A Perfect Tomato
Marjorie buried her face in the dirty socks and inhaled.
The musk of old sweat and earth clogged her sinuses—sharp, sour, and heartbreakingly familiar. Her stomach twisted. God, they still smelled like him. Not cologne, not soap—him. A mix of basil, warm skin, the coppery trace of kitchen heat. She pressed the socks tighter, fingers trembling, breath catching on the sob rising behind her ribcage.
Darkness crowded the walk-in closet, thick and warm like a womb. Her knees ached from kneeling on the hardwood floor, and the air was dense with the scent of old laundry and loneliness. She’d slept in here every night since he died, surrounded by what little of him remained. Most of it had faded, but the socks… the socks still held on.
Tears came fast, without drama, streaking quietly down her face. As she wept, the memory pulled her under—six years ago, Florence.
He was standing in the middle of a cobbled piazza, hair tousled by the breeze, gelato dripping down his wrist, and an amused glint in his eyes.
“What fresh hell are you?” he’d asked, half-laughing as he caught sight of her fumbling with a broken sandal strap.
“Oh… eskuseh’. No I speaka Englis,” she’d lied, thickening her accent. She was raw then, bristling with defense. The last man had taken too much.
Dave grinned, wiping gelato from his hand with a receipt. “Oh? What language do they speak in Chicago these days?”
Her stomach dropped. Blood flooded her cheeks. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but he raised a hand.
“I heard you talking to someone in the hotel lobby. I’m staying there too. Room 402. I’m Dave.”
“I’m not interested.”
“In what?” he asked. “I haven’t even invited you to do anything. I was just saying hello.”
“In anything.”
A long beat. Then he leaned in slightly, mischievous. “Tell you what. If you can guess—within a thousand—how many types of tomatoes there are in the world, I’ll leave you alone. If you’re wrong, you owe me a quest.”
“A quest?”
“To find the perfect tomato.”
She blinked. “You’re insane.”
“No. I’m a chef. And you, my nameless friend, are chicken.”
She crossed her arms. “What do I get out of this if I win?”
“You win either way. It’s just a matter of whether you spend the day with me or not.”
“And what makes you so sure I don’t already have plans?”
“Do you?”
Silence. She glared.
“Thought so,” he said, and smirked. “So? Guess.”
She exhaled, annoyed but curious. “One thousand.”
He grinned and pointed to her shoes. “Wrong. About 7,500. You’re gonna want to change. We’ll be walking through dirty fields.”
“Bullshit.”
“Scout’s ho—”
“That’s not even the Boy Scout salute.”
“Are you gonna’ change those shoes?”
“Are you gonna stop telling me what to do?”
He laughed, brushing a dark curl from his forehead. “Suit yourself.”
They took a rusted rental Vespa into the Tuscan hills, both of them yelling over the wind as the countryside flew past in blurs of ochre and olive. He had a list—a real list—of tomato growers and heirloom seed cultivators printed on a hotel notepad, creased and smudged from past attempts.
The first stop was a sun-baked farm perched on a hill outside Siena. Rows of vines sagged with fruit, and the air shimmered with heat. Bees hovered lazily in the lavender. Dave knelt in the dust like a pilgrim, plucking a squat yellow tomato and splitting it open with his thumbs.
“Smell that,” he said, offering her a half.
The aroma hit her like a punch—honey, citrus, something wild and floral. She bit in. The skin gave way with a pop, the flesh warm and almost custard-soft. Her lips tingled with acid and sunshine. Juice ran down her chin.
She gasped. “That’s not a tomato. That’s a dessert.”
He beamed. “That’s the Jaune Flammée. French. But it’ll never beat the Rosso di Sarno.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re obsessed.”
He pointed at her mouth. “You’ve got seeds in your teeth.”
“So what?” she said, taking another bite.
He watched her carefully, with a grin she would come to love.
“What?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “You look like you’re having a religious experience.”
“I am,” he said, unabashedly.
“Oh my god, with the cheesy!” she replied. “Does that really work for you?”
“Work for me?” he asked, as if innocent.
“With women,” she replied.
He smirked, but didn’t answer. He simply reached up and popped a plump orangish tomato the size of a cherry in her mouth, flooding her with yet another brand new flavor.
They visited five more farms. At one, they sampled fruit no bigger than marbles, with skins like silk and pulp so tangy it made her eyes water. At another, a nonna in a stained apron forced them to eat sun-dried tomatoes soaked in olive oil and rosemary. The oil coated Marjorie’s tongue and fingertips; her hands smelled like crushed leaves the rest of the day.
Her feet blistered in the heat. By the third farm, she was limping, sand in her sandals, sweat pooling at the small of her back. She didn’t complain—she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction—but he noticed.
“Okay. Time-out,” he said, crouching in front of her on a dusty path. “Climb on.”
“No.”
“You’ll thank me.”
“I’ll sue you if you drop me.”
“Sue me for what,” he said. “I’m not rich enough to sue. I’m a chef!”
But she didn’t resist. Not when he lifted her like it was nothing and carried her through the olive groves, her arms around his shoulders, the scent of his neck—lemongrass and sweat—burning into her memory.
They didn’t kiss that day.
But by nightfall, back in Florence, she ordered tomatoes with dinner for the first time in years.
She’d hated them since childhood. But not anymore.
Not after that.
The next day, he greeted her with a kiss and hadn’t stopped kissing her—or introducing her to new flavors—for six years, and a honeymoon trip through Latin America.
Now, though, he was gone.
A stray bullet from some gangbanger’s gun hit him randomly in broad daylight as they walked hand in hand down the sidewalk on what would have otherwise been one of the loveliest days of spring. He was beside her when the bullet hit—no warning, no goodbyes. Just the crack of gunfire and the dull thuck of the bullet plowing through her husband’s chest, followed by the hot spatter of his blood on her white dress, his weight collapsing into her arms.
