Finally the moment came for D.J. to take the microphone. I could hear the nerves in his voice at first, but after a few minutes, he sounded like himself. Only better. Something about that deep voice amplified through the sound system made my palms sweat. Sure, he was working off a script now, but knowing him, he’d get the lines down before the big event.
Eventually convinced he could actually pull this off, D.J. relinquished the microphone to my brother. We spent the rest of the afternoon doing something I’d never envisioned myself doing—listening to country-western music. I had to admit, the songs—at least the ones D.J. suggested—weren’t as stereotypical as I’d imagined. In fact, there wasn’t one song in the bunch about people getting drunk and cheating on each other. Looked like my cowboy had discriminating taste. Good taste, even.
As the guys shifted from one CD to another, I leaned back in my chair, notepad and pen in hand. Every time we would hear a song that might work for the reception, I scribbled down the title. Before long, we had over two hours’ worth of music picked out. I could hardly believe it. A couple of the songs had such a great rhythm, I could barely sit still. Surely the ballroom floor would come alive with two-steppers when those were played. Several of the other songs were tender and filled with words of love. I closed my eyes and let the words sink in. In my mind’s eye, I could see myself in D.J.’s arms, dancing the night away.
Who knew? I’d not only fallen for a cowboy, I’d fallen for his country-western music, to boot. Pun intended. Maybe I’d just never given it a chance before. Funny.
Looking at D.J., I realized there were a lot of things I’d never given a chance before.
A sigh rose up as I imagined myself, like Guido, peering out of the bars of my far-too-small cage. Lifting the cloth. Peeking out at the world around me. Discovering new and somewhat frightening worlds. Just as quickly, that old gripping sensation took hold of my heart. I wanted to get beyond my fears of failing—fears that went all the way back to high school. Who cared if I couldn’t sing? Or act. Or play tennis. Did it really matter that I’d failed in my one attempt to run for office? Or that my name didn’t match my face? Or that my boyfriends found my family overwhelming?
No, those things were behind me. Now, I wanted to walk on water. Wanted to dance to a country song. Wanted to lift my arms and praise! But could I? I’d lived one way for so long, I could hardly imagine anything else.
As another twangy tune filled the room, D.J. looked my way. I couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. Maybe he could hear my thoughts.
Can you learn to love me, just as I am? With my hair in a ponytail? With no makeup on? With all of my flaws?
He flashed the warmest smile I’d ever seen, and my heart felt comforted. Maybe D.J. saw my insecurities, my fears. Maybe he knew God still had a lot of work to do in my life before I’d be good girlfriend material.
Or maybe, just maybe, he saw beyond all that and simply wanted to flirt with the wedding coordinator instead of rehearse for the big night.
I did my best to relax . . . and let him.
On Monday morning I awoke with a splitting headache. In spite of the pain, work beckoned, so I dressed, haphazardly slapped on a bit of makeup, and headed next door to Club Wed. I could feel the bags under my eyes weighing me down. They, like my heart, felt the pull of gravity. On the way, I sipped a cup of coffee, my idea of a nutritious breakfast. I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in the Rossi family to disagree.
As I made my way across the manicured lawn, I pondered the words from yesterday’s sermon. Reverend Woodson’s topic du jour—“Walking the Walk”—still had me reeling. His words about authentic faith had painted me into a proverbial corner. Specifically, when he said, “Bella Rossi, you need to
be
who you say you are, and
do
what you say you’re going to do,” guilt had risen up inside me like a mound of foam on top of one of Uncle Laz’s famed lattes. I had to wonder if the Lord above had flashed a heavenly spotlight over my head and whispered, “Preach this sermon just for her. She’s not going to get the message otherwise.”
Okay, so the good reverend hadn’t really called me by name in front of the congregation, but he might as well have. Certainly felt like his words were directed at me, anyway, and they’d cut me to the core.
But what could I do about it? Something about being put on the spot—even internally—forced me to reexamine my motives and actions of late. Sure, I’d told people I was a woman of faith who, with God’s help, could whip the wedding facility into shape in no time. But I hadn’t been living it. I’d managed to convince others I had it all together, but on the inside I quivered like a half-baked cheesecake.
