Chapter 1

"Sorry I'm late, Ang. They're doing construction on Metropolitan Avenue, and there's only one lane open. Traffic was backed up to the friggin' moon."

Anthony Dante set up a small canvas folding chair beside his wife Angie's grave and sat down, just as he'd done every Sunday morning for the past year. In one hand he clutched a foam cup of coffee; in the other, a ham and egg sandwich. He took a bite, disappointed to note it lacked the extra salt he always requested. He'd let it go this time, but if it happened again, he might have to say something to Al at the deli. It was important to get customers' orders right. If his staff was getting sloppy or lazy, Al needed to be told.

"So, let me tell you about my week…"

The vast cemetery was like a silent, sleeping city, the early morning mist draped like gossamer over the trees. Anthony took a moment to pass the steaming cup of coffee beneath his nose, reveling in its robust scent. Nothing like a perfectly brewed cup of coffee to start the day. At least Al had gotten that right. The coffee aroma mingled nicely with that of newly mown grass. The morning sun was a blazing ruby ball, bringing with it the first real hint of the day's heat. What was that old adage? "Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky at morn, sailors be warned"? No doubt about it: today was going to be a scorcher. Not that Anthony minded. After years in a restaurant kitchen, heat and humidity didn't bother him the way it did some people.

"First, the veal chops." He threw a shot of coffee down his throat, sputtering as the scalding liquid burned the inside of his mouth. "Jesus," he gasped, running his burnt tongue over the roof of his mouth a few times for relief. "I think Al is trying to kill me."

He took the lid off the coffee, blowing onto the liquid to cool it. "Remember I told you I was going to switch up the recipe a little, maybe use a little more rosemary and a little less garlic to see if the customers would like it? Well, not only did they like it, they loved it." He smiled with satisfaction, imagining Angie's wide-eyed interest as she pulled one of their kitchen chairs closer to him, the better to listen. "Even Aldo gave it the thumbs-up, and you know what a crotchety old SOB he can be. By the way, he quit again yesterday. Second time this week."

Angie had always been amused at the way Anthony and the ancient waiter sparred, a tradition reaching all the way back to the restaurant's earliest days, when the old man had been young and used to mix it up with Anthony's father. "One of these days, I'm going to call his bluff," Anthony continued. "Then we'll see how quick he is to throw his apron at me and call me un cazzone cafone."

He paused for another sip of coffee, hearing voices behind him. He turned; two old women were slowly walking arm in arm toward a large, rectangular mausoleum whose double doors were flanked by enormous marble angels. It was rare to see anyone else at the cemetery at this hour, which was why Anthony liked coming so early. He could talk to Angie without having to worry about someone thinking he was a major nutcase, though if the past year of widowerhood had taught him anything, it was that grieving people were all a little unhinged. That, and everyone talked to their dead spouses all the time, whether they admitted it or not. He just chose to do it publicly once a week.

He glanced at his wife's headstone, at the carved words that read, "Angela Maria Dante, Beloved Wife, Daughter, Sister." He spoke to Angie all the time in his head. Maybe he was ubatz, but sometimes he swore she talked back. Not as a disembodied voice echoing through their dark bedroom or anything as crazy as that—it was more a coincidence thing.

Just the other week he'd lamented to Ang how he wasn't sure what christening gift to get for his cousin Gemma's new baby girl, Maeve. The next day, a Baby Gap catalog arrived in the mail. Some people might think it was nuts to believe the dead could influence the postal service, but since Ang died, Anthony found stuff like that happening all the time.

"Did I tell you about Mikey?" Anthony shook his head ruefully as he geared up to talk about his little brother, Michael, who had just retired from his career as a professional hockey player for the New York Blades. "Get this: he's going to stay home and be a full-time dad while Theresa goes back to work." Anthony snorted.

His gaze was pulled back to the mausoleum. The old ladies had slipped inside; he could picture them sitting on a glossy teak bench, staring at the smooth marble wall behind which their loved ones were interred. Sometimes he wished he'd chosen a mausoleum for Ang, if only because sitting out here when it rained or snowed was a big pain in the neck. Even so, he hadn't missed a Sunday yet. It was the least he could do for the woman snatched from his arms too soon, the angel who'd shown him there could be more to his life than his restaurant.

He continued chatting in between bites of his sandwich, catching Angie up on both family and restaurant gossip. He liked concluding by sharing with her his ideas for shaking up the menu in the week to come. "I'm thinking of doing some kind of pork special this week, but I have to talk to Dom over at Santoro Brothers first."

Santoro Brothers! How could he have waited until now to share the most interesting piece of neighborhood gossip he'd heard in months? "I almost forgot! You know the old candy store next to Cuccio's, across the street from the restaurant? The one that's been for sale since Old Man Garlasco died? Well, according to Dom, someone bought it and is planning to turn it into a restaurant. Insane, right? Just what we need: another trattoria in Bensonhurst." He drained his coffee cup with a chuckle. "Good luck to them is what I say. They're about to enter the big leagues, eh, cara?"

"Can't you picture it? Couples staring dreamily into each other's eyes over a bottle of Bordeaux? The scent of apple tartin as it bakes? Oh, Natalie, it's going to be wonderful!"

Vivi Robitaille hugged herself tight, giving a small twirl in the center of the empty candy store she and her half sister planned on turning into a small bistro. All her life she'd dreamed of cooking in her own restaurant. Now it was going to happen—and in America!

Vivi dropped her arms and danced over to Natalie, who had yet to respond to her giddiness. "What? You can't imagine biting into a piece of my baguettes with creamed butter? Or ordering a bowl of my bouillabaisse de poulet?"

"Not as strongly as you can, obviously." Eyeing her surrounds critically, Natalie strolled the perimeter of the empty store, her high heels punching measured beats on the scuffed wooden floor. Unlike the high-spirited Vivi, Natalie was pragmatic, some might even say detached. Vivi was not surprised when Natalie concluded her stroll by asking, "Remind me again why we chose to open a restaurant in Brooklyn rather than Manhattan?"

Copyright © 2008 by Deirdre Martin.