“There is an old folktale in my home of Positano. It tells that God made the heavens and Earth in six days and rested on the seventh. But sometime, while he rested, one of his angels visited the new creation, leaving behind a small trail of her beauty. And every once in a great while, that beauty takes human form in a very special woman. One of grace, purity, with the kindest heart and the sweetest soul. I was fortunate to find such a creature and make her my bride.”
Holy . . . I want this to be real. I want him to say that to me, to be truthful and honest about it, and to take my heart the way his words are asking. Because that . . . he is an artist. He is a poet. He is everything.
Silence reigns around the table, and even Emily can’t really argue with the passion in Lorenzo’s voice or the beauty of his words. Finally, Doug picks up his glass and tosses back the rest of his drink, setting the champagne glass down.
“Damn, if you ever want to stop cooking, you’d make a killing writing song lyrics or Shakespeare or something like that,” Doug says with as much honest admiration for another man as he can muster. “You’re Catholic, right? Are you going to have to go to confession for that much bullshit?”
It’s just the right amount of humor to break the tension, and Lorenzo leans back, laughing lightly. “Trust me, Abigail is worth any penance. And I’ve paid a few already. For all her angelic soul, she has a bit of the devil in her as well.”
I shiver at the way he sees me, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Not just because we’ve shared so much today, way more information than you usually dump on someone mere hours after a first real conversation, but because he seems to have taken all that insight and found something even deeper. In me.
Our food comes, pausing the verbal jousting as we dig into the food. It’s delicious, though I’m not sure what anything is. Lorenzo simply told the waitress that we would prefer a chef sampling.
“Here, try this,” Lorenzo says, holding up a flat yellow chip that’s covered in tiny diced squares of white, orange, and green. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
I take a bite, the flavor exploding in my mouth. It’s fresh, bright, and tangy with a hint of salt . . . “Oh ma gawd,” I exclaim around the mouthful of food. “Wat is that? Isso gud!”
My moan has Emily fuming again, looking up from her braised white fish like she wants to scratch my eyes out. I can’t help but laugh—on the inside, of course. She either ordered to ‘keep her figure’ or because she’s too afraid to try new things, but the chef is sending us dishes that are symphonies of flavor.
In other words . . . who’s awesome? I’m awesome! And Lorenzo’s awesome!
And really, this chef is awesome.
Admittedly, it feels good to be the winner in this little reignited battle for once. It’s childish, I know, but they say the best revenge is a life well lived, and that’s exactly what I’m showing Emily. That her put-downs and judgements didn’t keep me down and my life is just fine, thank you very much.
“If you like the lobster pan bati, just wait until dessert, mia rosa,” Lorenzo purrs in my ear, too low for Emily to hear.
He looks me in the eye and leans in, and before I know it, we’re kissing. It’s not a deep, soulful kiss but not a polite peck on the lips, either. He kisses me in a way that makes me think he really does want me. Or that he’s as good at acting as he is cooking.
“Ahem,” Emily says when our kiss goes on too long for her liking. “So, tell me about your wedding, Abi. Like I said, I haven’t heard a thing about it and I’m dying for all the deets.”
The insult is wrapped up in the request, that my wedding was either so small or so awful that word hasn’t even traveled through our social circle. The truth is, it hasn’t because it never happened. But I can’t let her discover that.
“It was quick, just a couple of short months after Courtney’s. And with all the hoopla surrounding that,” I say, acknowledging the craziness and gossip my brother and sister had to deal with for their weddings, “I didn’t want the big to-do. I’m just not flashy like that.”
Emily snorts, the sound quite unladylike, but then she pats her lips with her napkin daintily to cover the faux pas.
“We just snuck away and got married,” I say.
Her eyes narrow, and I realize the opening I’ve given her a moment too late. “You eloped?” I inhale slowly and nod. “Oh, you poor thing,” she says, an evil gleam in her eye. “A girl dreams of her wedding day her whole life. The dress, the flowers, the cake, walking down the aisle. And you missed out on it all, poor thing. What’s the saying? Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. You’re like the wedding florist with no bouquet.”