It would take longer this time, too, because she wouldn’t have Bobby to draw in investors. In fact, her link to Bobby would probably prevent anyone except the most foolhardy from lending her a dime.
Sighing, she crawled out of bed, pulled on a pair of faded jeans, a short-sleeved blouse and the cowboy boots she hadn’t worn since she’d left Winding River ten years ago. They still fit perfectly. Maybe there was a message there, that Winding River was where she really belonged, where people still felt a shred of respect for her.
Her parents had long since left the house. Her father worked Saturdays. Her mother spent the morning with the altar guild at church and her afternoon doing errands. Gina was used to late nights and sleeping in. She’d gotten to bed before midnight the night before, but add in a little jet lag and her schedule was completely upside down. It felt like noon, which it was in New York. The clock said otherwise.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, made two slices of toast from her mother’s homemade sourdough bread, then went onto the porch. It was already hot outside, better suited for iced tea than coffee, but she drank it anyway. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would help her think more clearly so she could decide what to do about Rafe O’Donnell.
Unfortunately, the only ideas that came to mind had more to do with discovering what his mouth would feel like against her own than they did with getting him out of town.
Too restless to sit still, she grabbed the keys to her mother’s car, which had been left for her, and headed for town. She parked in the middle of the block on Main Street and considered her options. She could go to Stella’s and probably find a half dozen people she knew who’d be glad to chat with her over another cup of coffee. Or she could go to the Italian restaurant down the block, where Tony would probably let her work off her frustrations over his stove.
No contest, she thought, with a stirring of anticipation.
Tony Falcone had been her mentor. He’d hired her as a waitress while she was still in high school, but it hadn’t been long before he’d discovered that her real talent was in the kitchen. He’d taught her to make lasagna and spaghetti sauce with meatballs. He’d let her experiment with new recipes when cooking the traditional dishes had grown boring. And then he had helped her to persuade her parents that she would be better off going to culinary schools around the world than to any traditional college. It had been a tough sell, especially to her father, who’d been convinced that a degree in accounting would be a lot more practical. Given her current circumstances, Gina had to admit her father might have had a point.
A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she approached the back door at Tony’s and knocked, then opened it without waiting for a response from inside.
“Anybody in here have a good recipe for meatballs?” she called out.
“Cara mia,” Tony said, a smile spreading across his round face when he saw her. “Where have you been? I heard you were coming home, but then nothing. I am insulted that I was not at least the second stop on your list after your parents.”
“I know, I know,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Will you forgive me?”
He studied her. “That depends.”
“On?”
“How long you intend to stay. It has been too long, Gina. My customers are grumbling about the same old food, week after week. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t ask when you will be back to liven up the menu.”
“What do you tell them?”
“That you are now a famous chef in New York, and that if they want to eat your food, they will have to travel there.”
Gina eyed with longing the huge old stove with its simmering pots. “I could fix something for tonight,” she offered. “Maybe a spicy penne arrabiata or a Greek-style pizza with black olives and feta cheese.”
“But you are on vacation,” Tony protested. “I cannot ask you to cook.”
“You didn’t ask. I offered. Besides, I have some thinking to do, and I always think more clearly as I cook.”
He studied her intently. “Problems, cara mia? Do you want to talk about them? I may not be able to solve them, but I can listen. Sometimes that is all we need, yes? An objective listener while we sort through things?”
Gina debated telling Tony everything. She knew he would keep it to himself. She also knew he would sympathize with her predicament because he, more than anyone, knew how important her restaurant was to her.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?” she asked.
He regarded her with feigned indignation. “How many nights did I listen to you go on and on about this boyfriend or that?”
She grinned ruefully. “More than I care to think about, but this is different.”
“How?”
“Because it really matters.”
“When you were sixteen, those boys mattered, too.”
She thought back to the string of broken hearts she’d suffered. “Okay, you’re right. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?”
“I will fix us both an espresso and we will talk.” He gestured toward the front. “Go in there and sit.”
“But you have things to do,” she protested. “We can talk here.”
“Nothing that can’t wait. Now, go. I will be there in a minute.”
Gina walked into the dining room with its familiar red-checked tablecloths, the dripping candles stuck in old Chianti bottles, the wide-planked oak floor and the big picture window overlooking Main Street. An inexpertly done mural of Naples had been painted on one wall
