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truthfully, Vivi couldn’t see herself here at all.
    The size of the place struck her as ridiculous. Why would two people need so much space? Besides, her decorating taste was the opposite of Natalie’s. Natalie favored a look that was elemental yet high tech—chrome, glass, leather, marble. Vivi liked fat, plump sofas with soft pillows, and windows filled with hanging plants. And a homey kitchen where something delicious was always baking in the oven. If this made her provincial, so be it. That’s who she was.
    She sat down on the couch beside her sister, carefully balancing the coffee mug on her lap. It was probably unwise to have told Natalie about Anthony’s visit. But she couldn’t help it; she wanted confirmation that her reaction to Anthony’s criticism wasn’t out of proportion. She still couldn’t believe he’d had the gall to insult her to her face. Who did he think he was? It made her teeth grit.
    “He’s widowed, you know. The Italian.”
    Natalie clucked her tongue in exasperation. “We’re back to him again, are we? Vivi, why do you care?”
    “I don’t! It’s just…I embarrassed myself.”
    “How?”
    “I saw he had a wedding ring on, and as he was leaving, I yelled, ‘I hope you’re nicer to your wife about her coffee than you were to me!’ He turned around and told me his wife was dead.”
    Natalie gave a small wince. “Well, you didn’t know.”
    “I know, but still.”
    Thinking about it made Vivi feel mortified all over again. But how was she supposed to know his wife had passed on? Still, the look on his face—the deep pain that swam to his eyes—revealed a sensitive man, at least when it came to matters of the heart. It was a pity he was such a fool when it came to food.
    “Maybe I should apologize to him,” Vivi thought aloud.
    “What?” Natalie said indignantly. “If anything, he should apologize to you, flinging your hospitality back in your face!”
    “I know, I just hate getting off on the wrong foot with our neighbors. It’s not good.”
    “You should have thought of that before you challenged him in his own kitchen. Maybe that’s why he made those comments about your coffee; he was swiping back at you.”
    Could someone be so petty? The answer, of course, was yes. Chefs could be a petty and vindictive lot. She’d seen grown men throw punches at each other over the correct way to prepare béchamel sauce. Being a chef was all about creativity and perfection. If he genuinely believed her coffee was subpar, then he wasn’t out of line telling her so, but rather merely following the edicts of his calling—just as she’d been doing that day in his kitchen.
    Vivi shielded her eyes from the bright morning sun flooding the apartment. One wall of the living room was pure glass, revealing a soaring landscape of skyscrapers. It was an impressive view. Even so, Vivi preferred the small apartment she’d rented in a five-story walk-up in Bensonhurst. She liked old places, places with a history. This steel and glass hothouse of Natalie’s was a bit too moderne for her taste.
    “I wonder how long the wife has been dead,” Natalie mused. “A month? Five years? Either way, it’s odd that he still wears his ring.”
    “I don’t think so,” Vivi disagreed, shifting so the sun wasn’t in her eyes. It didn’t seem to be bothering Natalie at all. In fact, with the morning sun shining on her face, Vivi could see how flawless Natalie’s complexion was. “If I were married and my husband died, I’d keep wearing my ring.”
    “How romantic,” Natalie said dryly.
    “I do have a romantic streak.”
    “Well, you certainly didn’t get it from Papa.”
    Vivi didn’t respond. In fact, she thought the opposite. Her father was always buying little gifts for her mother, leaving little love notes for her around the house. Was it possible Natalie had never seen this side of his personality?
    Natalie was regarding her sternly. “Promise me you won’t let yourself get too