My thoughts drifted back to that life-altering sermon. What struck me as ironic—beyond the pastor’s passionate words—was something he’d done at the end of the message. He’d lifted the hem of his pants and exclaimed, “These boots are made for walkin’!”
Now, who knew Reverend Woodson wore cowboy boots? You could’ve heard a pin drop in the congregation at that revelation—at least in the Rossi section. Just one more coincidence to add to my ever-growing list.
And now, thanks to the soul-jarring sermon, I had boots on the brain. Eighty of them, to be precise. I could just see it now. After my untimely demise—likely caused by stress related to this wedding—my tombstone would read, B
ELLA
R
OSSI
, K
IND BUT
D
ENSE
—S
HE
H
AD
M
ORE
B
OOTS THAN
C
OMMON
S
ENSE
.
It was time to put my money where my mouth was. To stop pretending I had it all together when I really didn’t. Time to be real. Genuine. I’d start by confessing the eBay debacle to my father. Surely he could help me come up with a plan. Maybe I could turn around and resell the excess boots, redeeming the money. Maybe I could even make a little extra cash in the process. Hopefully before the Visa bill arrived.
Not that I really had time to be buying or selling anything at the moment. No, I needed to focus on Sharlene and Cody’s big day, just five days from now. I stared at the wedding facility and sighed. If only the weight of the world didn’t rest on my shoulders. If only my parents could take their European vacation without wondering if I’d drive the family business into the ground. If only . . .
Pushing the thoughts away, I remembered Uncle Laz’s words: “Everything hinges on the Lord. Don’t forget that! He is the potter and you are the clay.”
Funny. The only thing that felt like clay this morning was my feet. I stared down at them and tried to imagine what they’d look like with boots wrapped around them.
Nope. Couldn’t fathom it.
I forced my attention back to the project at hand. A country-western themed wedding. A boot-scootin’ heyday. This morning I needed to finalize plans with Joey (who would serve as photographer), double-check the guest list, and take care of a few other details.
But first things first. As I entered the wedding facility, I noticed the postman had already dropped off the mail. I glanced through the envelopes, perplexed when I found a tiny Priority package addressed to Lazarro Rossi. The return name was Bro Pockets, with an address in Shreveport, Louisiana. Why had it been delivered to the wedding facility instead of next door or the restaurant? An accident . . . or did Laz have something to hide?
I picked up my cell phone and gave him a call. Upon hearing of the delivery, he came rushing over—rushing being a relative term. Laz moved pretty slowly these days, particularly if there were stairs involved. He eventually joined me in the office of Club Wed, where he took the package in his hands and tried to sneak out the door before I could begin my first round of questioning.
“Wait.” I made it to the door before him and closed it so he couldn’t make his intended getaway. “What’s the big secret? What’s in the package?”
His cheeks reddened. “Oh, nothing.”
“Uncle Laz . . .”
He sighed, then dropped into a chair. “Forget about it. It’s really not that big of a deal. Nothing to get all worked up about.”
“Mm-hmm.” I took my seat and waited. “’Fess up. Who’s Bro Pockets?”
“Bro Pockets?” He looked at the return address label as if trying to make sense of it, and then said, “Oh, I see. They’ve abbreviated it. That’s
Brother
. Brother Pockets.”
“Brother Pockets?” I racked my brain to figure out why that sounded so familiar. Suddenly it came to me. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean Brother
Phillip
Pockets, the televangelist scam artist, do you?”
“Well, I—”
“Tell me you didn’t send that man any of your hard-earned money.” I knew enough about the guy to know he’d scammed thousands of elderly folks out of their pensions, all in the name of religion. Jenna and I had joked about his “fill up pockets” name, to be sure. But I never dreamed anyone in my family would succumb to his twisted tactics.
Laz shrugged and shifted the package from one hand to the other.
“Uncle Lazarro.” I placed my hands on my hips and stared him down. “What have you done?”
He released a sigh. “Look, I’m worried about Sal, that’s all. And Guido too.”
“Guido?” Somehow I’d never figured him to play a role in this story.
“I’m going to make a new bird of him. Or, rather, the Lord is going to make a new bird of him.”
“Laz, what in the world are you talking about?”