“I love you,” he’d whispered, his lips already going blue. “Sorry I messed up your dress.”
Then nothing. His body had gone heavy and still, and the world had screamed around her in muffled panic. A week later, she lost the baby.
The closet light flickered.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZT.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZT.
Someone was at the front door.
Marjorie stiffened. She clutched the socks a moment longer, then folded them with trembling fingers and placed them gently on the shelf. She closed the closet door behind her like it was a grave.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZT.
Bang. Bang.
“I’m coming! Hold on!” Her voice cracked from disuse.
She shuffled through the hallway barefoot, ignoring the grit beneath her soles. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob, wishing absurdly that it was a serial killer.
Instead, it was worse.
Her mother.
Her mom blew in like a thunderstorm in fur. “So, what? Did you forget it’s your father’s birthday? We’re going for Eye-talion.”
Marjorie blinked. “My fath—Mom. First, it’s pronounced ‘It-alian.’ Second, Dad’s been dead twelve years. Give it up.”
Her mother recoiled theatrically, as if slapped. “Well, I never—”
“Yes, you have. Multiple times. And don’t act like you’re hurt. Nothing gets through that concrete skull of yours.”
“Oh, you want to talk about hurt?” Her mother’s voice sharpened. “How long are you gonna hole up in that closet and smell his dirty socks, huh? It’s been almost two years!”
“It’s been eighteen months.”
Her mother crossed her arms. “You think time makes it easier? I slept in the closet for eight years after your father died. So don’t tell me how grief works. Now get your coat. Glynnis says the food at the new Eye-talion place on Southerland is to die for.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You never are. You eat like a ghost. Look at you. Your skin’s gray. You’re thirty-four and wasting away in a linen coffin.”
Marjorie opened her mouth to argue, but it caught in her throat.
Her mother’s gaze softened. “C’mon, baby. Just tonight. Do it for your dad.”
A cab ride, a wait in line, and half a plate of rubbery calamari later, Marjorie stared in disbelief at the dish in front of her.
Seafood Alfredo, sprinkled with garlic flakes, garnished with a roasted tomato half encrusted in Parmesan.
She wrinkled her nose. “What the hell is this? Who ordered a tomato?”
“It’s complimentary, ma’am,” the waiter said.
“How do I know it’s any good?”
The waiter blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I’m thirty-four, not seventy. Take it away—no, wait. Get me the chef. I want to see if he actually knows anything about tomatoes before I subject myself to his palate.”
The waiter scurried off. Marjorie could feel her mother watching her but refused to meet her eyes.
A few minutes later, a tall blond man in a white coat approached. He was handsome, in a way—clean-cut, mid-thirties, forearms dusted with flour and heat. He looked startled to see her.
Then, to the waiter, he muttered under his breath: “What fresh hell is this?”
He hadn’t meant for her to hear it. But she did.
It hit her like a sucker punch. The air fled her lungs. In her mind, she was back in Florence, sweat slicking her skin, her feet aching, Dave’s laugh rolling through the Italian countryside like warm thunder.
Tears surged. She swallowed them, hard.
The chef straightened. “Michael said you wanted to speak with me about the tomato?”
Marjorie blinked up at him, chest tight, vision blurred. Her lip trembled.
She took a breath through her nose. The garlic hit first—sharp and sweet. Then the tomato’s earthiness, the salt of the sea from the Alfredo, the warm starch of the fresh bread still baking nearby.
The chef hesitated, then gently motioned to the plate. “That tomato—it’s a Pomodoro di Belmonte. Grown in Calabria, near the coast of Italy—right on the big toe of the boot. I sourced these tomatoes myself. They’re fragile as hell. You can only harvest them by hand. Sweet like a plum, but they finish with a saltiness that lingers—like sea air.”
She didn’t answer. But for the first time in a long time, her eyes flashed with both fire and curiosity.
He smiled faintly, but his voice stayed serious. “There are over seventy-five hundred types of tomatoes—each with their own purpose. I only use one if it’s the perfect match. That one’s not a decoration. It’s the heart of the plate. Just one bite. I promise—it’ll be worth it.”
Marjorie looked down at the tomato. Roasted, the skin blistered slightly, the cheese crust caramelized, garlic curls nestled in its folds. A ruby half-moon holding heat like a tiny, beating heart.
Her fingers hovered over her fork, but she didn’t reach for it.
Instead, she raised her eyes to meet his. Something unspoken passed between them—shared reverence, maybe. A memory he didn’t know he’d awakened.
She smiled through the ache. “Oh… eskuseh’. No I speaka Englis.”
“That’s not what my server said,” he replied, grinning. “He said your French was pretty well pronounced too—that you’d put a little English on it.”
Indignant fire shot from her eyes, but before she could speak, he held up a hand.
“Just taste the tomato,” he said. Then he gestured toward the bar. “And when you’ve finished your meal, you can sit over there until I’m done cooking for my guests. We’ll discuss your apology over a glass of wine—or—”
He paused pensively.
“No. Not wine—Bourbon!
I bet you can’t guess how many varieties there are.”
Marjorie sat stunned, unsure of how to respond.
The chef reached a friendly hand across the table to her mother, who took it. They shook hands warmly.
“I’m Mario,” he said.
“Gloria,” her mother replied.
“Your meals are complimentary,” he added. Then, gesturing toward Marjorie, “I’ll make sure she gets home safe.”
Marjorie sighed, picked up her fork, and before she could ruin it with words, filled her mouth with what was—as promised—a perfect tomato.