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“So far, so good,” I reassure her.

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reaches for her handbag that the waiter brought a stool for and placed next to her chair. She pulls out a bunch of papers that have been folded in three. “I’ve been doing a little research.”

“Research? On Boston?”

She sighs. “Well, yes, but this isn’t about that. This is about culinary school. Basically the best school in the country is Culinary Institute of America. They have a campus upstate in Hyde Park. It would be quite the commute. Buuut,” she says before I can even think about what she’s saying, much less respond, “what you do have in Manhattan is the Institute of Culinary Education. It’s basically five blocks from your apartment.”

“You want me to improve my omelet making?” I ask, a little perplexed about why she’s talking to me about cooking school.

“Your omelets are perfection. But you were saying that you’ve lost a little enthusiasm for your job. And you’re rich. You could do anything you wanted. So I was thinking that you could go to culinary school. You love to cook.”

I sit back in my chair and she thrusts the papers into my hands. Has she been researching career opportunities for me? I’m not sure how to respond, I’m so shocked. “I’m not a chef,” I stutter. That was my dad.

“But you love to cook,” she says with a smile. “You were born to cook.”

“I cook because I can. Because I was taught.” My dad taught me. He was always in the kitchen, and if I wanted to spend time with him, then learning to cook was the way to get his attention.

“But you’re great at it and you enjoy it, right? Maybe you could do something more with that.” She takes the papers from me. “You can look at these later.” She glances down at her plate. “And maybe it’s not going to culinary school. Maybe you want to own restaurants. Serenissima. You could help them expand.”

“Serenissima is great because it’s an old-school family restaurant that cooks good food well.”

She shakes her head. “I still don’t know how it survives with business taxes and all the other expenses…”

“They don’t pay much rent,” I say. I’ve never told anyone that. Not even Beppe and Maria.

“How come?”

I shrug. “Landlord likes their food, I guess.”

“Their landlord likes their food?” she asks suspiciously. “Most landlords don’t give a shit what kind of business is paying the rent. They just want the money.”

“Not this one.”

A smile curls around her lips. “You own the building and don’t charge them market rent?”

“I would hate them to find out. Promise you won’t say anything.”

“Of course, I won’t say anything.” She reaches across the table and threads her fingers through mine, my heart spinning in my chest at her touch. “That’s really nice of you.”

I shake my head. “It’s what they deserve. They work hard, the food is excellent. It’s well managed. They deserve to have a successful restaurant.” Just like my father did. Just like my family did. I want them to have the success that others don’t.

She holds my gaze, and I can tell she wants to say something but is holding back. It’s not like her.

“What?” I ask her.

“I think that’s a really nice thing to do. Like the kind of thing a really good man does.”

“It’s a good restaurant. They’re a lovely family.”

“And they treat you like a son, even though they don’t know you’re helping them like you are.”

“They’ve known me since I was a boy.”

She pauses again, like she’s still holding back, then she squeezes my hand and releases it. “I think you’re a very special man.”

Her words hit me in my chest. I can tell she means what she says. There’s no thought of Boston or what I can do for her—she’d never try to manipulate me like that. She’s too good. Too kind.

“I have a proposition for you,” I say, before I can overthink what I’m about to propose.