A Taste of You (9 page)

“Who’s Uncle Aldo?” Carlo mentally ran through the family tree and came up empty.

“Before your time,” Vera said. “Camilla, was he actually an uncle at all?”

“No, cousin I think.” Camilla counted on her fingers for a minute. “Our second cousin once removed? I can’t do the math beyond that, but he lived down the street from us when we were girls.”

“Sweetest man,” Vera continued. “Used to trim Aunt Ida’s trees after Uncle Mason passed. Never had a harsh word for anyone.”

“Unless you interrupted the windows,” Camilla said.

“Well, yes. But everyone knew not to bother him then.”

“I don’t remember him,” Nonna said. “What does he have to do with our Garrett?”

“Well, Garrett is so particular about his food, everything has to be done a certain way. Uncle Aldo was particular about checking the windows. Every night at eight o’clock he went through the whole house and unlatched and re-latched every window. He did them in a particular order, and if you interrupted him, he started over at the beginning.”

“OCD, Carlo said.”

“Yes, that is what they would call it now,” Vera said, “but, to us, it was just something Uncle Aldo did. He was so sweet the rest of time no one bothered him much about it.”

Camilla nodded. “I suppose now they have some special therapy for it or a drug.”

She looked at Carlo and the subtext was obvious. Did Garrett have a therapist? Drugs? Did he need them?

Carlo walked over to the window. Garrett, who professed to dislike children, was playing soccer in the street with an assortment of young Rotolos and kids from the block. It felt weird and disloyal to be having this conversation behind his back.

Nonna must have thought so, too. “Garrett is an artist,” she said. “They all have their quirks. He’ll be okay now that he and Giancarlo are finally together.”

“We’re just friends, Nonna.”

“Is that what they call it these days? In my day, when you had a friend you slept with you called yourself a couple.”

“You’re fishing, Nonna. You can’t possibly know if Garrett and I are sleeping together.”

She huffed. “Don’t tell me what I know, young man. I raised you since you were eight years old. You think I don’t have eyes in my head? You’ve been in love with that boy since you laid eyes on him. We’re all happy you’re finally doing something about it.”

Vera and Camilla nodded in agreement.

Well, that would be great if he had actually been the one to do something and if he knew they actually were a couple. So far, Garrett had been frustratingly unclear about their relationship status, and Carlo hadn’t wanted to rock the boat by asking.

“New York has the gay marriage now,” Camilla said. “You should propose. Make things legal.”

“I don’t think Garrett is interested in settling down, Aunt Camilla.”

“He’s had his fun,” Nonna said. “Now it’s time to put a leash on him. That will settle him right down. I was just as wild before your Grandpa Frank proposed. Had some idea I was going to run off to Argentina and write poetry or maybe marry Tommy Dellacroce and be a mafia princess, but Frank proposed first.”

Carlo blinked. “Mafia princess, Nonna, really?”

“I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it, but who knows? Good thing Frank was the better kisser.”

“You’re making this up.” He didn’t know if Nonna had ever written poetry, but her stories were legendary.

“Oh, no. The part about Tommy is true,” Vera said. “That’s how we finally broke ties with the Gambino family. Tommy always had a sweet spot for her, and he smoothed things over.”

“Thank god,” Camilla said. “She did make one thing up, though. Tommy proposed first, but she turned him down.”

“Thought Frank was never going to ask,” Nonna said. “That’s when I got the idea to go to Argentina and be tragic.”

“Nonna….” Was there really anything he could say to that?

“Don’t wait too long to settle things with Garrett. It’s not good for him. Anyway, I’m getting old. I want a grandbaby.”

Now things were going too far. And what if she took up this conversation with Garrett?

Carlo pointed outside. “I count six grandchildren right there.”

“Yes, and look at them, all too old to cuddle. Everyone else has done their duty. It’s your turn, Carlo.”

“And how will this work? There have been a lot of advances in science, but you realize I still won’t be able to impregnate Garrett?” Now he was down the rabbit hole in a world where he and Garrett actually got married and had children.

“You can do that surrogate thing,” Camilla chimed in helpfully.

