“What do I think?” My uncle lifted his cane in the air and exclaimed, “We have a winner! D.J. has earned the right to name the barbecue pizza.” He took another bite of the taco pizza and grinned. “But first things first! This taco pizza must be added to our menu today. What should we call it?”
“Oh, I know!” I could barely contain my excitement. “Didn’t Dean Martin have a song called ‘South of the Border’?”
“Never heard of it.” Tony’s voice hinted of ridicule.
“Let’s look it up on the Web,” Jenna suggested. Seconds later, thanks to the computer in the office, we had our answer.
Uncle Lazarro looked as if he might explode with joy. “Praise God! South of the Border it is.” He turned to D.J. “You’ve done it, boy. You’ve created a new pizza and earned the right to name another.”
Tony glanced at his watch. “Whoa. Look at the time. It’s almost seven. I’ve got to go.”
I saw the defeated look in his eyes and felt a little sorry for him, but I didn’t know how to make things better.
I settled on, “Great job, Tony,” which Jenna echoed.
As soon as Tony left, D.J. rose from his chair and stretched. “I guess I’d better get on out of here too.”
“Yeah, it’s a long drive to Splendora,” Jenna said.
“Oh, I live here on the island.” D.J. quirked a brow. “Guess I should’ve mentioned it sooner. I go back up to see my parents at least once a week, but mostly I just go to my condo and crash after working all day.”
“Where’s your place?” Jenna asked.
“I found a great one-bedroom not far from 61st and the seawall a few weeks back.”
“Wow. Busy area,” I said.
But close!
My heart practically danced with joy at the fact that he lived nearby.
I followed him to the door and thanked him—for everything. “Sorry. I didn’t plan to bring you here to put you to work. Seems like I keep doing that.”
“No problem.” He leaned in a bit closer—so close I could smell the jalapeños on his breath. “I had a blast. Learned a lot too.” He gave me a pensive look. “I have a feeling I’m going to learn a lot from you, Bella.” He reached with a fingertip and brushed a loose hair off my face. Something about his touch sent a tingle all the way down to my toes.
We both stood in silence for a moment. Well, unless you counted the sound of Dean Martin’s voice crooning “Simpatico” overhead or the chatter of the customers. I finally broke it with a comment. “Just think, we never even got around to discussing the wedding.”
“Just means we’ll have to get together again . . . real soon.” He flashed a dimple-lit smile, and my heart jumped for joy.
He wants to see me again!
“Well, if today was any indication, I have to wonder what our next meeting’s going to be like.”
“Won’t matter, as long as you’re there,” he said. With a wink, D.J. turned to leave.
I couldn’t be sure, but I think he took a slice of my heart with him.
Aunt Rosa has never been one to let go of a grudge. Take, for example, the time Uncle Laz planted himself in her self-designated seat at St. Patrick’s Catholic Church and refused to move. It took several nuns and a very patient priest to convince her that she could hear the Mass just as well from a different pew. And then there was that episode with the dry cleaner. Sure, they’d accidentally given her favorite blouse to another customer, but . . . picketing the store? Petitioning the neighbors to do the same? I still shivered at the embarrassment that had caused.
Based on the past, I knew this thing with the neighbor kid wouldn’t just fade away. Rosa had the tenacity of a bulldog. She would not relinquish the boy’s skateboard until she got what she wanted from him, and I had a feeling he wasn’t going to bend any time soon.
I struggled with the idea of getting involved. A part of me wanted to sneak across the street and work out some sort of deal with the Burton family—after properly introducing myself, of course—and part of me wanted to see the boy treat Rosa with the respect she deserved. What was wrong with kids these days, anyway?
What I did not want to see happen, especially with the wedding coming up, was an unnecessary feud between our families. We had enough excitement going on without involving the new neighbors. No, I needed peace and quiet—and I needed it to last until after Sharlene and Cody’s wedding had boot-scooted on by.
On Thursday morning, I approached my mother as she took her seat on the upholstered vanity stool in her bathroom, preparing to put on makeup. This process usually took the better part of the morning, so I knew we’d have time for a good, long chat.
“Any word from the Burtons?” I asked as I sat on the edge of the oversized Jacuzzi tub. Precious sprang up and down like a yo-yo, so I reached down and scooped her into my arms.
