin. "She's talking ... trains. "

  "Trains?"

  Rebecca nodded. "She said her fiance has this thing for anything railroad. He likes pretending he's the engineer and she's the wayward caboose, and they-"

  "Don't!" Candace put up a palm. "I just ate breakfast."

  "Have you met her groom?" Maria asked. "He's got the coordination of a cow. All I can see him doing is derailing her."

  The bell over the front of the door jangled, interrupting them. Monica Thurgood waltzed in, complete with her Chihuahua child.

  "Come along, Aphrodite," she said to the little dog, tugging on a Swarovski crystal-embedded leash. "We need to talk about Mommy's wedding."

  Across the room, Candace's three-legged dog Trifecta barely lifted his head in acknowledgment of the diminutive canine companion.

  "Monica, how nice to see you again," Rebecca said.

  Monica laid her Coach purse on the counter and ran a hand down the front of her cream Chanel suit. "I know it's only been four days since I was here, but I had an absolutely brilliant idea when I was at the spa this morning, getting a pedicure for myself and Aphrodite."

  "Another idea?" Maria said. "So soon?"

  "Oh, you know me. An idea a minute." Monica let out a giggle. "My head is positively spinning with ideas for the ceremony and reception."

  "You know we only have two months until the big day," Rebecca said. "Changing things at this point will-"

  "Cost me more. I know. But Daddy said whatever makes me happy is worth any price." Monica picked up Aphrodite. "And Daddy loves his little girl, doesn't he, pumpkin?" She cuddled the dog to her face.

  "So we aren't going with the Cher theme anymore?"

  "Turns out Daddy is allergic to peacocks. The centerpieces would have given him hives." Monica shook her head, lips pursed. "Poor Daddy. He's never even been to a zoo, can you believe it?"

  "That is a ... a hardship."

  "Anyway, I was thinking it might be more fun to have a train theme, because my Lester is so into locomotives."

  "Trains, huh?" Candace managed. "Is he a collector?"

  Monica twiddled her fingers at her lips, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "More an ... enthusiast, you could say. "

  "Choo, choo," Maria whispered into Candace's ear, covering the joke with a slight cough. Candace gave her an elbow jab.

  "We can do trains," Rebecca said. "Let's go into the office and jot down a few ideas." She gestured to Monica, who followed along, Aphrodite taking quick dainty steps beside her.

  Candace grabbed Maria's arm before they headed into the office. "You can't leave me hanging. Details. I need details."

  "Nope. Not even under pasta torture." Maria grabbed the office door handle. "Besides, we need to get in here and help, so Lester can get cozy with Thomas the Tank Engine at his wedding."

  "You are a bad influence on me," Candace said, laughing.

  Maria gave her a quick one-armed hug. "Hey, we all have our missions in life."

  Vinny's Oslo-Buco-of-Tearful Contrition

  2 tablespoons of flour

  Salt and pepper

  4 veal shanks, supremely high quality

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  1 onion, minced (be careful not to cry as you chop)

  1 celery stalk, minced

  1 leek, minced

  1/2 carrot, minced

  2 cloves garlic, minced

  1 1/4 cups white wine (pick an excellent vintage for apologizing)

  1 1/4 cups chicken or veal stock

  2 bay leaves

  Zest of 1 lemon

  1 14-ounce can chopped tomatoes

  Salt and pepper

  Gremolata:

  2 teaspoons minced fresh parsley

  Zest of 1 lemon

  1 clove garlic, minced

  Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Season the flour with salt and pepper, then lightly dredge the veal. Shake off any excess and make sure everything is perfectly coated. Put an ovenproof casserole on the stove. Turn on the burner. Do not look at the flame! This is no time for distractions. Heat the oil, then add the veal and the onion. Brown the veal on both sides. Keep your mind and eyes on your task; don't get sidetracked. Remember, this is your chance to make up for that other ... ah, incident. Remove the veal and set on a towel to drain.

  Add the other vegetables, stir and cook until softened. Then add remaining ingredients, seasoning to taste. Try not to cry over the pan, thinking about how you almost lost your job and how your rent is due and the air conditioner is broken ... Pull yourself together now.

  Focus. Focus.

  Return the veal to the pan. Cover and cook everything for two hours or until veal is tender enough to be pierced with a fork, just like your sorry heart.