“Or adopt,” Nonna said. “Those nice boys two doors down adopted a little girl last Thanksgiving. They buy her designer shoes. Can you imagine? Two hundred dollars for a pair of canvas Mary Janes and the child can’t even walk. Cutest things you ever saw.” Nonna had always liked a fashionable shoe. “It’s not about the genes, Giancarlo. I want you to have your own family.”

That shut him up because there was nothing he wanted more, either. The problem was he wanted the whole thing with Garrett, who had made it clear a family wasn’t on his agenda. Unless he kept counting restaurants as children, then he could have as big a family as he wanted.

****

Garrett sat on the front stoop absently tossing the soccer ball into the air and catching it. His team had abandoned him in favor of the dessert being laid out buffet-style on the dining room table. The house vibrated, bursting at the seams with Carlo’s extended family. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t followed the kids back inside. Crowds didn’t bother him. He didn’t have a problem with social situations. Only one-on-one relationships eluded him.

“Chef Uncle Garrett?”

Garrett fumbled the ball and almost lost it as the high-pitched voice interrupted his thoughts.
Uncle Garrett?
How had that happened?

Valentina, Carlo’s youngest niece, stood next to him. Well, he supposed he had been chumming around with Carlo longer than she had been alive so maybe he was an uncle by association.

“Hello, my darling. You’ve grown a bit. Have you graduated college yet? Did I forget to send a gift?”

She stared back at him solemnly. “I’m only eight, Uncle Garrett.”

“No college, then?”

She rolled her eyes and gave a deep sigh that sounded exactly like one of Carlo’s despite her pint-size stature. “I don’t want to go to college. I want to be a chef, like you.”

Okay, okay this he could handle. He got this all the time. He prepared to launch into his usual spiel, work hard, stay in school, eat your veg, and yes, someday you too can have your own restaurant and TV show.

“I made you something.”

She produced a napkin from behind her back and unfolded it to reveal an extremely mangled piece of what might have been a brownie at one time.

Carlo’s niece, Garrett reminded himself. Nonna’s birthday. He was going to have to eat it. Worse, he was going to have to convince her he liked it.

“I watch your show every week.”

Of course she did.

“And you always tell the truth, even if it makes someone cry.”

Usually it did make someone cry. Valentina wasn’t someone, though. She was Carlo’s niece. He absolutely could not make her cry.

“My mama says these are the best brownies in the world.”

Of course.

“But she says I’m a good artist, too.”

“Aren’t you a good artist, then?”

“No.” Valentina sounded definitive. “My friend Becky is a really good artist, but I’m not. I don’t even try. I only draw when we’re assigned something at school.”

Garrett reached out and took the napkin. Americans seemed to love brownies. He had been subjected to a fair number of them over the years. It probably wouldn’t be so bad. He hesitated, “Did you use a mix?”

“Uncle Garrett, I
made
it.”

“Okay. Let’s see what we have.” He tore off a tiny piece. Best brownie in the world, he reminded himself. He popped it into his mouth, prepared to swallow quickly and lie his ass off.

Not too sweet. And the chocolate…really good quality. He didn’t swallow. Instead he bit down carefully, surprised to get a kick of pepper. Interesting. Cinnamon wouldn’t have been so surprising or even salted caramel, but most children didn’t go for pepper in their sweets.

He tore off a bigger piece and examined it carefully before putting it in his mouth. Real chopped chilies, too, not flakes or powder.

“Did your mama help you make these?”

“Well, I started with one of her recipes,” Valentina admitted, “but I changed it. And she suggested the chocolate, but she let me make a bunch of batches one day so I could try different kinds and taste them all at once. We labeled everything and made notes.”

“What chocolate did you use?”

“Bittersweet. I kept the wrapper so I can remember the name when we go to the store.”

“And the peppers?”

“Serrano. I made some with chipotle, too. Jalapeño was too hot if it wasn’t chopped really fine, and I like the little pieces of pepper.”

“Your mother let you dice the peppers?”

“I can’t use the sharp knives unless she is with me. She has to stand with me and watch, not just be in the kitchen. Is it any good, Uncle Garret?”

“The truth? The honest truth?”

“Yes.” She bit her lip.  “It’s not the best brownie in the world, is it?”

“No,” Garrett said brutally. “It is not.”

She blinked back tears, and he almost lost his nerve.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Thank you, Chef.”

