Chapter 3

Amanda sat on the rocking chair with her eyes shut, enjoying Libertad Lamarque’s rendition of “El Tango de Malena”—her favorite tango. Her throat ached. This song always had the power to unlock buried emotions in her, especially when Libertad sang it. Thank goodness she was alone.

The shriek of the doorbell removed her from her trance. Damn. It was so rare to hear this version on the radio anymore. She hoped whoever was at the door would go away.

The doorbell went on again, and this time it was a long, impatient sound.

The kitchen door opened and Trinidad crossed the living room threshold, tightening the strings of her apron. Amanda heard a man’s voice at the front door, but couldn’t detect what he was saying. She sighed. Libertad would have to wait for another day. She stood up and shut the radio off.

“Who is it, Trini?”

She recognized Bernardo’s stocky frame behind Trinidad.

“It’s Mr. Bernardo.” Trinidad’s eyes shone and a smile she never used appeared on her plain face.

“Bernard,” he corrected with a French accent and brushed past the maid, his old brown hat between his hands and his complexion darker than the last time Amanda had seen him.

“Good evening, Madame. Forgive me for coming this late.”

“This is a surprise,” Amanda said. “I didn’t expect to see you until next month.”

“I know, Madame, but we need to talk.”

Amanda pointed at the couch in front of her. Bernardo sat on the edge of the seat, his hat resting on his knees.

“May I take your hat, Señor?” Trinidad offered.

Bernardo brought his hat closer to him. “No.”

“Trini,” Amanda said. “Would you bring some coffee, please?”

“Just water for me, s’il vous plaît.”

Trinidad hurried to the kitchen, her lengthy braid bouncing back and forth as if attempting to catch up with her quick stride. She was only this lively when Bernardo came. Trinidad always reminded Amanda of a Mannerist portrait without the elegance. Her body was exaggeratedly elongated. Long enough to look awkward: oval face, ostrich neck, and bony fingers.

Amanda returned to the rocking chair. “So, what is it?”

“I’m quitting, Madame.”

“What?”

Bernardo wiped the sweat off his forehead with a mended handkerchief. “I can’t continue to work for that Italian brute.”

Trinidad reentered the living room with a pitcher of water, glasses, and two generous slices of flan de coco—her specialty.

“You’ve been saying that for years,” Amanda said. “What’s changed?”

“I can’t sit back and watch your brother-in-law destroy the business your husband worked so hard for. Besides, he’s vulgar.”

Destroy the business? No, surely Bernardo was exaggerating. He always did when it came to Enzo. Trinidad stood by Bernardo, like a statue, while he tried a bite of custard.

“He begged me not to tell you anything,” Bernardo said. “But after today I owe him no loyalty.”

“Not tell me what?”

Bernardo ate another spoonful, not granting Trinidad a look, much less a compliment.

“How bad the business is doing. It’s losing a lot of money.”

“But I don’t understand,” Amanda said. “I’ve been getting my check the first of every month.”

“Yes, he’s been borrowing money from the bank to make those payments.”

Amanda uncrossed her legs. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I told you, he asked me not to say anything.” Sweat trickled from his hairline. “Besides, he said it was temporary. But I don’t believe him anymore—he’s been firing a lot of people lately.”

Amanda slammed her fist on the side of the couch. “Damn Enzo! How could Nicolas have had such an incompetent brother?”

“Not only incompetent: loud, perverted, you name it.”

“So, what happened today?”

Bernardo glanced at Trinidad over his shoulder. Amanda dismissed her. When Trinidad left the room, her braid no longer bounced and her shoulders drooped. Bernardo leaned forward.

“I was scolding a waiter for coming in late when that … Enzo showed up and defended him. He not only made me look bad in front of an employee but he also called me a low-class, fake Frenchman.”

Amanda rubbed her forehead. Here we go again.

“You know, Madame, that I am a quarter French. My grandmother was from a little town near Nice. I wouldn’t make that up.”

Amanda had heard this story a million times.

“And her father was––”

“So, what else happened with Enzo?”

He devoured the remaining flan.

“That waiter, the one I told you, has a younger sister Enzo has his filthy eyes on. Obviously he wanted to get on this man’s good side. Madame, he humiliated me in front of all the employees.” Shreds of coconut flew all the way to Amanda’s lap. “Anything to get a woman in his bed. You know how he is.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So different from his brother.” He sighed. “Ah … Monsieur Nicolas. Now there was a gentleman: smart, hardworking, elegant. What a pity he had to die so young.”

Amanda stared at the flower vase sitting on the coffee table, attempting to suppress the image of her late husband from her mind. “Bernardo, I need you to stay there. You’re the only person I trust in the entire restaurant.”

“To be honest with you, Madame, I doubt Il Napolitano will be opened much longer.”

This was more serious than she thought. She was going to have to pay a visit to that rotten brother-in-law of hers.

A cold chill ran down Amanda’s spine when she walked into Il Napolitano, the first Italian restaurant in San Isidro. Back when Nicolas Fornasieri was alive, it was the most exclusive, elegant, and crowded place in town. Everybody wanted to try its famous shrimp cannelloni, listen to the quartet of violins, and admire its owner, one of the most charming men ever to set foot in San Isidro.

She could picture her husband with his impeccable black suit standing by the entryway, welcoming customers with his thick Italian accent. Tonight, the room was empty, except for a waiter without a tie or a jacket, sweeping the floor. The last time she had been here at this hour, people were waiting in line to be seated. But that had been nearly a year ago. She glanced at the chandeliers. They needed a feather duster and a polish. The tables were not even set now. Old chairs sat upside down on a corner table while raggedy tablecloths were piled up nearby. Amanda glanced at the velvet curtains that had once hung proudly beside two gigantic glass windows. Now they were faded and dirty. It was fortunate Nicolas had never lived to see the miserable state the place was in.