Mama pulled her jet black hair back with a headband and shook her head as she responded. “I’m going with the ‘no news is good news’ philosophy. I’d rather assume the best than to worry.” She pulled the lighted makeup mirror close and examined her freshly scrubbed face in its reflection. The magnification made her pores look like dots of sand on the beach.
“Don’t you think she’s being a little stubborn?” I said. “Shouldn’t she just let it go?”
Mama, who more often than not agreed with me on issues related to Rosa, gave her response in Italian:
“Ogni medaglia ha il suo rovescio.”
“Right,” I responded. “I know there are two sides to every coin, but not in Rosa’s world. In her world, all coins are one-sided.” I wanted to throw in “And they have Frank Sinatra’s face imprinted on them” but thought better of it.
I watched as my mother used an expensive three-in-one facial cleanser and exfoliation system. She rubbed it into her skin in tiny circles, then lathered it up and rinsed all remnants away. After dabbing her skin dry, she applied her moisturizer, then dabbed on some eye revitalizer, a skin-tightening gel, and a new wrinkle reducer she’d just purchased from her beauty consultant.
Now came the fun part. The makeup.
Mama fumbled around in her makeup bag, finally coming up with her concealer stick. Then, like Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel, she went to work on her face. Every day the task grew a bit more time consuming, but talk about precision! And necessary precision at that. In spite of good genes, her face had finally started to show signs of aging.
Still, I thought Mama’s post-makeup look was pretty impressive. Not that she would dream of going out in public without all of the powder and paint. She’d just as soon show up for choir practice at the Methodist church wearing only her slip. Some things were simply inconceivable.
A few minutes later, as she slathered on ample amounts of liquid foundation, a noise outside interrupted our conversation. I looked out the window and watched a wrecker pull up to the curb. Something in my expression must’ve alarmed my mother.
“What is it, Bella?” She turned away from the mirror to gaze at me.
“I’m not sure.” I tried to give it a closer look, but from this distance I could barely make out the logo on the side. “It’s a wrecker. I have no idea why it’s—”
She never even gave me a chance to finish before springing to her feet. “You don’t suppose . . .”
“What?”
“I told Rosa to park her car on the street this morning so that Sophia could back out of the driveway,” Mama explained. “Do you think the new neighbors . . . ?” Her voice trailed off, but I could see the fear in her eyes.
“Surely not. They wouldn’t have one of our cars towed out of spite. Would they?”
Mama sprang from her seat, clutched her bathrobe tightly around her, and headed toward the bathroom door. I quickly ushered her back into place in front of the mirror and told her I’d take care of it myself. There’s something about a half-made-up face that can be pretty alarming.
I sprinted down the stairs with Precious on my heels, reaching the door at the same moment the bell rang. “Lord, please let this end well,” I whispered. Reaching down to snatch up the dog, I opened the door. “C-can I help you?”
An extremely tall twentysomething male with rough-around-the-edges features greeted me. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Precious—likely intimidated by his size and his deep voice—began that low growl thing in the back of her throat, and I swallowed hard, praying she would keep her cool. I needed to talk this guy out of towing Rosa’s car.
He glanced at a paper in his hand and then said, “I’m lookin’ for Bella Rossi.”
There was something about the way he pronounced Bella
— Bay
-luh—that made a nervous laugh rise up. Who was this guy? He had a familiar look about him. And that voice—that deep, hypnotic voice . . .
I leaned to the right and strained to read the logo on the side of the wrecker. From here I could almost make it out. If he’d just move a little to my left . . .
The stranger pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through sandy-colored curls. “D.J. said something about barbecuin’ for a wedding. Told me to stop by here before meetin’ up with him for lunch.”
Welcome, Bubba!
I threw open the door and ushered the towering hunk-a-Bubba inside, trying to figure out why D.J. hadn’t called to give me a heads-up on his brother’s unexpected visit.
As these thoughts swirled around in my brain, Mama came bounding down the stairs wearing a pair of navy slacks and a mismatched yellow blouse. She still wore her cloth headband but had somehow found the time to apply a smidgeon of blush. However, she had missed something pretty important—her usual rose-colored lip liner and lipstick. Without any color on her lips, she came across a bit ghostlike in appearance. Not that I had much time to contemplate the fact. My mother, who rarely got worked up, took one look at Bubba and went into a panic.
