When It Falls Apart (The D'Angelos, #1)(13)

Brooke pointed to the tables set for two on the patio connected to the restaurant. “Is this okay?”

“Perfect.” The hostess smiled and walked them to their table, then handed them menus.

“Thank you.”

“Prego.”

As the woman walked away, Brooke leaned forward. “I love this town. I love this city. We’re sitting outside and it’s not too hot and it’s not too cold.”

“This bed is juuust right!” Carmen teased.

“I’m serious. It’s like Seattle with better weather. Better than Seattle. The waterfront doesn’t smell like fish guts.”

“Ewhh.”

“You know what I mean.”

A waiter came to the table. “Hello, ladies. I’m Giovanni, I’ll be serving you today. Can I get you something to drink? A Bloody Mary, maybe? A glass of wine?”

“How about a spritz? An Aperol spritz?” A staple when she had visited Italy.

“Good choice.”

“Make it two,” Carmen said.

He walked away and Brooke put her phone down. “He’s Italian.”

“I think they all are.”

Brooke couldn’t stop smiling. “I wonder if D’Angelo is a family name?” Her muse was sparked for the first time in weeks.

Someone arrived with water, set it on the table.

A few seconds of silence passed, and Brooke turned her attention to Carmen.

Who was staring.

“What?”

“I’m going to suggest something.”

“Okay.”

Carmen stopped smiling. “You have to promise me you won’t instantly tell me it won’t work or it’s a bad idea. Promise me you’ll think about it and instead of saying you can’t, ask yourself how you can.”

“You make it sound like I’m a horribly negative person.”

Her friend offered a soft smile. “Not the woman I’ve known all these years. But lately, yeah. All this stuff with your dad and Marshall. I don’t know, Brooke . . . your glass has been half-empty a lot lately.”

Much as she wanted to deny Carmen’s accusation, Brooke would be lying to herself.

“Okay. I promise.”

Carmen looked around the room, at the people passing by the restaurant as they went on with their day. “Find a home for your dad down here. Sell the condo. Move to San Diego.”

That’s crazy.

Carmen must have seen the words on her face. “You promised.”

“I did.”

“It’s the perfect compromise. Your dad is only a couple of hours away from where he’s lived his whole life, not that it matters since he’ll be in an assisted living home. You are in a city you have instantly fallen in love with. You can take care of him and not hate every day in a city you loathe.”

The waiter returned with their drinks. “Have you decided on lunch?”

“We haven’t even looked at the menu,” Carmen told him.

“Flag me down when you’re ready. No rush.” He walked off to another table.

Brooke lifted her drink. “Your idea is tempting.”

“My idea is brilliant.”

“Gio!” the bartender yelled at their waiter and started in a rapid fire of Italian.

They went back and forth a couple of times, and for whatever reason, Brooke found herself smiling. “Crazy.”

“Maybe we should figure out what we’re going to eat.”

An hour later they’d destroyed two appetizers and were on a second drink and had both ordered a main course.

Carmen was searching the internet for assisted living facilities in the general area, and Brooke left her to it in search of a bathroom.

One of the employees pointed her to the back of the restaurant.

There she found a vast space where she could see into the open kitchen, not like in a diner you’d see at any stop along an interstate, but like in a five-star restaurant that wasn’t afraid of the patrons seeing the inner workings of where their food was being prepared.

Lunch was in full swing, and everyone in the kitchen was hopping.

And not surprisingly, like many of the employees in the front of the house, those back here were speaking Italian.

Loudly.

It made Brooke feel good about her choice in lunch spots. At least she knew her meal would be authentic.

She made her way to the restroom and then back out.

This time, as she passed by the kitchen, she heard a male voice yell out a name. “Francesca!”

Then, as if in slow motion, two things happened. A blur of a little girl, not more than eight years old, came darting around the corner at the same time a server turned with their hands filled with plates of steaming hot pasta.

Brooke saw the imminent collision, swooped down, and lifted the girl before she could knee-tackle the employee.

The waitress stopped short but didn’t lose her balance. “Franny!”

“Sorry,” the little girl said.

Big dark brown eyes looked up at Brooke as she set the girl on her feet. “You need to be careful. Those plates are hot.”

“Francesca Mari!” The deep baritone of what could only be a ticked-off parent came from behind them.

They both looked up.

Brooke felt a little like the air in the room started to still . . . or maybe the man carried the heat from the kitchen with him when he’d walked out. Obviously, he was one of the cooks, from the uniform he wore. He was glaring at the little girl.