I’ll take care of it.”
The safe downstairs? Could he get the combination? How had he managed not to see this picture before today? He’d joined the Preservation Society hoping to find information about the belt, especially any documents that might identify the original owners. But now…the picture had to be destroyed. If it was made public, hung in a gallery in the Sloane mansion, there was a possibility Carla DiDolche might see it someday.
And Carla, who had dreamed of golden underwear, might realize the truth: that what she’d dreamed wasn’t really a figment of her imagination, but a dangerous reality….
“MA, YOU AND POP CAN’T visit,” Carla DiDolche muttered into the portable phone as she took a final glance around the apartment, wondering if she was forgetting anything. She’d shared this place with her parents years ago, before she’d moved to Oakland where she’d intended to live with Tobias after they married. Two years ago, after her parents retired to Florida, Carla had moved back home. Since she was running the café downstairs now, it was more convenient. “I love you dearly,” she continued. “But if you and Pop visit, you’ll criticize everything I’ve done to the café.”
Her mother gasped in horror. “We would never do that!”
“Oh, yes, you would,” returned Carla, heading downstairs. As she opened the lower door and headed into the café, she was relieved to see Jenna already hard at work, standing behind one of the espresso makers.
Despite how tired she felt this morning, Carla smiled and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scents of her childhood. A hundred percent pure Italian coffee, she thought. There was, quite simply, nothing like it. Almost every morning of her life, she’d breathed the heady scent that had always been the DiDolches’ lifeblood. Waving at Vince Gato, who was seated near the front windows with Sylvia Rossetti and Salvatore Domico, Carla beelined for Jenna, saying, “Is mine ready?”
“Coming right up, boss,” returned the other woman cheerfully. A moment later, Jenna turned. She was dressed in black, and when she grinned, the silver loop in her eyebrow flashed every bit as much as the smile. She set a heavy white cup and saucer on the counter. “This is that new Kenyan blend you wanted to try.”
“Kenya?” Mary DiDolche said into the phone. “Did I hear Jenna say Kenyan blend? You know we’ve never used that. Your father gets his shipments from Jack Liotta in the Strip District.”
“Mama,” Carla cut in, gripping the phone more tightly and trying her best not to lose her temper as she lifted the glass lids of the cake plates on the counter and carefully scrutinized cookies and pastries. In about fifteen minutes, the morning rush was going to begin. “I know how you and Pop feel about expanding our repertoire, but Starbucks is killing us. Besides, the Kenyan beans did come from Mr. Liotta.”
Her mother made a shocked sound. “Jack Liotta has quit selling Italian products?”
“Of course not. But he knows that we have to expand our menu. Just as he has to expand his. To keep up with the times.”
“We have our faithful customers,” her mother said defensively.
“I know, Ma, but…” Sighing, Carla decided not to point out that her parents’ friends weren’t going to be around forever. “We need to bring in new customers. The Marcottis retired to Florida around the time you did. And the Tuccis are trying to sell their place.”
“Vince Gato is still loyal to us,” claimed her mother.
“True,” Carla said, shooting Vince a quick grin. “He’s having his espresso right now, but we need more than one customer, now, don’t we?” Actually, there were seven in the shop. Not bad for this time of the morning, but if her parents would let her offer breakfast cereals, she could pull in some of the college kids. Lifting the lid of a cake dish, she took one of the decadent, sugar-loaded morning pastries that DiDolche’s had been serving the public, along with its turbo coffee, since 1888. “I take it Louie got here,” she said to Jenna as she took a bite, tucking the phone beneath her chin, “but where’s the tiramisu?”
On the phone, her mother inhaled audibly. “Did you just say there’s no tiramisu?”
“Calm down, Ma,” Carla said as she chewed. “If Louie didn’t bring all the cakes, he’ll be back, okay?”
“He’d better.”
Carla laughed softly. “If he doesn’t, I’ll call cousin Carmine, okay?” Carmine, who owned a locksmith business, was generally acknowledged as the toughest of all the DiDolche relatives.
“Carmine knows how to handle things,” agreed her mother.
Carla was still busy doing her usual morning once-over. The plate glass windows were gleaming, and she felt a surge of pride as she took in the green, gold-tipped lettering on the glass that read DiDolche’s Since 1888.
It was a wonderful café. Above, was the original tin ceiling; below, black-and-white marble floor tiles deeply veined with green. Curved-glass cases were chock-full of the rich, homemade Italian deserts Louie delivered every morning, and fresh daisies in vases graced marble-topped tables on iron stands laden with scrollwork. Carla frowned as her eyes settled on the green bench outside. “Mrs. Domico’s poodle is by our bench again,” Carla reported.
“That woman!” exclaimed her mother, outraged. “She never picks up after that awful animal.”
Through the plate glass, Carla caught Mrs. Domico’s eye and mouthed the words, Pick up. To her mother, she said, “Don’t worry. I just told her.”
“Good!” said her mother. Before Carla could start arguing once more about the changes she needed to make to keep their business in the black, her mother continued, “It’s nearly eight. Why are you just now getting downstairs? It’s those dreams again, isn’t it, Carla? You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”
“I’m fine,” promised Carla.
“No, you’re not. And if you can’t sleep, you can’t run a business. DiDolche’s has been around since 1888.”
The words put the fear of God into Carla. “I can run a business just fine.” At moments like this, it was hard to believe her parents had retired and lived in another state. If they decided to reclaim the business, Carla would be crushed. As far back as she could remember, she’d wanted to run this place. “I have a business degree, Ma. And you’re not coming here to go over the books.” If her father saw that she’d introduced three new kinds of coffee, she’d be in deep moose caca.
“I knew it when I called and you were still upstairs in the apartment,” said her mother, ignoring her. “It’s those dreams.”
“I’m fine,” Carla assured her just as her eyes landed on the Pittsburgh Post Gazette. The headline read Pittsburgh Preservation Society May Take Over Sloane Mansion. Her heart lurching, she edged closer and began reading. What on earth had happened? Was Tobias going to lose his clinic? That place was his life! Her cheeks warmed as she thought of how happy he’d been when he’d gotten the lease ten years ago—they’d had dinner at Tessaro’s to celebrate—then she mentally flashed on their wedding and how she’d run back down the aisle.
And then Carla firmly reminded herself that Tobias had married Sandy Craig, who was definitely everything Carla wasn’t: tall, thin, blond and Protestant.
She
