“No, I just call the hospital if I need anything.”
“Well, if you ever need to find me at home . . .” He wrote the number on a prescription pad and handed it to me. “Here. Just in case.”
I slipped the paper into my pocket, wondering what this was all about. Malcolm had been my vet for fifteen years and I’d never once had to call him at home—if I needed him, the answering service found him.
“Next time you talk to Dani, tell her what I said about vet school.”
“I will,” I said, clipping on Nelson’s leash. “Next time.”
* * *
ing the hospital, I drove to Café Allegro to see Monica, leaving Blixen and Nelson, worn-out from their busy morning, to sleep in the car.
I’d only planned to pop in, say hello, and see if she had a couple of minutes to talk about ways to raise money for the dog rescue, but Monica insisted on feeding me. It wasn’t quite ten thirty, but I was hungry after my walk, so I let her. She fixed me a plate of spaghetti Bolognese and set a place for me at the counter so I could watch while she got ready for the lunch crowd.
I couldn’t believe how quickly she worked, lifting enormous pots filled with water onto the stove, her knife flashing as she chopped a pile of peppers, a small mountain of onions, then gutted and prepped a whole bucket of fresh and very slimy-looking squid. Disgusting but impressive.
But the most impressive thing was the way Monica and her staff maneuvered around the kitchen and one another—salting sauces, stirring fillings, rolling dough, whisking dressing, tossing salads. It was almost balletic the way each person’s movements were perfectly timed to the others, moving expertly through the dance with barely a word of instruction or inquiry. This was a very good thing because Monica had a lot on her mind and needed to talk.
“I’m exhausted. Didn’t sleep all night,” she said as she seeded and diced a dozen Roma tomatoes with lightning speed. “Zoe and I had a huge fight. I wouldn’t let her wear fishnet stockings to school. Apparently, this means I’m out to ruin her life. She called me some terrible names. So I turned around and called her some that were even worse.”
Monica swept her knife over the cutting board, scooped up the pile of diced tomato, and dumped it into a bowl, shaking her head.
“Every time she throws out the bait, I snap it up. Why do I do that? Why?”
“Because you care. You’re worried about her.”
Monica laid her knife on the counter and gave me a searching look. “All she thinks about is boys. Nan, she’s not even fourteen years old.”
“I know, I know,” I said, thinking about Chrissy and Dani and the struggles they’d gone through, growing up without a dad. “She’s hurting. She just wants to be loved.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” Monica started peeling garlic. “Even when he was alive, Vince didn’t pay attention to her. He only had eyes for Alex—first-born son and all. I know it hurts. I went through the same thing with my mom and my big brother. Compared to Stevie, I was chopped liver. But Vince was really a jerk, way worse than my mom. To him, the only women worth noticing were bimbos.”
“You are not a bimbo,” I corrected.
“No, but I could cook. I was useful,” she said, bitterly. “This whole boy-crazy bimbo thing is just Zoe trying to find the daddy love she missed. She can’t see it, but I do. I’m not trying to keep her from having fun or being popular. I just want her to understand that she’s worth something! I want her to know that her value as a person isn’t based on how many acne-scarred Romeos try to shove their hand down her blouse.”
She tossed the garlic into the bowl with the tomato and some herbs, then added salt, pepper, and olive oil.
“The least worst thing that’ll happen to her is getting her heart broken,” Monica said, her frustration evident in the ferocious way she stirred the tomatoes. “Every time I try to explain that, she yells something at me, then I yell something back, and we’re off to the races.
“Why do I do that? I’m supposed to be the adult.”
She stopped stirring, put down the spoon, and looked at me. Her gaze was flat and her eyes seemed darker, as if the spark inside them had been suddenly extinguished.
“I’m going to end up ruining these kids, aren’t I?”
“No!” I insisted. “No, you’re not. Why would you even think that? Monica, raising children isn’t easy. Especially teenagers.”
“You raised seven and they all turned out okay.”
“Every mother makes mistakes.”
Monica tasted the tomato mixture, tossed in some salt, and sighed.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get off on a tangent. I was supposed to help brainstorm ways to make money for Rainbow Gate, not gripe about my rotten step-kids, right? So. Let’s talk fund-raising. But, first—do you want a piece of tiramisu? It’s fabulous. You’ve got to try it.”
With my mouth full of spaghetti, I waved a finger in the air, trying to signal that I was too full for dessert. But Monica had turned her back and was heading toward the restaurant’s big walk-in cooler. While she was inside, the phone rang. Ben, Monica’s sous-chef, answered it, then called out, “Chef? It’s for you.”
“Take a message.”
“She said she’s gotta talk to you now. Said it’s important.”
Monica exited the cooler. “This better not be some yahoo trying to sell me a new espresso machine,” she said, scowling at Ben. He handed her the phone.
“Hello? Yes, this is Mrs. Romano.”
Monica turned to face the wall, conversing in a voice that was too soft for me to hear. I looked at my half-eaten plate of pasta. I was so full, stuffed. But the sauce was so delicious . . .
As I took another bite, Monica hung