My uncle leaned forward with tears in his eyes. “Sal never wanted anything to do with the gospel before his stroke. Never. And trust me, I tried to approach the subject from every conceivable angle. Ran into a brick wall every single time. But now he’s entrusted Guido to me. I have no idea how long I’ll have the little guy, but I truly believe the Lord has given me an opportunity to teach an old bird some new tricks.”
“Such as . . .”
“I figure if I can get him to give up his old ways—let go of the bad language, forget about the questionable phrases, and so forth—then I can retrain him. I’ll teach him a few Scripture verses and a couple of praise choruses before I have to send him back to Sal. Get it? Then Guido can do the work of winning my old friend to the Lord.” Laz leaned back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face.
“So Guido is going to become a missionary? You’re going to send him back to Atlantic City to witness to Sal?” I leaned back in my seat, ready to hear this explanation.
“Exactly. After I’ve anointed him with Brother Pockets’s miracle-working oil.” Laz held up the package. “When I called to place the order, one of the telephone prayer partners joined me in a prayer of agreement.”
“I see. And just how much did you pay for this oil?” I stared at the little package in stunned disbelief.
My uncle’s gaze shifted downward. “Well . . .”
“Uncle Laz.”
“Okay, look. I paid extra for the double anointing package. It’s concentrated. Made by monks who live in a monastery in a remote mountainous region.”
“Of Shreveport?”
“Yes. The sole purpose of their order is to grow the olives, then produce the oil using the same process in the Old Testament. Afterward they pray over every bottle individually before it’s sent out. Isn’t that an amazing story?”
“To say the least.” I shook my head. “How much?”
“What?”
“How much did you spend on the oil?” I bit my lip, preparing myself for his answer.
“Well . . . $49.95 plus overnight shipping.”
“Uncle Laz!” I ripped open the package and stared at the tiny bottle inside. “Surely you jest.” I opened the bottle, poured out a few drops, and sniffed. Immediately I regretted it. “This isn’t olive oil. Look at the color. It’s corn oil with some kind of cheap perfume in it.” I let out a sneeze, and my eyes filled with tears. Unable to handle the overwhelming smell, I closed the bottle and held it out to my uncle. “It reeks. What were you thinking?”
A lone tear trickled out of the corner of my uncle’s right eye and rolled down his wrinkled cheek. He ran his fingers through thinning gray hair, then rose to his feet, using his cane. “I was thinking that my friend is going to die without knowing the Lord if I don’t do something.” He reached a trembling hand my way and snatched the bottle from me before pacing the floor. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. I don’t know. Sounded pretty good at the time. I just know I have to do something. And what can it hurt? I’ll pray with Guido tonight before bed. Anoint him head to toe—er, beak to claw.”
“And tomorrow he’ll be a changed bird?”
“Maybe. Stranger things have happened.”
“Mm-hmm.” I happened to glance down at my uncle’s feet as he paced, noticing, for the first time, a familiar pair of cowboy boots. “Hey.” I looked up at him. “Where did you get those?”
“Oh, um, these? I, um, I’ve had them for a while now.”
“Since Saturday, perhaps?”
“Oh, I, well . . .” He squirmed, and I noticed the tips of his ears turn red. “I found them . . .”
“In the front hall?”
His gaze shifted. “Maybe.”
“You’re not going to pull that ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law’ thing, are you?” I asked. “’Cause if you are . . .”
He waved a hand in the air. “I just thought it would be fun to try them on. I’ve never worn cowboy boots before. I’ll give them back, I promise.”
“Before the wedding?”
“Of course. Don’t you trust your old Uncle Laz?”
I glanced at the bottle of anointing oil and sighed as I contemplated my rebuttal. On the other hand, how could I—a girl who’d accidentally ordered eighty cowboy boots from a total stranger—possibly judge my uncle for a seemingly unreasonable purchase? His heart was in the right place, after all.
“Have a look at this.” He lifted his pants leg to reveal an intricate design on the back of the boot. “These boots have got to be worth a pretty penny. How much did you pay for them?”
“Twenty bucks.” I stared a bit closer, realizing the truth. The boots were beautifully made. Great quality. Exquisite leather detailing. I’d never seen anything quite like them. Had heaven just dropped an unexpected gift in our laps?