blow dryer on the counter to fluff it up. With another fortifying breath, I moved back out into the sitting room.
Nunzio was waiting with the poured champagne. He handed me a flute. “To Breanne and her groom,” he said, raising his glass to mine.
I drank to that (hoping the groom had at least called his bride by now) and tried not to enjoy the dry tickle of costly bubbles on my palate. Then I started my rehearsed speech.
“Nunzio, listen to me, okay? Despite what this looks like—” I gesture to my robe and bare feet. “I’m not here to trade my body for your fountain.”
He laughed. “Lover’s Spring is not on the auction block, bella. I was going to lend it to Breanne for her wedding, not give it away.”
“Well, I’m not on the auction block, either. If you have legitimate concerns, I’m willing to discuss them, allay any worries about the way it will be displayed—”
“It’s not that,” he said, moving to sit on one of the overstuffed sofas. “I have never shown the piece here in America.” He shook his head, gesturing to the muted flat-panel TV, where an Italian channel was playing highlights of a soccer match. “I don’t know if Americans will be able to appreciate my art.”
“Why? Because we play baseball instead of soccer?”
“Your culture is . . .” He shook his head. “Loud. Violent. Scusa, but I find it . . . how you say? Volgare.”
“Vulgar? Americans are vulgar? Oh, really? The country that gave birth to Ben Franklin, Mark Twain, Billie Holiday, Ira Gershwin, the Wright brothers, Frank Lloyd Wright, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jackson Pollock, and Jacqueline Onassis is vulgar? I see. Then I suppose you’re not expecting to distribute your new jewelry line here—one of the most lucrative markets on the planet? If we’re too vulgar to appreciate your genius sculpture, then I guess we’re too vulgar to pay for your amazing rings and necklaces, too, is that right?”
He frowned. “How do you know about my new jewelry line?”
“I was in Breanne’s office during most of your meeting. I overheard her mention it.”
Nunzio nodded, stretched his free arm across the back of the sofa. “I remember that meeting, too, bella. I remember the look on your face when I touched your hand. Come sit beside me.”
Nope, not gonna work. “I’m only here to persuade you to go through with your promise.”
“Si. That is why you are here. I agree.” He sipped his champagne and smiled. “To persuade me.”
“Good!” I crossed to where I’d dropped my tote bag. “Then try these . . .”
I pulled Janelle’s three bakery boxes out of the damp bag. Luckily, the thick tote had shielded the boxes from getting the least bit wet. “You heard about Hurricane Katrina’s damage to New Orleans, right?”
“Katrina?” His dark eyebrows came together in confusion. “Si. I heard of this tragedy. But why—”
“The woman who made these amazing confections came to New York after she lost her job in a restaurant that was destroyed by Katrina. For a few years, she worked as the pastry chef at Solange, a highly acclaimed New York restaurant. But the place closed last fall after the owner died, so she took a job with a specialty cake baker. She worked two shifts a day to earn the money to quit after a few months and start her own company. These pastries, for Breanne’s wedding, were baked by her new little company. Here, try an anginetti . . .”
“This is an anginetti?” He examined the tiny work of art.
“Amazing isn’t it?”
Typically, Italian desserts were delicious to eat but presented in unassuming forms, unlike the polished precision of French cuisine. Italian bakers favored simple presentations, using things like candied fruit and nuts, powdered sugar, or a light glaze to finish a cake or tart. “The perfect is the enemy of the good.” That’s how my grandmother used to put it. (And she probably would have pointed out: “What good is Monica’s perfect body doing her in the morgue?”)
I did understand wanting to be perfect. I used to strive for perfection in everything—my coffee, my marriage, myself. But life was naturally messy, and perfection required far too much ruthlessness. Being human was better. Humans made mistakes and moved on. Like Nana tried to tell me years ago: being good was better than being perfect.
Still . . . looking at Janelle’s beautifully shaped and decorated anginetti, I had to admit that she’d done a near-perfect job on reinventing the rustic Italian