The Vineyards Of Calanetti. Rebecca Winters
gazed around in awe. “I didn’t think so.”
“Meaning they could be?”
“I don’t know.” Louisa turned to the right and walked into a sitting room. Again, dust covered everything. A teacup sat on a table by a dusty chair. Passing through that room, they entered another that appeared to be a library or study. From there, they found a dining room.
Watermarks on the ceiling spoke of damage from a second-floor bathroom or maybe even the roof. The kitchen was old and in need of remodeling. The first-floor bathrooms were outdated, as was every bathroom in the suites upstairs.
After only getting as far as the second floor, Louisa turned to Daniella with tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize the house would be in such disrepair. From the picture, it looked perfect. If you want to get a hotel room in town, I’ll understand.”
“Are you kidding?” Daniella rolled Louisa’s big suitcase to a stop and walked into the incredibly dusty, cobweb-covered bedroom. She spun around and faced Louisa. “I love it. With a dust rag, some cleanser for the bathroom and a window washing, this room will be perfect.”
Louisa hesitantly followed Daniella into the bedroom. “You’re an optimist.”
Daniella laughed. “I didn’t say you wouldn’t need to call a contractor about a few things. But we can clean our rooms and the kitchen.”
* * *
Raffaele Mancini stared at Gino Scarpetti, a tall, stiff man, who worked as the maître d’ for Mancini’s, Rafe’s very exclusive, upscale, Michelin-starred restaurant located in the heart of wine country.
Mancini’s had been carefully crafted to charm customers. The stone and wood walls of the renovated farmhouse gave the place the feel of days long gone. Shutters on the windows blocked the light of the evening sun, but also added to the Old World charisma. Rows of bottles of Merlot and Chianti reminded diners that this area was the home of the best vineyards, the finest wines.
Gino ripped off the Mancini’s name tag pinned to his white shirt. “You, sir, are now without a maître d’.”
A hush fell over the dining room. Even the usual clink and clatter of silverware and the tinkle of good crystal wineglasses halted.
Gino slapped the name tag into Rafe’s hand. Before Rafe could comment or argue, the man was out the door.
Someone began to clap. Then another person. And another. Within seconds the sophisticated Tuscany restaurant dining room filled with the sounds of applause and laughter.
Laughter!
They were enjoying his misery!
He looked at the line of customers forming beside the podium just inside the door, then the chattering diners laughing about his temper and his inability to keep good help. He tossed his hands in the air before he marched back to the big ultramodern stainless-steel restaurant kitchen.
“You!”
He pointed at the thin boy who’d begun apprenticing at Mancini’s the week before. “Take off your smock and get to the maître d’ stand. You are seating people.”
The boy’s brown eyes grew round with fear. “I...I...”
Rafe raised a brow. “You can’t take names and seat customers?”
“I can...”
“But you don’t want to.” Rafe didn’t have to say anything beyond that. He didn’t need to say, “If you can’t obey orders, you’re fired.” He didn’t need to remind anyone in his kitchen that he was boss or that anyone working in the restaurant needed to be able to do anything that needed to be done to assure the absolute best dining experience for the customers. Everyone knew he was not a chef to be trifled with.
Except right now, in the dining room, they were laughing at him.
The boy whipped off his smock, threw it to a laundry bin and headed out to the dining room.
Seeing the white-smocked staff gaping at him, Rafe shook his head. “Get to work!”
Knives instantly rose. The clatter of chopping and the sizzle of sautéing filled the kitchen.
He sucked in a breath. Not only was his restaurant plagued by troubles, but now it seemed the diners had no sympathy.
“You shouldn’t have fired Gino.” Emory Danoto, Rafe’s sous-chef, spoke as he worked. Short and bald with a happy face and nearly as much talent as Rafe in the kitchen, Emory was also Rafe’s mentor.
Rafe glanced around, inspecting the food prep, pretending he was fine. Damn it. He was fine. He did not want a frightened rabbit working for him. Not even outside the kitchen. And the response of the diners? That was a fluke. Somebody apparently believed it was funny to see a world-renowned chef tortured by incompetents.
“I didn’t fire Gino. He quit.”
Emory cast him a condemning look. “You yelled at him.”
Rafe yelled, “I yell at everybody.” Then he calmed himself and shook his head. “I am the chef. I am Mancini’s.”
“And you must be obeyed.”
“Don’t make me sound like a prima donna. I am doing what’s best for the restaurant.”
“Well, Mr. I’m-Doing-What’s-Best-for-the-Restaurant, have you forgotten about our upcoming visit from the Michelin people?”
“A rumor.”
Emory sniffed a laugh. “Since when have we ever ignored a rumor that we were to be visited? Your star rating could be in jeopardy. You’re the one who says chefs who ignore rumors get caught with their pants down. If we want to keep our stars, we have to be ready for this visit.”
Rafe stifled a sigh. Emory was right, of course. His trusted friend only reminded him of what he already knew. Having located his business in the countryside, instead of in town, he’d made it even more exclusive. But that also meant he didn’t get street traffic. He needed word of mouth. He needed every diner to recommend him to their friends. He needed to be in travel brochures. To be a stop for tour buses. To be recommended by travel agents. He couldn’t lose a star.
The lunch crowd left. Day quickly became night. Before Rafe could draw a steady breath the restaurant filled again. Wasn’t that the way of it when everything was falling apart around you? With work to be done, there was no time to think things through. When the last patron finally departed and the staff dispersed after the kitchen cleaning, Rafe walked behind the shiny wood bar, pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf, along with a glass, and slid onto a tall, black, wrought iron stool.
Hearing the sound of the door opening, he yelled, “We’re closed.” Then grimaced. Was he trying to get a reputation for being grouchy rather than exacting?
“Good thing I’m not a customer, then.”
He swiveled around at the sound of his friend Nico Amatucci’s voice.
Tall, dark-haired Nico glanced at the whiskey bottle, then sat on a stool beside Rafe. “Is there a reason you’re drinking alone?”
Rafe rose, got another glass and set it on the bar. He poured whiskey into the glass and slid it to Nico. “I’m not drinking alone.”
“But you were going to.”
“I lost my maître d’.”
Nico raised his glass in salute and drank the shot. “You’re surprised?”
“I’m an artist.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“That, too.” He sighed. “But I don’t want to be. I just want things done correctly. I’ll spread the word tomorrow that I’m looking for someone. Not a big deal.” He made the statement casually, but deep down he knew he was