“Please don’t take our car,” she pleaded. “We promise never to do it again.”
“Take your car?” He scratched his head, looking back and forth between us. “Why would I want to—?”
“This whole thing has been a terrible misunderstanding.” She used her hands to talk, as always. “I’m sure we can work it out peacefully.”
“Mama, relax.” I nodded in her direction. “This is D.J.’s brother. He’s here to discuss the food for Sharlene and Cody’s wedding. We’re not being towed.”
“Oh, thank God.” My mother dropped into a chair and began to fan herself with her hand.
Rosa chose that moment to enter the room. She took one look at Mama and the scolding began. “Imelda! Go upstairs and put on your lips.”
I wanted to disappear into the woodwork. Of all the times for my aunt to deliver a line in English.
My mother ran her index finger along the edges of her mouth, then with a horrified look on her face, she rose from her seat and raced toward the stairs.
“She’s fast on her feet,” Bubba observed, slipping his cap back on.
“We’re from Jersey,” I explained. “Everything’s faster up there.”
“Yeah, but everything’s
bigger
in Texas,” he countered.
“No doubt about that.” I looked up, up, up into his blue eyes—eyes that mimicked his older brother’s in every conceivable way. “So, um, you’ve come to talk about the wedding? Maybe we should go next door to Club Wed and—”
I never got to finish because Rosa interrupted me. “You like Frank Sinatra, young man?” Her eyes narrowed as she gave Bubba a solid, albeit suspicious, once-over.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Bubba responded. “My dad was in the Navy, so
Anchors Aweigh
is one of his all-time favorite movies. I grew up watching it. And I love that one song . . . something about being young.”
“‘Young at Heart’?” Rosa’s eyes lit up as she quoted the title of her favorite song.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Come with me to the kitchen. Are you hungry?”
“Well, I’m supposed to eat lunch with D.J. in an hour or so, but I guess I could . . .” His voice trailed off as Rosa took him by the arm and led him to the kitchen. One thing about Italian women—our timing might not be great, but we sure knew how to feed our men.
Only, Bubba wasn’t our man. He was our caterer. Sort of.
Flustered, I tried to stop my aunt in her tracks. “Rosa, Bubba’s here to work.”
She turned to look at him, her brow wrinkled. “Bubba?” After a moment’s pause, she added, “What’s your real name?”
“Excuse me?” He looked perplexed at best, but who could blame him?
“When they don’t call you Bubba.” Rosa spoke with determination. “What do they call you?”
“Oh, Lucas.”
“A good Bible name. Are you Catholic, boy?” She squinted and dared him to answer otherwise.
“No, ma’am.” He pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair again. “I’m from Splendora.”
I bit my tongue to keep from laughing.
“Methodist, then?” Rosa asked. “Like Bella and her father?” As always, she tripped over the word
Meth-o-dist
. No doubt she still found it hard to believe my parents had converted. And strange that she’d only mentioned Pop. Mama had switched to the Methodist church just after we moved to Galveston, right alongside my pop and us kids. Perhaps Rosa still held out hope that her baby sister was suffering a temporary lapse in judgment.
“Meth-o-dist?” Bubba gave her a curious look. “Um, no, ma’am. I attend Full Gospel Chapel in the Pines. We’re independent charismatic.”
“Independent charismatic.” She spoke the words slowly as if trying to make sense of them.
“Yes.” He slipped his cap back on. “Our services are very ... lively. Some of our members take to dancin’ when the Holy Ghost falls on ’em.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake.” Her eyes narrowed as she pondered this bit of news. After a moment, a smile lit her face. “You’re practically Catholic! St. Patrick’s hosts a dance for the young people every Saturday night.” She nodded, as if that settled everything. “And how wonderful that you’re named after Saint Luke—the good doctor.”
“Oh, trust me, ma’am. I ain’t no saint.” Bubba looked more than a little embarrassed. “And I sure ain’t got no medical degree.”
“Never you mind all that.” She reached for an apron. “Just let me put this apron on you, Lucas. Then take a seat on that barstool. I’m making ravioli today. You can help me. I’ll feed you a big breakfast first to get your strength up.”