How did a tiny girl remind him so much of Carlo? But she had asked him for the truth, and if she had really made this brownie, she deserved it.

“What is wrong with it? Is there a way to make it better?”

Ah, there was his girl. Carlo’s niece, he should have had more faith. But he wasn’t done yet.

“First of all, your presentation sucks.”

That got her back up. “I’m eight, Uncle Garrett. I have plenty of time to work on my presentation.”

“No, you do not. You are eight, and you are learning bad habits. By the time you are eighteen, they will be ingrained. You should learn to do things correctly from the start. People eat with their eyes first. If it doesn’t look appetizing, they won’t even try it. That looks like something I want to toss in the bin.”

“Fine, what else?”

So he told her. Then they spent a very nice quarter hour picking apart the rest of the brownie and solving its deficiencies.

“Do you cook other things? Cakes? Cookies?” Garrett asked when they were done.

“I am working on something savory, a crown roast, but it is slow. My mama says it is too expensive to do as often as the brownies. I have to make notes so I can remember where I am in between.”

“Let me know when you’re ready for me to try it. We’ll go to the market together, and I will pay for the ingredients.”

“Can I be on your show?”

“You have to be eighteen, Valentina. Not my rule. Is all this just so you can be on TV?”

“No. I want to have my own restaurant just like you do. When I am eighteen, can I be on your show?”

“No,” Garrett said. “When you are eighteen, if you are still cooking like this, and if you still want to be a chef, and
if
you can show me something that makes me want to eat it, then I will send you to culinary school. When you get out, you can have a job in one of my restaurants until you are ready to open your own.”

“Okay,” Valentina said. “That is a better plan. You are not very nice on that show.”

Chapter Eight

“I thought you didn’t like kids.” Carlo tried to keep his voice casual as he unlocked the door.

“What gave you that idea?”

“You’re always going on about how you don’t want any.” And if Carlo was wrong about that, maybe he was wrong other things. Maybe Nonna was right and he and Garrett could be a couple.

“I don’t.”

Or maybe it was all wishful thinking on the part of an old lady who wanted her grandson to be happy.

“So, if you like kids, why don’t you want any of your own?” He should drop this, but he couldn’t seem to.

“Me? Can you really see me as a father? It would be a disaster. Anyway, who has the time? I don’t see the point in having children just to leave them with a nanny.” Garrett looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you asking?”

“You spent a lot of time with the kids today. I’ve just never seen you take an interest.”

“Oh. Well. The soccer. I wanted the exercise, and the kids were the only ones who wanted to play.”

“Valentina?”

“She is a chef, Carlo. Her age doesn’t matter.”

Chef. Interesting. He suppressed a smile. Garrett had just elevated his eight-year-old niece to a higher status than he had ever bestowed on Carlo. The best Carlo had achieved was “very good cook.”

“You were good with her.”

“You heard us? I guess you missed the part where I made her cry. All she wanted was to be told her damn sweet was good.”

“No, she wanted to be taken seriously. She’ll remember that you didn’t talk down to her, that you treated her as an equal. Chef Ransom believed in her dreams. You did good, babe. You’d be a good father, too, in case you ever change your mind about that.”

The horror in Garrett’s eyes would be funny if it weren’t so damn tragic because Garrett obviously loved kids. But, okay. No kids. No long-term relationships. Got it.

He ignored the ache in his own chest. Garrett was here now just like he had been every night this week. They didn’t discuss it.

Carlo came home. Garrett came with him. He didn’t ask; he just tagged along. If they hadn’t eaten, they made dinner. Sometimes they watched television or worked side-by-side on their laptops. Then they went to bed and did sinful things to each other. In the morning, Garrett would be gone before Carlo got up.

For Carlo, it signaled a massive shift in their relationship. For Garrett? Who knew what Garrett thought or why he did anything.

Carlo didn’t like the ambiguity of the situation, but, whenever he tried to talk to Garrett about it, the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t get over the fact that Garrett followed him home every night, apparently with the sole intention of them winding up in bed together. Or on the sofa, the floor, against the wall or….Carlo eyed the club chair he had bought two years ago. The minute he had seen the supple brown leather and thick cushioned back and arms, he had pictured Garrett’s pale skin against it. He wanted Garrett spread over that chair, wanted it so badly he could see it happening every time he walked in the door.