Sweet On You

Chapter One

Daniela lay on the cold tile of Ground for Thought's kitchen and contemplated her life. It was, in short, a mess.

Her grandmother used to tell her there was a recipe for everything. If her grandmother were still alive, she'd say this was no different. Nonna would tell her she needed to taste the ingredients of her life and figure out the right balance of flavors.

In this case, the ingredients were one slight Italian woman, a full serving of hot blood, a dash of stubbornness, all spiced with a talent for cooking—plus a liberal dose of unhappiness.

It just added up to a bitter dish.

The kitchen's swinging door creaked open. "Daniela? Are you still in here?"

Caught. She sighed. She'd hoped for more alone time. "Yes."

The confident clacking of heels sounded on the tiles, and then her friend Eve was standing over her, peering down. "I thought you came back here to make a private phone call. What are you doing lying on the floor?"

"Thinking."

"My kitchen floor is better for thinking than yours?"

"Your kitchen is nicer." It was smaller than hers, but it was finished and homey. There was the lingering scent of vanilla and sugar, and it reminded her of baking with Nonna. It also didn't have construction going on, a nosy assistant hovering close by, or telephones ringing nonstop. "It's peaceful here."

Eve stared down at her, hands on her hips. Then she kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged next to Daniela. "Want to talk about it?"

"No." She shook her head. It should have been uncomfortable on the stone tile, but her mass of curly hair provided good cushioning.

"Do you want to bake something? Baking always makes me feel better, especially when I do it with a friend."

"Hell no." Unable to stay stationary, she popped up to sitting and faced Eve. "Can I make a confession?"

"Of course."

"I haven't baked in months."

Eve's pretty face scrunched up. "You baked the cake for my wedding a few weeks ago."

"That's the only thing I've baked since the summer." It'd been a labor of love, because Eve was the only one who'd treated her like a person instead of a commodity.

Daniela frowned at her new friend. "Why is that, anyway?"

"Why is what?"

"That you treat me like I'm a real person."

"Have you been sniffing powdered sugar?" She put a hand on Daniela's forehead. "You feel warm. Maybe you're feverish. Maybe I should call Marley."

"Don't threaten me. I don't want to talk about my traitor-of-an-assistant." She pursed her lips. "Or the man formerly known as my brother. Tony is dead to me."

Grinning, Eve shook her head. "You're so Italian sometimes."

"I know. I'm a walking stereotype."

"But you own it and make it work for you." Eve tucked her hair behind her ear. "So tell me about your brother."

"I told you already. He's dead to me. If my grandmother were still alive, I'd ask her how to curse him. Nonna had the evil eye."

"He must have seriously upset you to make you want to put the evil eye on him."

Seriously upset didn't begin to cover it. "For my birthday, he had his secretary send me flowers."

"That's nice, isn't it?" Eve asked carefully.

"No, it's not. The card read Best Regards for Another Year." She paused meaningfully. "That was it. It wasn't signed or anything."

"Oh."

"And it was my thirty-fifth birthday." Eyes narrowed, she pointed a finger at Eve. "Everyone says thirty is awful, but it's thirty-five that smacks you upside the head."

"Should I worry that you just cursed me?"

"It's nature's curse." She slumped. "It hit me hard, and Tony didn't even have the decency to call me to see how I was doing. I ate take-out Chinese food at my coffee table in the living room as I watched TV. It was pathetic. I was pathetic."

"There wasn't anyone else you could have spent the day with?"

"No. These days, people like me for what I do, not who I am. I've become all fame and no substance." She threw her hands in the air. "What have I done with my life? I bake cookies for spoiled, rich people."

"But you love to bake." Eve frowned. "Don't you?"

"I used to. Now I'm not sure. I've become a brand instead of a person. Even my own brother sees me as a dollar sign." That was what upset her most, because Tony had once been her best friend.

Eve touched her arm. "Have you told him you're upset?"

"No. I'm sulking at the moment." Daniela stuck her lip out just a little more to show her pique.

"Yes, you are."

"It's very satisfying."

