remember?” Her eyes suddenly widened, “You don’t think I have anything to do with—!”
“No, no, it’s not that.”
“Anyways, I began adding up the entries inputted from yesterday,” she pointed behind her on the desk. “After everyone was paid we made only $5,000 last night.”
“Only $5000? It should have been over ten thousand, especially on a Friday night!”
“Yeah, and it doesn’t begin to cover the costs of running this place. I’m afraid, Barbara, that Fiore is going to have to close.”
Barbara was shocked at Carol’s statement. “Oh no! No, Carol. I won’t let that happen. I mean it would mean so many people losing their jobs.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I just don’t know.” She reached over the desk and shut down the computer. “Just don’t tell any of the other employees. I wouldn’t want them to begin planning to jump ship…until the first mate says so.” She threw her arm over her friend’s shoulders and drew her out into the hallway. “By the way, what did you guys do last night after you left my place?”
Carol shrugged. “The usual.”
“The usual,” she repeated, for an instant not knowing to what she was referring, “Oh, the usual! Well, I hope you made him happier than he looked when he went out my door.”
Carol smiled smugly, “I think so. We both got a workout all night long.”
Barbara rolled her eyes and said drily, “Yeah, it’s not too hard to picture that.”
Carol suddenly stopped and faced her friend. “So? How’d it go with you and Silvio?”
Barbara shrugged. “He stayed for a few minutes longer and left.” Carol looked skeptical. “No really, my curly-headed little friend. I’m not like you. I can’t just jump into bed with a guy, even one as delicious as Silvio.” Carol made as if to protest. Barbara raised her index finger, “I’m certainly not judging. I just can’t be as…”
“Loose.”
Barbara hugged her. “No, I wasn’t thinking that. You know what you want (or who) and go after it.”
Carol punched her lightly, then raised her fist in a triumphant gesture, “And proud of it.”
Chapter 14
That evening, needing to have a little diversion away from her worries about the restaurant, Barbara had decided that an innocent dinner alone with Silvio would be enjoyable. After all, they had known each other for three weeks. And it being Wednesday - his day off - they would have a nice, unhurried meal.
After work, she shopped at Della’s dress shop where a beautiful cocktail dress called out to her. It was calf-length. Its silken cloth was loosely gathered around her breasts, hugged her tiny waist and draped over her hips. The décolletage was a little too-too, definitely so because it was just a dinner party for two at her home, but…whatever. And it was cream with just a touch of royal blue. After applying her makeup, loosely twisting the sides of her long, silky hair and fastening them to the rear of her head, and dressing, she reached for her expensive perfume bottle but – her shoulders slumped - it had still not materialized, not since the dinner with Carol, John and Silvio. Once again, Chanel #5 would have to do.
She took the lasagna – the last had turned out well, so - out of the oven, placed it on the counter, took the tin foil off and raised her eyes in surprise; it looked as good as the last and it smelled even better. “I can’t believe it. It’s beautiful! I hope this Italian likes Italian,” she chuckled. “But he just might desire a good American meal.” She concentrated on that. Back to Trader Joe’s? She shook her head. “Oh well, regardless, it’ll be good.” She placed the French bread, a large platter of antipasti from Trade Joe’s and a just-opened bottle of Valpolicella on the table, and busied herself with choosing the sexiest CD, for she— Her stomach tightened. What was she thinking? She wasn’t as…friendly as Carol. She didn’t even know how to be so. In fact she was rather stiff. She angrily punched ‘eject’ and began to take out the CD. But she stayed her hand. “George Benson. Nice music is all.” She reinserted it. Get in the mood.
* * *
At exactly eight a firm and confident knock sent chills up her spine. She turned down the lights, peered at her reflection in the mirror, smoothed down her dress with moist, shaking hands, and opened the door. My God! She hoped he didn’t hear her sharp intake of breath. If it was possible he was even more handsome in a dark blue pullover (no shirt underneath) and gray gabardine trousers.
He offered a bottle of wine then his right arm gestured, “Bello, Signorina.”
All her life she had been told that she was beautiful but she could never see herself as anything but so-so. So she blushed and surreptitiously looked down for she had momentarily forgotten what she had finally chosen to wear – oh yes, the cream. No wonder his eyes held a little too long on her cleavage. “Come in, come in.” She took his hand and drew him to the settee that faced the gas fireplace. He sat as men usually do – with his legs splayed out in front of him. Her eyes were riveted to the bulge between his… Once more, she blushed; had he noticed where she had been gazing? She moved away from him and promptly caught her heel in the nap of the carpet. His hands immediately went out to grab her. When she righted herself, her shoulders drooped – klutzy even in my own home. It suddenly occurred to her that even in her own home this date might not transpire as she had imagined.
“Drink?”
“Wine. I want to bring Barolo but I forget so I buy Montepulciano,” he apologized.
“Still sounds good. We’ll have it with dinner. I have an open bottle. Valpolicella,” she turned and said to him, “another Italian wine.” She rolled her eyes – how stupid! With shaky hands, she poured some of the wine in one of the glasses at the dinner table. In her nervousness she knocked over the glass. “Shit!” she growled. She grabbed the accompanying cloth napkin and sopped the wine up. “Oh God! Stupid! Why didn’t I get paper napkins?” She was glad her grandmother wasn’t around anymore for even though the cleaners would try to remove the stain, her 100-year-old ivory tablecloth would most probably be discolored and the lacy napkin she had just used would never again match the others. How she wanted the evening to be over before it had barely begun! Even with George Benson’s silky voice in the background it was far too quiet. Thank God Silvio hadn’t been watching her. He was staring up at the Andre Masson with a dreamy smile on his handsome face. With a muffled oath, she ran into her kitchen to grab a sponge.
Silvio half-stood, offering, “I help you?”
“No! I’ve almost got it up. Please, stay there.” She scrambled for something more to say as she squeezed cool water from the sopping sponge and tried to dab at the purple stain. Still looking down she asked, “Is the restaurant your first job in this country?”
“No, I work at hamburger place, then gas station, then as busboy for little,” he waved his hands, “place for drivers.”
“Ah, at a truck diner.”
“Si, yes.”
“Where was that?”
“Um, a road from Wicheeta?”
“Oh, Wichita, yes,” she said idly as she poured some more wine in his glass, spilled more and decided to gulp it down (if she couldn’t get a hold of her emotions maybe the wine would). What was she doing? This wasn’t her. She’d try again: More slowly, she filled another glass for him. “So, you’re from Italy. How interesting.” Oh God!
He smiled. She saw that even this Italian could roll his eyes. “Si, it is.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No, I am one child.”
She