Mr. Barbini hoisted a large bag of bird food out of the limo and placed it on the veranda step, alongside another bag labeled Supplies. Then he pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to my uncle. “I believe you will find what you need inside. Instructions for Guido’s care. His feeding schedule. Prescriptions for allergy medications. Those sorts of things. Oh, and he’s overdue to have his wings clipped again. You might want to take care of that before he takes off flying.”
“Feeding schedule? Allergy meds? Wings clipped?” I scarcely had time to get the words out before the fellow tipped his cap, climbed back into the limo, and backed out of our driveway. From inside the cage, Guido continued to chatter, this time repeating the words, “Wise guy.”
I happened to catch D.J.’s eye and had to wonder what the poor boy was thinking. Would he run as fast as he could from this nutty family of mine? Head back to Splendora to give the folks at his church a list of prayer requests about the crazy people he’d met in Galveston?
My handsome deejay turned to me with an engaging smile, and all of my fears dissolved in an instant.
“Gotta go,” he whispered. I could almost see the sadness in his eyes. He slipped an arm around my waist and gave me a comfortable hug—a sure sign he wasn’t going anywhere for long. I wanted to melt in his arms, to spend the rest of my day staring into those baby blues. Instead, I returned the hug, then watched as he and Bubba ambled down the driveway side by side.
“Mama mia,” Jenna whispered once again.
I responded with a quiet, “Amen to that!”
Life is full of curious coincidences. I call them
bada-bing, bada-boom moments
. Those strange coincidental times. Take, for example, the time my oldest brother, Nick, ran a red light and sideswiped a woman driving a brand-new Mazda Miata. They ended up married six months later, and subsequently produced two of the most spoiled children on Planet Earth. And then there was the time Mama and I drove to the airport to pick up Aunt Rosa, only to find her in police custody. Who knew she was a dead ringer for a murder suspect back in Napoli?
Yes, the Rossi family had surely seen its fill of coincidences, large and small. And lately I’d started to wonder if these so-called ironies were truly accidental, or if the Lord just had a quirkier sense of humor than I’d imagined. Did heaven cry out, “Bada-bing, bada-boom,” every time something coincidental happened? If so, then the angels who’d been assigned to my care must be plenty busy of late.
On Friday morning I awoke thinking of the recent ironies in my life. Specifically, I pondered the whole D.J./deejay thing. What were the chances a man’s name would create such lovely chaos? And what were the chances these unpredictable twists of fate would continue?
At 8:30 I faced my first coincidence of the day as I stood in the doorway of Laz’s bedroom, staring at Guido’s cage. How ironic that Sal Lucci, a man with dubious connections, would send his unholy parrot all the way from New Jersey to live with a Christian friend in Texas. Surely the Lord had a hand in this.
I looked at Guido, perplexed. Though beautiful on the outside, he certainly needed a lot of work on the inside. Could Laz handle it? Did he really have it in him to nurture our new fine-feathered friend?
“What are you thinking, little bird?” I asked. “Do you think you’re ready for life in the Rossi household?”
Just then, Guido opened his beak and warbled out the first line of “That’s Amore.” I’d been hearing it all morning. How Uncle Laz had managed to teach the bird so much in such a short time, I couldn’t say. I had my suspicions he’d done it just to torment Rosa. After all, there were only so many times a day you could hear a parrot squawk, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie” before snapping like a twig. Of course, after wrapping up his new song-and-dance number, Guido continued to add his “Go to the mattresses!” addendum, and then always threw in a round of faux machine gun fire. The bird had a real knack—I had to give it to him.
Laz had promised to “get this bird walking the straight and narrow in no time.” And now, as I stood in his doorway, gazing at the brilliantly colored parrot, I almost thought it possible. As if to prove me wrong, the ornery bird let a string 119 of curse words fly—words that had never before been used in the Rossi household. Well, with the exception of that one time when Uncle Laz hid in the broom closet and scared Aunt Rosa right out of her false teeth.
With a sigh, I turned and headed down the stairs, ready to get to work. Club Wed called, and I must answer.
For whatever reason, focusing on the wedding proved to be problematic. I wanted to think about D.J. About his beautiful eyes. About his lanky walk. About that mesmerizing voice, buff physique, tall stature, and winning smile. I did not want to work.
