Fools Rush In
To be twenty-nine and single in an Italian family is one thing. To be twenty-nine and single with a wedding facility named after you is quite another.
From the day my father opened Bella's, I knew I would never marry. I had enough working against me already. Legs as skinny as Uncle Lazarro's walking cane. Interfering family members, who sabotaged every relationship I ever attempted. Now this. What were the chances someone would actually propose to a building's namesake?
Bella. My pop said he chose the name because I was such a beautiful baby. His face always lit up when he told the story of the first time he laid eyes on me in the hospital nursery. "What a vision of loveliness, bambina!" he would say. "All wrapped up like a piggy in a pink blanket with those big brown eyes peeking out ... You were every papa's dream!" Of course, he could never finish the tale without shouting "Bellissimo!" and kissing his fingertips with dramatic flair.
I always loved that story.
My mother, known for her brutal honesty, opted to reveal the truth in the trickiest of ways -- by showing me photographs. Not only was I the homeliest baby on Planet Earth, my bald head appeared to be oddly misshapen. No wonder they kept me wrapped up like a sausage. They were afraid I'd scare the neighbors.
I'm told by Aunt Rosa -- Mama's older sister -- that the head thing got better as I aged -- kind of like a melon coming into season. And my hair, a mop of long, dark curls, eventually covered up any remaining imperfections. Still, I never completely trusted my father's stories after that. So when he announced his retirement from Bella's a couple of months ago, I wasn't quite sure I believed him.
Only when he added "Bella will take over as manager, and we will all work for her!" did I take him seriously. But why in the world would he pick me of all people -- a melon-headed spinster with skinny legs and a penchant for pepperoni?
Inspite of my reservations, I eventually came to terms with my new position, even looked forward to the challenges ahead. Right away, I came up with the idea of changing the name of the facility, opting for something modern and trendy. I chose Club Wed, hoping it would draw clients from the mainland for one of our advertised themed weddings. Country-western. Medieval. Hawaiian. Forties Swing. You name it, I planned to offer it.
Only one problem -- I'd never actually planned a themed wedding before. We Rossis had only hosted traditional ceremonies and receptions. And now, with less than two weeks before my first Boot-Scootin' bridal event, I found myself in a world of trouble. I needed a deejay who knew a little something about country-western music, and I needed one yesterday.
I did what came naturally when in a jam -- picked up the phone and called my best friend, Jenna. She answered on the third ring, breathless as always.
"Parma John's, we deliver."
I couldn't help but smile as I heard her voice above the strain of a familiar Dean Martin song. I started to say more, but she continued on before I could get a word in.
"Would you like to try our special of the day -- a large Mambo Italiano pizza with two cappuccinos for only $17.95?"
"Skip the cappuccino. Let's go straight for the cheesecake," I said.
"Bella?" She let out a squeal. "Is that you? Why didn't you stop me?"
"I love it when you give me the spiel. Makes me feel special. And hungry."
"You are special." She let out an exaggerated sigh, and I could almost envision the look on her face.
D.J. let out a whistle. "Man. Where in the world did you get those?" His eyes widened. "I've seen 'em in pictures, sure, but never in person. Can't believe you're wearing them to work."
Laz's bushy eyebrows nearly joined in the center. "Wearing them to work? Why shouldn't I?"
I tried to play it cool, but my insides started to sweat. "You've seen boots like that before?"
"Have I!" D.J. laughed. "You're funny, Bella. Everyone has seen Lanciottis. They're the most expensive boots on the market. A new pair costs upward of eight thousand dollars." He turned to my uncle again. "And with the detailing on yours, I'd say even more than that. Not that I'm trying to be nosy."
"W-what?" I managed. This had to be some sort of joke. Either that, or the boots on Uncle Laz's feet were knock-offs. Surely.
D.J. scrutinized my uncle's feet. "Yep. These are crocodile. I've only seen a few in my life, but none like these. Leastways, not in person. At the rodeo we sometimes catch a glimpse of a Lanciotti, but not in this price range."
I'd seen my uncle shaken before, but nothing like this. With the help of his cane, he staggered to the chair opposite D.J. and took a seat. The boots came off immediately.
"What are you doing?" my stunned hunk-of-a-deejay asked.
"Getting rid of the evidence." Uncle Laz shoved the boots my way. "The Lord isn't going to answer my prayers if I'm wearing stolen boots. Take them back, Bella. I don't want 'em."
I couldn't help pondering the fact that he'd been willing to wear twenty-dollar stolen boots. Just not expensive ones? Still, there I stood in Parma John's, holding eight thousand dollar boots in my hand. Boots I'd purchased for a song on eBay. I quickly explained how and where I'd acquired them to D.J., and he let out a whistle.
