Page 80 of Salvatore

“Just dinner rolls and an apple pie,” I answer. “I didn’t know what I should bring and I was too intimidated to make anything remotely Italian.”

Her laugh lifts my mood, but only slightly. “You’re a doll. Why don’t you go into the parlor? I’ll be in soon with some hors d’oeuvres.”

“Oh, no. Please, let me help,” I tell her, hurrying behind her as she walks into an immaculate gourmet kitchen. I would have offered either way, but I’ll admit there’s a huge appeal in keeping my distance from Vincent.

The hem of her tight black dress skims just above her knees. She’s my height, but tiny, with perfect round breasts I’m assuming Vin paid for.

My eyes scan the large kitchen. I’ve never seen wealth of this magnitude.

“What does Vincent do for a living?” I ask, wondering briefly if she’ll tell me something different than what Sal has. I shouldn’t doubt him, but this . . . this so much.

“You don’t know?” she asks casually.

“Salvatore doesn’t really discuss work much,” I answer, which isn’t far from the truth.

“Oh.” She bends to remove a tray of tiny quiches from a large industrial oven. “He owns several businesses, hardware stores, diners, things like that.”

It’s what Sal had said. But being here, I can’t help wondering how much money can be made from screws and Taylor ham sandwiches. “He’s also part owner of a few casinos,” she adds.

I’m almost relieved to hear the news. Okay. That makes sense. “I’m surprised you don’t live closer to Atlantic City,” I comment.

Rita raises her brows. “Ever been to Atlantic City?” She laughs when she catches my grimace. “Yeah. It’s nicer being close to New York, don’t you think?”

“It is,” I agree. I wash my hands and dry them on a towel. “How can I help?”

She gives it some thought. “I have tomatoes, fresh basil, and the best mutzadel here in Jersey. Would you prepare it and add some balsamic and oil?”

She doesn’t tell me how to prepare it exactly, assuming I know. I can’t help wondering if she’s testing me. But if this test is about food, I might actually pass. “Of course,” I reply.

She lays the items out in front of serving plate, but as she turns to the stove to stir a large pot of pasta sauce, my eyes travel to a box of toothpicks.

“Do you mind if I use these?” I ask, when I realize that it’s cherry tomatoes and mozzarella balls I have to work with.

“Use whatever you’d like, Aedry,” she answers, without turning around. “This is your house.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind,” I say, reaching for the small box. She’s trying to be nice. I need to do the same.

I spear a cherry tomato, add a ball of mozzarella, a bent leaf of basil and repeat the process until I have what resembles a pretty flower. I place it on the plate and reach for another toothpick.

“So . . . how long have you and Salvatore been together?”

“A few months,” I answer, curving another leaf of basil.

Her frantic stirs to the sauce slow. “As in three months?” She taps the spoon against the pot. “Or more?”

I reach for another cherry tomato. She doesn’t know anything about me, but she wants to, even though I’m not certain Salvatore would approve of how much I’m telling her. “I was trying to spare you,” he’d said in the car.

“We’ve been dating since the fall,” I answer, hoping I’m giving her enough, yet not too much away.

“It’s been a while,” she says, her voice trailing.

“Mmm,” I answer, hesitating when I realize she’s giving my answer a great deal of thought.

In the silence that follows, I prepare another stem of basil, tomato, and mozzarella. I’m hoping she’ll move on or tell me more about herself. When she says what comes next, I almost fall to the floor.

“Have you met her yet?”

I place the stem on a plate, trying hard to keep my motions casual, even though I already suspect whom she means. “Who?”

---