Page 8 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
I could tell by her calm demeanor that whatever had caused the shouting was either no big deal or something she’d seen a hundred times before. My mom had always had this ability to make things seem smaller than they were—an admirable skill, especially given how differently she and my father had been received by each other’s families when they first got together.
She’d grown up in one of those families where power and wealth were inherited, not earned. Her father had disapproved of my father for years, seeing him as little more than a blue-collar guy from a family that owned a pizza joint in Brooklyn, not someone who belonged in the same circles. But my mother had persuaded my grandfather anyway, throwing caution to the wind in a way that would’ve been unthinkable for most people of her background. Eventually, her family had come around, not wanting to lose their only daughter.
“You look good, sweetheart,” she said, steering me toward the kitchen, where she’d set out a plate of olives and prosciutto. If there was one thing Eloise Rossi loved to do, it was host. “How’s everything?”
“Good,” I said, reaching for an olive. My mind kept circling back to the shouting, but I tried to push it aside. “Dad’s alright?”
“Your uncle called.” My mother pursed her lips. “There seems to be an issue with the restaurant. Your father’s your father. He’ll calm down. Don’t worry about it.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed, collecting another jar of olives from the pantry. “It’s the same old story. The restaurant’s in trouble again.”
I raised an eyebrow as I reached for a slice of cheese. “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
“Your father’s family hasn’t updated anything since they built the place. They still run it the way they did back then—no website, no marketing. Just hoping people will walk in.” She shrugged as she dumped more olives out for me. “Your father thinks some changes need to be made, but your uncle always sides with your grandparents, doesn’t want to make waves.”
I nodded, having heard this song and dance before. The pizzeria had become something of a neighborhood institution over the years. But my grandparents’ reluctance to adapt to the changing times had left them struggling in a market that had long moved beyond traditional family-run businesses.
“And Dad’s had enough of it?” I prodded, reaching for another olive.
She motioned to the plate of snacks, urging me to eat. “Let’s leave it to him to handle. He’ll figure something out. Eat first. You’re too thin. Those long hours at the office are not doing you any good.”
“I have a dinner later,” I told her, but she waved me off and edged the plate closer. I plucked yet another olive from the plate to appease her.
“What is Dad going to do?” My mother shrugged a shoulder—I wished I could strive for her level of unbothered.
“Enough talk about business. That’s all we do in this house … business, business, business.” She let out a long sigh before mischief filled her eyes.
“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “I know that look.”
A smile played at the corners of her lips. “I ran into Nora Lauder at brunch this morning.”
I knew this was going in a direction I would not like.
“She mentioned that her daughter, Felicity, is back in the city from her time in London.”
And there it was.
As did everyone who grew up on the Upper East Side, Felicity and I had frequented the same circles growing up—between balls, dinners, and society events. The two of us knew each other well. Which was how I knew she’d been in London for a “gap year”, even though she was years out of college. It had been more of an attempt to find an eligible bachelor overseas because Felicity Lauder had scared off nearly every man that came from a family with status. Let’s just say, “high maintenance” was a vast understatement when it came to her.
“Did she now?”
“I think you should reach out to her,” my mother continued, oblivious to my disinterest. “Ask her to lunch.”
“That’s a nice thought,” I murmured.
She reached out to wrap a hand over the top of mine. “I just want you to be happy again.”
“I am happy.” My hand turned over to squeeze hers.
“Felicity could be a great option. She comes from a wealthy family.”
“Why does that matter?” I asked. Money had never been in the conversation before with who I dated. “You didn’t marry for money.”
“No, I married for love.” My mother looked toward the study where her husband was finishing up his phone callwith the kind of adoration in her eyes that people made movies about.
My father, Giacomo, walked into the room looking much happier than I’d heard from him through the front door earlier. He walked over to give his wife a kiss, even though he’d seen her minutes ago, and reached across the counter to shake my hand.