She walked to the waiter.

“Where’s Enzo?”

“At the office.” The man studied her from head to toe. “Who wants to see him?”

She pulled her shoulders back. She was the wife of Nicolas Fornasieri, the legend, the man who had created the trendiest place in town. How dare this little man talk to her with such disdain? There was a time when every employee in this restaurant had bowed to her when she walked in. Back then, nobody would have even thought of answering her in that tone.

“Tell him Nicolas Fornasieri’s widow is here.”

The waiter dropped the broom and rushed to the office. His reaction didn’t surprise her. None of the employees knew her, except for Bernardo, and it was all her fault. She shouldn’t have trusted Enzo to manage the business for so many years. Instead of waiting comfortably for her check every month, or for the yearly report, she should have checked up on the business frequently. It was out of the way, it hurt too much to go, she didn’t want to put up with Enzo—whatever her excuse, it was never the right time to go.

“Cara mia, what an honor!”

Amanda had to hold on to the back of a chair when she saw Enzo. He had grown to look just like his older brother. Never before had their resemblance been so pronounced. His head was now filled with gray hairs, his nose had acquired the same length and shape as Nicolas’s, and his green eyes had the same shine—that same mischievous expression. At fifty, Enzo was looking better than ever. He hugged Amanda and gave her a kiss on the cheek, tickling her skin with his warm breath. Butterflies in her stomach? At her age? She took a step back, reminding herself of the reason for her visit.

“What happened here?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

Amanda hated that Italian accent that grew stronger whenever he wanted to charm someone or get out of trouble. He had used it hundreds of times with female customers.

“Why isn’t anybody here?” she said.

“Oh, because we’re closed. We don’t open on weeknights anymore.”

“Really? Then why is the ‘open’ sign on the front door?”

“Well, maybe people aren’t hungry.”

“Oh, please, you can think of a better excuse.”

“What are you doing here anyway? Didn’t the fake Frenchman take your check on the first?”

“Yes, but he also came to see me today and told me what was going on.”

“Nothing is going on. It’s been a slow month, that’s all.”

She headed for the office. “I want to see your bookkeeping.”

She could hear him cursing in Italian under his breath as he followed her into the office.

A woman with a blonde wig sat on the desk filing her nails, the top three buttons of her blouse undone. Startled, she buttoned her shirt as Amanda approached the desk. Enzo nodded toward the front door. The woman immediately jumped off the desk and left.

Amanda opened the desk’s top drawer.

“This is ridiculous, Amanda.”

She shuffled through various papers.

“Come on, sorella …” Enzo mellowed his tone. “This is just a misunderstanding.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your sister.”

In the second drawer, she found a leather-bound accounts book. Enzo paled. As soon as she opened the notebook, an ocean of red ink spread throughout the pages.

“What is this? You barely have enough to pay the employees.”

“Well, you know how people are. It turns out my last accountant robbed me.”

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying. Aren’t you man enough to admit the truth? You’re a lousy administrator and instead of working, you waste your time with women and parties!”

“You mean her?” He pointed at the door. “She’s just my secretary.”

“What do you need a secretary for? Nicolas never had one back when the business was doing well!”

“It’s easy to sit back in your comfortable chair and criticize everything when you’re not doing any of the work!”

Amanda knew he had lost his patience when he started gesticulating with his arm and twitching his right eye, just like his brother.

“You have never moved one finger to help with the business. How dare you come here and throw all these insults at me?”

Enzo had a point. He had been in charge of the restaurant for over twenty years, and she hadn’t granted him more than a yearly visit.

“The only reason I haven’t been involved,” she said, “is because Nicolas left you in charge of all his businesses. If I had been in charge, I am certain this restaurant wouldn’t have turned into the garbage that it is now!”

“You?” Enzo chuckled. “A woman could never manage a business like this.”

“Of course I could.”

His laugh was so loud Amanda was sure that stupid fake-blonde could hear them from the hallway. The thought of that woman smiling enraged her.

“It doesn’t take a genius to run a restaurant,” she said. “All it needs is someone to work.”

Enzo looked at her with an amused smile, his arms crossed in front of his tight chest. “Talking is easy, sorella. Doing is something else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you think you can do a better job than I can, then do it.”

Amanda looked about the crammed office. She couldn’t run a restaurant. She’d never worked before.

Enzo rubbed his eyelids. “I don’t have time for this. Let me get back to work.”

“You mean screwing your secretary?” She regretted her words as soon as they came out.

Enzo leaned on his desk. “Jealousy is an ugly thing.”

“Oh, please … I’m not jealous of her. Why would I be?”

“For one, she’s young. Her life is like a blank page. Not one filled with strikes and blots, like yours.” He unfolded his arms. “Oh, don’t get me started.”

Amanda lifted her chin up. “Say it. Say what you’ve been thinking all these years.”

He held her stare for a long time, his eyes glimmering with contempt. He blamed her for everything. That, she knew. She thought he was going to start his accusations, but surprisingly, his glare softened and the wrinkles on his forehead released.

“You know? It really is a good thing you came. I’m glad this is finally out in the open.” He walked toward his jacket, hanging by the door. “I’m tired of having to deal with creditors and employees.” He searched inside his pockets for a set of keys and threw them at her.

“Here. Il Napolitano is all yours.” He put on his hat and turned to the door. “I expect my check the first of the month.”