“But, hey, no hard feelings. I understand. I’ll just stick to chicken and beef. Most of my customers prefer it anyway. Or, maybe I’ll give St. Clair Seafood a call. They might be willing to give me a break, a new customer discount or something. But I’ll miss you, Tony. I really will. How many years have we been doing business now? Four? Or is it five?”
Tony crossed his arms over his chest. “Eleven fifty a pound.”
I shook my head. “Ten dollars even.”
“Ten seventy-five. Final offer.”
“Ten fifty.”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Fine. Ten fifty. You’re killin’ me here, Monica. How am I supposed to keep food on the table selling you branzino at ten fifty a pound, eh?”
“Oh, somehow I think you’ll manage,” I said, looking pointedly at his ample waistline.
Tony started laughing and I grinned. It was the same every week—the sparring, the back-and-forth, the bickering and bargaining. He enjoyed it as much as I did.
“So how much do you need, Monica? Fifteen pounds?”
“Make it twenty. Twenty-five pounds of shrimp. And twenty-two pounds of salmon—filets not steaks.” He wrote down the numbers. “Oh, and listen, Tony, I’m catering this big fund-raiser in June, a dog rescue benefit. Think you could give me a deal on about fifty pounds of salmon?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I like dogs. I’ll do it at cost. Must be a pretty big party if you need fifty pounds.”
“Should be,” I said. “That’s not even counting the vegetarians. We just started advertising and they’ve already sold sixty tickets. It’s a Fairy Dogmother’s Ball. You and Brenda want to come? Should be a fun night. You can bring Bruno.”
Tony looked intrigued. “Dogs are invited? Even St. Bernards?”
“Sure, as long as he doesn’t try to eat the Chihuahuas or anything.”
“Naw. Bruno’s like me, a real marshmallow.” Tony laughed, patting his belly.
“Here, take a look.” I handed him a hot-off-the-press flyer from a stack near the mixer. “Second Saturday in June. It’ll be outside, but we’ll have tents and heaters, just in case the weather doesn’t cooperate. The food, of course, will be fantastic.”
“Seeing as you’re making it,” Tony said.
“Exactly. And we’re going to have a dance band and a costume contest.”
“Dancing, eh?” Tony mused, reading the flyer. “Our anniversary is that weekend—thirty-eight years. Brenda always says I never take her anyplace nice. This might be good. I could get out of buying an anniversary present and get her off my back at the same time.”
“And it’s tax-deductible. Which, you know, always adds that extra touch of romance.” I grinned. “Take it home to Brenda and see what she says. Tell you what, I’ll send you home with some cheesecake to sweeten her up.
“Hey, Ben,” I said as my sous-chef walked in the door, “can you wrap up a couple of pieces of cheesecake for Tony to take with him?”
“Sure,” he said, then gestured toward the dining room. “Luke Pascal is in there. He brought the new tables and stuff.”
“Already? I didn’t think they’d be done for another two weeks. Tell him it’s fine. I’ll be out there in a minute.”
Tony handed me a pen so I could sign the purchase order.
“Monica, you okay? Your hand is shaking.”
“I’m just tired,” I said, yawning and waving off his concern simultaneously. “Dining month was great—brought in a ton of new customers—but keeping up was a killer. Now the kids have all their spring activities—Zoe’s on the dance team and Alex has cross-country, so I’m hauling them back and forth to practices and meets and trying to run a business at the same time. Plus, I’ve got this big fund-raiser coming up and I’m catering a wedding the week after next.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just too busy.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Tony said, shaking his head. “You cook, run a business, raise a family—and you’re gorgeous.” He sighed. “If only I was twenty years younger . . .”
I flapped my hand at him. “Bah. More like thirty. And if you were, paisano, I’m sure you’d figure out a way to break my heart like all the rest of them. Besides, what would I want with a broken-down old fish salesman who never takes his wife anyplace nice?”
Tony grinned, slipped his pen back into his shirt pocket, and picked up the container of cheesecake Ben had placed on the counter.
“Monica, you’re a good girl,” he said, and patted my cheek. “You take care of yourself. See you next week.”
“See you next week. Tell Brenda I said hello.”
* * *
Ben and a couple of the dishwashers helped bring the tables and banquettes in from Luke’s truck. After the guys hauled out the old stuff, Luke and I arranged the new furniture.
“Take a load off,” Luke said once the seating was in place. “I can do the rest.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. I sank down onto the closest banquette bench and ran my hand over the luscious, rich, honey-colored wood. “It’s so smooth,” I said. “It’s like silk. How do you do that?”
“Pick a really good piece of wood and then sand it and sand it and sand it some more,” he said, picking up one of the smaller, two-seater tables, then setting it in a corner and pulling two chairs up next to it.
“It’s beautiful. Exactly what I wanted—real furniture, like you’re having dinner in somebody’s home instead of a restaurant. But how’d you finish so quickly? You said it’d be two more weeks.”
“Well,” Luke said, grunting as he hefted one of the larger tables. “I’d rather promise late and deliver early than the other way around. And I’ve got another couple of orders behind yours, so I was motivated—a standup desk for an architect and a very custom, carved sleigh bed for a couple in the West Hills.”
“Oooh,” I
