Across the road is an apartment block that looks to be upmarket and quiet. I’m smiling by the time I get back into the car. The large sign on the door tells me the property agent is Rome Donovan. I’ve heard of the infamous Mr. Donovan. A man-whore who beds more women on a weekly basis than I serve meals to my patrons.
He’s never been seen without a woman on his arm at any event he attends. I hate men like that. Those who think they’re God’s gift to women, yet deep down, they’re just insecure little boys trying to be adults. The operative word is trying.
Sighing, I tap out his number and hit dial. If I have to deal with him for a couple of weeks to get this deal done and dusted, I will. This is purely business; I tell myself as I listen to the ringing on the line.
“Donovan International, how may I direct your call?” A sweet, sultry tone comes from the other end of the line, and I wonder if she’s fucking the boss. Shaking my head, I try to push the images of Rome with a woman out of my head.
“I’d like to set up an appointment with Mr. Donovan. It’s about the property on Chestnut Street,” I inform her, watching a couple walk their dog down toward the marina. My heart jolts for a moment as a memory comes unbidden to my mind, but as always, I push it back.
“Yes, he can see you tomorrow at ten. Would that work for you, Miss . . .?” She leaves the sentence open enough for me to give her my name.
“Elisabet Rossi.”
“Ms. Rossi, I have you penciled in at ten in the morning. Can I get your contact number in the event of a reschedule?” I tell her my cell phone number before hanging up. I’m excited to get the ball rolling. The sooner I can open a Rossi’s here, the better. I vowed never to go back to New York after what happened, and having a manager looking after my restaurant there is the perfect excuse not to return.
Tomorrow, all I have to do is persuade Mr. Donovan to sell me this building, and I’ll be back on my feet in no time. Starting the engine, I head out toward the hotel I’ve booked for the next two months. I’ve given myself enough time to figure out what I’m going to do, so I don’t have to return to New York anytime soon.
The streets are familiar to me as I make my way through the city. I spent time in Portland when I was still happy; when my life was heading in one direction, but now as I weave through the traffic, I realize I’m on a whole new path, something other than the darkness that’s consumed my mind.
The life I walked away from was something I never wanted or needed. I left everything back in a house that cost a small fortune. I didn’t need the things that sat glistening on tables and countertops bought with money that came from drugs, from weapons.
Sighing, I pull up to the valet of the hotel, and when I exit the car, a young man takes the keys, and I head into the lobby. A few people mill around, mostly tourists. It’s a plush, modern building with beautiful Italian tiles and wallpaper that remind me of the walls of the Vatican. Strangely, I feel at home. Not because of my heritage, but because I miss being in the safety of the cathedral. The candles glowing dimly in the vast space. A soft humming of hymns being sung.
I’ve never been religious. No. Even though I was brought up that way, I found myself on a different path. It was my decision. And even though Mama and Papa didn’t agree, they still loved and accepted my choices. I knew I’d hurt them when I walked away from the family rules I refused to live under.
When my mother passed away, all I remember was the ache in my chest. I felt it so deep down that I was breathless in my grief. I spent months in her kitchen, cooking, focusing on anything other than the fact that I’d laid her to rest.
My passion for food stemmed from there, and I knew I had to do something other than wallow in grief. Pushing through that barrier wasn’t easy, to see the light when all I was used to was darkness. Slowly, each day became less painful, and even though nothing can ease the ache in my chest, I have a life now that I’m proud of.
A small smile plays on my lips as I think about the future. Once I have the building in my name, I can renovate it and put my stamp on it. Happiness thrums through my body, tingling with anticipation of seeing another derelict building come to life with laughter and smells of delicious food.