“Mama mia!” What a challenge! How would I ever get any work done?
At 10:00 in the morning, just an hour or so after arriving at the wedding facility, I faced my second coincidence of the day. It started with an unexpected phone call from someone with a 713 area code. Houston.
I answered with my most professional voice. “Thank you for calling Club Wed, Galveston Island’s premiere wedding facility. This is Bella. How may I assist you?”
The bubbly female voice on the other end of the phone practically oozed excitement. “I’m Marian,” she said. “And I’ve heard such wonderful things about you from my friend Sharlene Billings.” The vivacious young woman went on to explain that her boyfriend, Rob, had just proposed, and they were interested in the medieval wedding package.
“We go to the Renaissance festival every year,” she explained, “and I love dressing in the costumes. I’ve always dreamed of a Camelot wedding. And isn’t it
so
cute that my name is Marian? Rob always calls me Maid Marian. Adorable, right? So, we just
have
to have a medieval ceremony. We’ve got our hearts set on it.” She went on to gush over the amazing coincidence that had caused our paths to connect. She found it ironic that one of her best friends in the world had recommended a facility that happened to specialize in—of all things—medieval weddings!
So did I. Would this be a good time to mention that I’d never actually coordinated one before? That the idea had just sounded good on paper? That I’d advertised something with confidence, without ever actually having pulled one off?
Nah. Instead, I opened my book, and we set the plans in motion.
“Do you have a date yet?” I asked.
“Nothing solid, but we’re looking at the first Saturday in October.” She giggled, and I could almost envision the smile on her face. “Is that date available?”
“It is. Are we looking at a morning, afternoon, or evening event?”
“Oh, evening. I think a Renaissance-themed wedding will be beautiful in the moonlight.”
“Perfect. Evening it is. Depending on the number of guests, you could get married indoors in the chapel or outside in the gazebo. Which would you prefer?”
She giggled again. “Neither, actually. We have a friend in the acting business, and he knows someone who works with set design. We’d like to build a castle, if you don’t mind.”
“B-build a castle?” I scribbled that down but could hardly believe it.
“If the property is big enough,” she added.
Marian went on to describe the castle in detail, then began to tell me her dreams for the ceremony. The groomsmen (knights in shining armor) and the bridesmaids (ladies-in-waiting) would be dressed in appropriate medieval attire, supplied on the bride’s end. And all music, decor, food, etc., would have that distinct Renaissance flavor. Just thinking about it got my already overactive imagination reeling. I could see the cake now—a towering castle with a moat. And the food! What fun Laz and Jenna would have, preparing an authentic medieval meal.
After swapping the necessary information, Marian promised to send a check to cover the cost of the deposit, and I thanked her profusely for the business. As we ended the call, I offered up a prayer of thanks to the Lord for another ironic confirmation that he did, in fact, see me as the right candidate for the job. I could almost hear the heavenly “bada-bing, bada-boom” now.
Around noon, my third coincidence reared its head. It started with what appeared to be a normal phone call from my brother Armando. I answered with my usual, “Hey, bro. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know that I’m headed home,” he responded.
“Right. Tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “To teach D.J. how to use the soundboard.”
“No.” Armando paused. “Coming home . . . for good. Just called Mama this morning and asked if I could have my old room back. Till I find my own place, I mean.”
“Wow.” Now, I must admit, a week ago I would have jumped up and down at this news. Back then I’d needed a deejay. But now, with the entrance of Dwayne Neeley Jr. into my life, God had filled that empty slot.
Or had he? How could I possibly tell my brother he couldn’t have his old job back, especially when he was the only one who knew how to run the equipment?
“What happened to your girlfriend?” I asked. “What was her name? Julia?”
“She, um . . .” He groaned. “Do we have to talk about her?”
“Well, no. I guess not.”
“Let’s just say we had a little misunderstanding.”
I knew all about Armando’s misunderstandings. They usually involved some pretty young thing in a short skirt. Someone other than whomever he happened to be dating at the time.
“But weren’t you working for Julia’s father?” I asked. “I thought you loved your new job.” Maybe, if I played my cards right, I could talk him into staying in Houston awhile longer, even with girlfriend #863 out of the picture.