Eve laughed. "In the long run, you should say something to your brother. Otherwise, he won't know he did something wrong."

"That's the problem. I'm afraid I'll tell him and he still won't realize he did something wrong." She shook her head sadly and stood up, brushing off the back of her jeans. "I appreciate the talk though. And the use of your kitchen floor."

Laughing, Eve stood up and hugged her. "My kitchen wouldn't exist if it weren't for you. You're welcome to use the floor, and anything else, whenever you like."

That thing in her chest that had been tight for so many months loosened a tiny bit in the warmth of Eve's friendship, and she squeezed her new friend tighter. "Maybe moving to San Francisco wasn't complete insanity."

"San Francisco is never a bad idea, and moving to Laurel Heights was serendipity." Eve linked an arm through hers and walked her out. "We take care of our own."

The community was why she'd impulsively decided to move. She'd done a booksigning at Grounds for Thought and had fallen in love with the neighborhood. Eve had introduced her to her women friends, all professionals but, more importantly, all welcoming and nice. Plus, Laurel Heights had seemed like the ideal place to open a West Coast flagship kitchen.

Though finishing the remodel hadn't been high on her priority list lately.

"Want a biscotti for the road?" Eve asked.

"No." Turning down biscotti was a true testament to her state of mind. She loved biscotti, especially Eve's. They weren't like her nonna's, but they were a close second. "I think I'm going to go for a walk."

"Good decision." Eve gave her another hug. "I'm having a girls' night at my place next week. Will you come?"

She hesitated. She'd never been the kind of woman to have many girlfriends. She'd had her brother growing up, and then she'd been focused on her career. Women chefs were few and far between, and the few she knew were more competitive than friendly. "I'll think about it."

"Let me rephrase my statement," she said, holding Daniela's arm. "You are coming. Bring champagne."

Shaking her head, Daniela walked out of the café, marveling at how smart Eve was to make going to her girls' night so easy. Maybe she'd actually go.

Thinking about it, about her brother, and about the career she was beginning to hate, she walked up Sacramento, past Fillmore, not caring that the hill was steep. People complained about San Francisco's hills, but she loved them. Walking up one made her feel like she'd accomplished something.

God knew she hadn't done much lately. She'd been avoiding making decisions on everything and, consequently, everything was on hold—catering gigs, interviews, appearances... And then there was the remodel on her new boutique outlet in San Francisco. She'd managed to convince Tony that it was a good idea to open a West Coast office, but the construction wasn't done yet.

It was her fault. She'd been dragging her feet on making decisions. Now, the wolves were closing in.

Well—wolf, singular. Her brother. He'd been pressing her to get off her butt and make things happen.

Antonio Rossi wasn't her favorite person right now. How could you be too busy to wish your beloved younger sister happy birthday? Granted, her parents hadn't called either that day, but they'd had an excuse: they'd been somewhere in India and had called as soon as they could.

Daniela looked around and realized she'd walked all the way downtown. With a shrug, she kept walking, all the way to the Embarcadero and the Ferry Building.

She loved the Ferry Building. It was a place to indulge all your senses. She walked through the vendors slowly, watching the people, smelling the spices in the air, looking at all the food. Normally she'd have spent hours milling about through the shops. Today she walked through the building to the piers outside.

A movement by one of the Dumpsters caught her attention. Too vigorous to be a rat, she blinked in surprise when she saw it was a boy.

His hair was scraggly and sticking up in various places. He wore jeans that were too big, bunched a little at the waist. His T-shirt stuck out from the bottom of his oversized hoodie. In his hand, he held half a baguette that he'd obviously scrounged out of the Dumpster.

Her heart sank. She reached for her purse to pull out some money to give him for food but realized she hadn't brought a purse.

Then he pulled out a ragged stuffed animal. Tucking it in his sweatshirt, he picked up the small store of food he'd harvested from the garbage and walked away, furtively looking around like he was worried about being caught.

