Free Just a Taste by Deirdre Martin

as he emerged from the shower that he was beginning to put on a little weight, always a hazard when one works in a kitchen. Determined to drop a few pounds before all the pasta he consumed started to do some serious damage, he’d gone for an early morning run. Not only had it left him winded, but it also felt as though someone had taken a hammer to his kneecaps. He had no idea whether standing for hours in the restaurant kitchen would make it feel better or worse. He supposed he’d find out.
    “Guess what, Ang? Little Anthony wants to learn to make the gravy! Mikey’s going to drop him off at the house for a few hours. It’ll be fun, don’t you think? He’s a good kid.”
    Anthony sipped his coffee, pleased that Al at the deli had remembered how he liked it. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Vivi, and their coffee incident.
    “Remember I told you about those two sisters who were opening the bistro ”—he spat the word contemptuously—“across the street? Well, the one who’s the cook is a real piece of work. Not only can she not make coffee to save her life, but she also showed up with an apple tart one day, and when I didn’t bow down and tell Her Highness it was the greatest thing since sliced bread, she dared me to make something better! You believe that?”
    He shook his head, imagining Angie’s response. She’d agree with him that anyone thinking they could outcook Anthony was crazy. “Actually, you’d probably like this woman if you met her,” Anthony continued after a pause. “She reminds me of that lieutenant friend of yours—you know, Maggie, the one with the long blonde hair and the sassy mouth?”
    His voice seemed overly loud to his ears. He took a quick glance around, feeling conspicuous. He was the only one there, save for two guys, about fifty feet away, noisily digging a grave with a backhoe. A familiar heaviness settled on his chest and he found himself wondering, for the first time ever, whether coming here was such a great idea. Maybe Michael and Theresa were right; maybe his visits were proof he hadn’t really “moved on.” Confusion engulfed him—he who was usually so resolute, viewing the world in black and white. What was going on?

Chapter 6
    A nthony stood on the sidewalk, staring at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand bearing Vivi’s address. Leaving the cemetery, he’d headed straight for Dante’s, where he’d whipped up a double batch of his mouthwatering ricotta fritters. They were best served hot, but still outstanding even when warm, which was why Anthony was glad he could still feel some heat emanating from the bottom of the plastic container. If Vivi failed to be impressed with the fritters, then she was just busting his balls for the sake of busting his balls. No other explanation was possible.
    He knew these streets like the back of his hand, and Vivi’s was no exception. It was right off Scarangella Park, where he and his dad used to throw a baseball around. Bensonhurst was still predominantly Italian, but there were lots of new immigrants coming in to fill up the two-family semidetached brick and stucco houses. Most of the newcomers were Chinese and Russian—and now French, too, he supposed, though as far as he could tell, Vivi was at the spearhead of that movement.
    He’d called her cell number, but when it asked him to leave a message, he chickened out for some reason. He’d grown up in an atmosphere where it was okay for people to drop in on one another for a visit. Maybe it was that way in France, too, for all he knew. But the fritters were made, and he was determined she’d eat them today, even if it meant coming back later on.
    He was surprised to find himself looking at an old five-floor walk-up, just like the one on Cropsey Avenue that his grandparents lived in before they saved up enough to buy a house. Anthony loved these old buildings, the feel of history behind them. You could almost see the generations of immigrants moving up and out as