Read Online Dying for a Taste by Leslie Karst - Free Book Online Page B

blinked a couple times, like he had something in his eye, and then swallowed. But he didn’t say a word. After a moment, he stood up and walked back into the kitchen. I jumped up to follow and placed my hand on his shoulder.
    “ Babbo .”
    “I shoulda known,” he said, shrugging off my touch. “You two were always conspiring against me.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “After Letta came back to town, you were always way more interested in spending time with her than with me and your mom. And it was obvious you were completely infatuated with Gauguin, that you thought it was some kind of, I dunno, French Laundry, come down here to the backwaters of Santa Cruz. I bet you and Letta were talking for years about how you’d take the place over after she was gone.”
    “But that’s just so untrue. I had no idea I was even in her will.”
    “Go on,” he said with a wave of the hand. “Go ahead and run that snooty restaurant with all its gourmet cuisine and leave me to my low-class diner that serves up peasant fare. The same place, mind you, that paid for your food and clothes all those years and helped you through college. I know it’s mostly just an embarrassment for you, Solari’s.” He turned away and busied himself with rinsing out his coffee cup.
    “Dad, it’s not like that at all. I didn’t ask for Gauguin, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it now that I have it. Why are you being so unfair?” The tears were starting to come, and I just wanted my father to hug me tight and tell me it was all going to be okay.
    But instead, he simply wiped the cup dry, replaced it in the cupboard, and then started for the back door. “I gotta finish pruning that rose before work,” he said. “I’ll see you there in a little while.”
    Why was everyone in my life so damned stubborn?

Chapter Seven
    Eyes still damp, I retrieved my bike from the backyard—Dad studiously avoiding my look—and pedaled off. When I got to the ocean a few blocks away, I headed north on West Cliff Drive, a winding road that hugs the rocky coastline.
    I rode for about a mile and then stopped, inhaled deeply, and gazed out across the bay. From the cliffs to the horizon, the sea displayed multiple hues in the bright sunlight: A foamy white where the waves crashed on the rocks, turning gray where the sand was churned about in the shallows. Farther out, a vibrant turquoise as the ocean floor dropped off, then aquamarine to indigo, made darker where patches of kelp floated near the surface. And then, finally, where the water stretched out to meet the sky, a deep steel blue—almost black—broken only by the numerous whitecaps glinting in the sun as they were caught up by the wind.
    The tension began to drain from my shoulders and neck. Yes, this had been a very good idea. Precisely what I needed right now.
    Looking north toward Natural Bridges, I could see surfers taking advantage of the breeze that was picking up and starting to bring in swells. I squinted to try to see if one of them might be Eric. I knew he liked this spot, but the black, wet-suited figures in the water all looked alike from this distance.
    With a smile, I got back on my bike and pedaled off, a sort of exuberance overtaking me. It’s almost too much, this panorama. No matter how many times I come out here, it always affects me; the beauty of the coastline is simply astounding.
    But then, seeing a fishing boat heading back toward the harbor, my thoughts slipped back to my dad and the conversation we’d just had, and the smile faded as quickly as it had come. I knew his anger came from hurt, but why couldn’t he see someone else’s point of view for once in his life?
    And then I passed the place along the cliffs where Eric and I used to come at sunset to watch as fiery pinks and oranges lit up the sky, bundled up against the chill and armed with cocktails decanted into water bottles. I started thinking about how I missed that: having someone to watch a