“He fired me. See, there was this girl who worked in the office with me. She was always hitting on me . . .” He went on to tell a not-so-convincing tale of how he’d been falsely accused of romancing the wrong female. How it had all been a huge mistake. Not
his
, of course. He hadn’t done anything wrong, naturally. But now that he’d been victimized in such a public and humiliating way, he felt it would be best to come back home to Galveston. To the family. No doubt he wanted the safety of his family nearby—so that when Julia’s father showed up with a shotgun, he could hide behind the rest of us. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Was it awful to admit I didn’t want him to return so quickly? If he showed up now, it would spoil everything. But how could I tell him that without hurting his feelings? Looked like I had a few decisions to make—and quick. We ended the call, and I spent some time trying to collect my scattered thoughts related to Armando, D.J., and the upcoming wedding. Surely the Lord had an answer to this mess.
At 1:30 in the afternoon, I faced my fourth coincidence of the day. Thanks to a miscommunication with the eBay boot owner, I’d somehow bid on—and won—forty pairs of used cowboy boots. According to the congratulatory email I received, my payment of $800 plus tax had been charged to my Visa card, along with an additional ninety-eight dollars in expedited shipping charges. The boots, which currently belonged to a woman in Lubbock, Texas, would arrive tomorrow.
I must admit, I thought the email was spam. At first. But after a bit of scrambling on my part, the truth surfaced. There was no turning back. I was the proud owner of eighty cowboy boots. Sure, I could charge Sharlene’s father for twenty of them, but who would pay for the rest once the credit card bill came in?
As I pondered this dilemma, the fifth coincidence of the day occurred. At exactly 2:15 in the afternoon, a power outage took out the electricity along Broadway. My computer screen fizzled to black, and the AC in the wedding facility came to a grinding halt.
“No way! Why now?” I moaned.
I tried to busy myself with phone calls and paperwork . . . for a while. But with the temperature rising, I could only stand to stay put so long. Frustrated, I finally called Jenna to see if the restaurant had been affected. The minute I heard the strains of “Volare” playing in the background, I realized they were still going strong.
Jenna greeted me in her usual chipper voice. “Thank you for calling Parma John’s.”
“Hey, girl. I—”
“Having a rough day? Need to lighten the load? Parma John’s has a pizza that will lift your spirits without adding extra pounds. Order our Volare special—a light and airy thincrust pizza made with low-fat mozzarella—and we’ll throw a complimentary Caesar salad, made with our homemade low-calorie dressing. Let the Volare special fill you up without weighing you down, for only $17.95.”
Wow. There was clearly no power outage at Parma John’s.
“Jenna—” I started.
Her squeal nearly deafened me. “Bella! I’m so glad you called. The strangest thing just happened.” She went on to describe her most recent coincidence in detail—how Bubba had just called and would be arriving at the shop within minutes to talk more about the food prep for the wedding. How she’d hardly slept a wink since meeting him. How his coming to the shop must be a God-thing.
Bubba in Galveston two days in a row? Didn’t he work with his father in Splendora?
Determined to prevent my best friend from making a rash mistake—à la Armando style—I made a quick decision to head down to Parma John’s. So off I went to the land of low-fat, thin-crust pizza lover’s delight—a land where blue-ribbon barbecue chefs and nearly engaged redheads pondered the what-ifs of ill-fated romance.
I walked in the door of the pizzeria and immediately started humming “Volare,” which played overhead. Funny how I never got tired of the songs that went along with each day’s special. Neither did the customers, for that matter. I’d caught many singing along. And now for the first time, I actually paid attention to the lyrics. Dean Martin, in that sultry voice of his, crooned something about flying away to the clouds to get away from the maddening crowds. Seemed appropriate, especially in light of the influx of people at Parma John’s. Not that I wanted to escape, at least not yet. No, I’d come to save my friend from ruin.
Once again the song distracted me. I found myself smiling as I heard “Just like birds of a feather, a rainbow together we’ll find.” My thoughts shifted at once to Guido. Then, just as easily, they swung to D.J. In spite of our differences, he and I
were
birds of a feather, and I felt sure we’d eventually find both the rainbow and the pot of gold at the end . . . especially if these coincidences kept up.