She rattled something in Italian and then started apologizing profusely. “All this chatter and your food is cold.”
Before Brooke could utter a word, Mari called out to the kitchen. By the time Brooke could take a second bite of her cold pasta, the matriarch of the D’Angelo family had another steaming hot plate in front of her and was whisking away the old one.
“Ah, better.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I did. You eat, and perhaps we can talk over cappuccino when you’re done.”
It was nice to smile. “I’d like that.”
The plate was empty, nearly licked clean, and Mari sat beside Brooke in the booth as if they were old friends.
“Let me see where you think you want to live,” Mari said, pointing at the magazines Brooke had set aside.
“What I want and what I can afford are competing. But maybe you can tell me about neighborhoods, so I don’t get stuck in an unsafe area.”
“I’m biased to Little Italy. This restaurant belonged to my father before me and my late husband.”
“I’m sorry. Your late husband, I mean,” Brooke explained.
“It’s been many years. My father went back to Italy to care for his parents when they were old and stayed. He has visited a few times since but is getting too old for the trip.”
“He’s still alive?”
“Eighty-one.”
“That’s lovely.”
Mari smiled, looked back at the magazine. She picked up a pen and started crossing off some of Brooke’s picks.
“No. No. Absolutely not.”
Brooke looked over at what apartments she was crossing off the list. The cheaper ones outside of Little Italy were dropping like flies.
“No. Even Chloe would agree this neighborhood is a bit overrun these days.”
Mari tapped her pen next to the picks just up the street.
The high-rise condo type locations in Little Italy with all the amenities and the price tag to go with it.
“You have question marks next to these. Why?” she asked.
“Budget,” Brooke answered. “I have some unexpected and unknown financial . . . issues . . .” She didn’t feel comfortable talking about her father’s situation. It opened up too many questions that she truly didn’t want to get into with a near stranger. Her hope of living close to the water was quickly becoming a passing dream. At least for a while. “Maybe there’s a neighborhood a little farther inland you can suggest?”
Mari narrowed her eyes in thought, thumbed through the magazine. “Hmmm. You know. I may have a solution for you.”
“I’m open to ideas.”
She nodded her head. “Grab your purse. Come with me.”
Brooke looked at her watch as she did, realized she was going to hit a ton of traffic on her way back to Upland, but pushed the thought aside. Narrowing her search with someone who knew the town was more important than a few lost hours sitting on California freeways.
Brooke trailed behind Mari as they wove their way through the back of the restaurant.
They moved through the employee-only sections where the muted colors of the establishment turned to bright white and clean surfaces easier to scrub. Mari said things in Italian to those who spoke to her en route to wherever she was leading Brooke.
Through a door, they were in a hallway leading to a stairway that looked less like a restaurant and more like a home.
“One of the things that my beloved parents enjoyed most about this property is the residence above. The first floor is the restaurant. The second floor is where I live with my children. Where I lived with my parents when I grew up and eventually with my husband.” They walked by a door in the stairwell that Mari pointed to and kept climbing. “My Luca and Francesca live on the third floor.” She pointed to another door.
Brooke began to see where this field trip was headed and started to get her hopes up.
On the fourth floor, Mari stopped. “This floor is a smaller apartment we’ve used for guests. Family when they visit, or my children when the elders come and can’t climb as far up. I’ve considered renting it for a year now. People simply don’t visit the way they once did.”
Mari opened the unlocked door and walked in.
The large open room had a half-vaulted ceiling since it was on the top floor. The open beams were right out of the pages of an Italian travel guide and matched the decor in the restaurant below. The kitchen, off the living and compact dining area, was small but had a stovetop, an oven, and a refrigerator that would hold enough food for one person. Especially if you were a guest of the family who owned the restaurant downstairs. It made sense.
It was furnished in whites and off whites with splashes of yellow and olive greens.
It was beautiful.
Brooke walked in silence, poked her head into the cozy bedroom and the well-equipped bathroom, which had an old clawfoot tub with a shower and a long curtain.
There was a ton of natural light from the windows facing the street and airflow to the back as well.
“There is a terrace that you’d have direct access to but would be sharing with my family. A second door from the stairwell is how we get to the space. We have Sunday dinners there when the weather allows.” Mari indicated a door on the far end of the kitchen. They walked through and out onto what wasn’t a terrace so much as a rooftop patio. The view was spectacular. She could see the bay, the ships . . . feel the breeze on her skin.
There were lights strung up from one side to the other. A long family table took up a fair amount of room, and a seating area around a gas firepit completed the space.
Brooke closed her eyes and pulled in a breath. “I’m afraid to ask what this will cost.”
Mari chuckled. “I wouldn’t have brought you up here to disappoint you, m’dear. It is doing no one any good empty. It does not have an air conditioner. You should know that. That kitchen is pathetic, as you can see.”
“It’s perfect for me.”
“You don’t cook?” she asked.
“I don’t really . . . it’s not my strong point.”
Mari shook her head. “I can teach you. Sunday dinners are long and loud.”
“That won’t bother me.”
“It will take me a little time to get the furniture out for your things.”
“No!” Brooke almost shouted. “I mean, can it come furnished? I’m a clean person. I’m happy to pay a hefty deposit and cleaning fee for anything that—”
“That would be perfect. Don’t you have your own things?”
“Some, but nothing big. It’s a long story.” One she didn’t want to share.
“Maybe over a glass of wine,” Mari suggested.
“Or a bottle,” Brooke countered.
The older woman smiled.
“I like you, Brooke.”
Brooke’s palms started to sweat. “How much, Mrs. D’Angelo?”
Mari didn’t answer the question. Instead, she moved to the edge of the rooftop and picked at what looked like an herb garden. “Would you request a lease?”
“Well . . .” Brooke hesitated. “This is an experiment for you, right?”
“It is . . . but—”
“Then I wouldn’t want to hold you to something you’re not completely sure you want to do long term. Much as this would be ideal for me. Your graciousness in suggesting I rent this space is . . . well . . . if you could give me thirty days’ notice if it wasn’t working out.”