have walked out because they say I’m too hard on them.
What’s the point in creating food you don’t love? That’s what my mother used to say.
I find myself smiling at the thought. Excitement tumbles in my stomach as I make my way around to the back of the building to take a look at the space. It’s all locked up, but I have a look around at the parking allocation. There are two other stores beside it, a pharmacy as well as a small vegetable grocer. Perfect.
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