The food she understood—he was obviously hungry—but the stuffed animal perplexed her. She guessed he was twelve or thirteen. He was in that gangly, awkward phase that happened right before adolescence. The last thing a boy going through puberty would want was a pink teddy bear.

So she did the obvious: she followed him.

She took care not to alert him that she was on his tail. She bet he'd lose her in the blink of an eye.

Clinging to shadows, she followed him all the way to a dilapidated building South of Market.

It was condemned, based on the heavy chains and padlock on the front doors. Just in case there was doubt, there were signs posted all over in addition to the yellow Do Not Enter tape.

She studied the building. It looked like an old motel, boarded up and forbidding, with broken windows, graffiti, and padlocks on the doors. The only spot of lightness was the east side, which was covered in Dali-esque murals spanning from the ground all the way to the roof. Close to the sidewalk, there was a For Sale sign, as if someone would willingly buy this dump.

What was the boy doing here? She watched him carefully wiggle his way into the building through a jagged window.

Curious, worried, she followed him in. Fortunately, she wasn't that much bigger than he was, otherwise she'd have had trouble getting in.

She didn't have to go far to find him. She followed the sound of young voices. She peeked around the corner just in time to see him hand the pink bear to a little girl who had cowlicky hair just like his.

The girl gasped, her eyes widening when she saw the toy. She took it carefully. "For me?"

"Duh." Grinning, the boy ruffled her hair.

She grasped it, staring at it incredulously. Then she grabbed the boy in a huge hug. "Thanks, Jimmy."

He patted her back awkwardly.

A woman called out from somewhere down the hall. "Jimmy, are you back? Did you find food?"

"Yeah, mom," he yelled, taking the girl, who was obviously his sister, with him as he hurried down the hall.

Daniela stood there and watched them disappear, the echo of their voices fading. She looked around at the building. Trash littered the hall, and the smell of urine assaulted her with every inhale. She flipped a light switch on the wall next to her but nothing happened.

They lived here?

She felt guilt over being so unhappy when she had so much. She had a large house in Laurel Heights, a four-story monstrosity that Tony had arranged for her to rent, as well as her flat in New York and pied à terre in Paris. She'd never known hunger, much less been without her own bed to sleep in. They were so different than the pampered kids she was hired to bake cakes for.

She wondered if either the boy or girl had ever had a birthday cake.

Her heart broke, remembering the way Nonna used to sit her on the counter in the kitchen as she baked cannoli or made pasta. Daniela had learned about life and love sitting on that counter. Without that, she had no idea where she'd be right now.

That boy had to scrounge for food to take home to his sister. Her brother would have done that for her. He used to protect her from bullies who teased her about her big, alien eyes, help her when she didn't understand math, and threaten to beat up any guy who broke her heart.

Once upon a time.

She walked down the hall. If someone bought the building, that poor family would be out on the streets, most likely.

Turning the corner, she wondered where she was. This wasn't the way she'd entered. Disoriented, she looked around, trying to figure out where she'd come from. Shrugging, she pushed open the swinging door in front of her to see if there was an exit.

No exit—just an industrial-grade kitchen.

Of course, it was completely trashed. Careful not to brush up against the appliances, all caked in grime, she made a pass through, looking at the space with a professional's eye.

To make it functional, it'd have to be gutted and power-hosed. But the walk-ins were of good quality, and the range just needed to be cleaned. The space was open and would accommodate a large crew serving many people.

With one last slow turn, she went back out the way she came, fumbling down the hallway until she found her way out.

At the sidewalk, something made her turn around and look at the building again, and the sale sign caught her attention.

The building, with its enormous kitchen, would make a great soup kitchen.

Daniela studied the building with fresh eyes. There were a lot of homeless downtown—you couldn't ask for a better location. She imagined a fully running kitchen, cooks bustling to serve the hungry.

She imagined baking for people who genuinely appreciated her baking. For people who cared more about the food than the cachet of having her cook for them.

It was a brilliant idea.

Feeling a rush of purpose for the first time in forever, she hurried to the street and hailed a cab. "Sacramento and Laurel," she told the driver as she climbed in. "Hurry."