  In a small bowl, combine the gremolata ingredients. Sprinkle on top of the osso buco. Serve immediately

  Before you do anything else stupid.

  CHAPTER 7

  Vita was a madhouse. If Dante didn't own the place, he wouldn't believe it was the same restaurant as last week. Reservations were being called in faster than Franco could answer the phone, diners were lining up outside the door, waiting for any available table.

  The review had worked a miracle. Perhaps he should nominate George Whitman for sainthood.

  "Ah, your papa would be so proud," Franco said, coming alongside Dante at the reservation desk. "All his life, he wanted this."

  Dante nodded. "Too bad it never became a hit while he was around."

  Franco waved a hand. "He's around. He's in the flowers, the air, the smells from the kitchen. Your papa, always he be a part of this place."

  Dante's gaze traveled over the dark wood paneling, the cranberry upholstery and the delicate wall sconces. His father had chosen every element in Vita. When Dante had inherited the place, he'd talked about changing this, lightening up that. But it had all been talk. He hadn't done much more than update the menu and add a few plants to the foyer. From the ceiling to the diamondpatterned carpet, Vita was still his father's vision. "You're right, Franco."

  The maitre d' nodded. "Of course I am." Franco picked up the grease pencil, his hand hovering over the laminated seating chart. "What about the other beautiful addition to Vita?"

  "What other addition?"

  "The vixen who created a miracle in the dining room. And stole your heart."

  "She didn't steal my heart. She's a pretty girl, and yes, she helped me smooth over things with Whitman, but-"

  "But nothing. Don't you lie to Franco. I know love when I see it."

  "You are getting old. You need glasses."

  "I need nothing but a tux for a wedding." He winked and arched a hinting brow at Dante. "And you, mio amico, need a wife. You work too hard, worry too much, live too little. "

  Franco should have been a champion dart player. He'd hit that particular bull's-eye with unerring accuracy. Dance had kept Vita the same as it had been when his father owned it, but thatt also meant living the life his father had. All-consuming, workaholic. No time, no enemy, no room in his day planner for a date, never mind a wife.

  "You really need to meet Maria's mother. You two could create your own marriage mafia."

  Franco's eyes widened. He pressed a hand to his heart. "Mio Dio! I thought you were scared to speak that word."

  "What word? `Mafia'? Oh, come on. It's not the twenties."

  Franco scoffed. "You think I worry Jimmy Hoffa is going to come through our door? No, not that word. The `marriage' word."

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "My mamma, God rest her soul, she had the sight. She tell me, `Franco, those who speak of marriage, they want it. They say the word and it happens. Just like that.' " He snapped his fingers and a chil
l ran down Dante's spine. "Say it and before you know it, you are a Mister."

  "I'm already a Mister," he told Franco, hedging at a real answer. Dante did want to get married someday. Not to replicate the nightmare marriage his parents had had, but to find the traditional life that had always eluded him. A wife, a couple kids, a home.

  For now, though, that dream would have to stay on a shelf. Vita was his family.

  "You need to find your beautiful butterfly and introduce her to your flower," Franco said. He did a little dance with his shoulders to punctuate the sentence.

  "Franco! "

  "You think I got to be an old man by living the life of a monk? I know about amore"-he winked-"if you know what Franco means."

  "There are people waiting to be seated."

  Franco sighed. "And each day, your heart, she grows more lonely. Someday she shrivel up like a rotten tomato. Die in a dark place. Alone."

  "I have to get back to the kitchen. Vinny shouldn't be left unattended."

  "When you end up pushing your own wheelchair around, don't come crying to Franco."

  "Gee, thanks for the pretty picture of my future." Dante left and headed into the kitchen.

  Dante would never admit Franco was right. Doing so would open up an entire can of matchmaking worms. If he knew Franco, the man would be camped out on Maria's doorstep, chatting up Dante's assets until she caved and agreed to date him. In another life, Franco would have made a hell of a hostage negotiator.

  Today, he had the restaurant to worry about. All this good fortune could be gone tomorrow. Another place in town could get a better review, take the limelight off Vita and leave him struggling once again. Too many people depended on Dante for him to direct his attention anywhere but within these two thousand square feet.

  "I didn't touch the oven once," Vinny said when Dante entered the kitchen. Behind him, the swinging door slapped softly back and forth, slowly coming to a stop. "I didn't even look at the flames. I swear."

  "Good. Did you get the veal braised?"