"Has to be a mistake. Let me check the imprint on the bottom." We leaned in closer and read the word Lanciotti aloud. "They're the real thing all right." D.J. put the boots on a chair, and we all stared at them as if they'd grown horns.
"So now what?" I asked.
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law," Joey said as he passed by. "You could sell them and make a lot of money. That's what I'd do."
I had to admit, the idea had flitted through my mind, if only briefly. I could earn enough off one pair of boots to pay the Visa bill, and then some. Still, if these boots were the real thing -- if they were worth thousands of dollars -- I could no more sell them than Aunt Rosa could give up cooking. My gut told me I needed to contact the owner to let her know of the dilemma. Surely she would rejoice at the news. And even though I'd be losing a bundle of money, my conscience would be eased. I'd sleep better. Hopefully.
As we pondered this startling news, a string of curse words rang out from the kitchen. D.J. looked that direction, a stunned look on his face. "What in the world?"
"Wasn't me!" Nick stuck his head through the window and groaned. "And if you want the truth, I'm getting sick and tired of taking the blame for Guido's sins." My brother went off on a tangent, talking about Uncle Laz's attempts to lead the ornery parrot down the straight and narrow.
When Nick's conversation lapsed, D.J. looked my way, confusion in his eyes. Clearly he'd missed a few key points, so I decided to fill him in.
"Uncle Laz ordered anointing oil from the televangelist Phillip Pockets."
July sweated its way into August, and before long, our Galveston summer prepared to roll itself back out to sea. Mama put together a beautiful tea for the neighborhood ladies to welcome Phoebe Burton to Galveston on the first Saturday of the month. Meeting the woman in person put a whole new spin on things. In every way she was her son's opposite. Quiet, unassuming, polite ... I could find no flaws in her.
Of course, there was that one little thing about her being Presbyterian. Rosa hadn't taken that news lying down. Me? Well, I couldn't help but chuckle. The Lord, in his own unique way, continued to expand our horizons.
The changes in my parents and siblings were undeniable, as was evidenced by our first annual family photo day on the third Thursday in August. Mama entered the living room dressed in a denim skirt and blouse ensemble that tied in nicely with her new cowboy boots. She offered a smile before sitting next to me on the sofa.
"Why did Joey pick the hottest day of the year to take family photos?" she asked as she checked her appearance in her compact.
"I think he's just anxious to get a photo with Norah in it," I said. "Do you blame him?" He'd had her name tattooed on his arm, for Pete's sake. The two rarely spent any time apart.
A smile teased the edges of Mama's lips. "I have it on good authority we'll need to hire a real photographer soon."
"Oh?"
One of her finely plucked eyebrows elevated slightly. "Well, he can't very well take the pictures at his own wedding, can he?"
I gasped at this news. "Are you sure?"
She nodded and whispered, "I've seen the ring," then put her finger to her lips.
"B-but they've only been dating for several weeks."
"Honey, when it's the right one, you know it. You could date six weeks or six months or six years, but eventually you would end up at the altar." She gave me one of those "you get my real meaning, right?" winks, and I smiled. I got it. And yes, I knew D.J. Neeley was the one. But we weren't in a huge hurry, for sure. No, we were having far too much fun getting to know each other. And each other's families.
Still, I had to wonder how many weddings Club Wed would see in the next few months. Bubba and Jenna were pretty much inseparable these days. Every time I looked into my best friend's eyes, I saw wedding rings floating around in there. And then there was the upcoming Patti-Lou bridal extravaganza, way up in Montana-land. Sadly, I would not be able to attend. And, of course, the medieval wedding. I'd already been making plans for our happy bride and groom.
"Just look what God has done," I whispered, looking around. In two months' time, everything had changed. And the Lord was all to blame. Every good and perfect thing that had happened in my life lately came from his hand. I'd never been more grateful, or more aware of his presence in my life. Sometimes I wondered what I'd ever done to deserve such goodness.
"Why would you do such a stupid thing? Of all the irresponsible ... idiotic ..."
"Listen to me, Ma. I can't go on the way I have been. I just can't." His voice sounded as cold and frosty as a metal ice cube tray, straight out of the freezer. "There are too many reminders of her. Too many things that will never be the same. Rachel is everywhere in that apartment -- and yet she isn't."
"Then get another apartment, for crying out loud. You don't have to go off and fight a war if you need a change. Start all over again someplace else. New York is a big city, you know. Brooklyn has plenty of other apartments for rent. Your children need you."
Daddy rubbed his ear where Grandma had cuffed him. "I'm no use to them, Ma. I'm not even a good father, let alone a good mother."
Esther tried to speak, but her chest hurt the way it had after she fell off the monkey bars at school. She couldn't draw a breath. She wanted to tell him he was a good father. He fixed their meals and listened to ball games on the radio with them at night.