“Yes, but I don’t.” She pushed a loose hair out of her eyes. “Being confined with those two boys inside a submarine is not exactly my idea of fun.” She paled at the very idea.
I couldn’t blame her for complaining, really. Watching our oldest brother’s kids over the summer holidays while he and his wife were working at the restaurant was taking its toll on her. I saw the fine lines in Sophia’s brow where wrinkles were beginning to form. Pretty soon they’d be permanently etched there. The wrinkles, not the boys.
“I can’t wait for school to start.” In true Rossi form she leaned her forehead into her outstretched palms and began to dramatize in Tex-Italian about what a difficult life she led.
Please. The girl was in her twenties, still lived at home with her mama, and . . . Wait. I was describing my own life.
Precious, who’d managed to behave herself for the past thirty seconds, took Sophia’s ranting as some form of a threat and started that low growl thing in the back of her throat. My sister looked up in alarm, and the dog shifted into an attack stance. The six-pound monster didn’t come across as terribly intimidating to me, but this one move was enough to cause Sophia to rise to her feet. Her eyes widened in fear.
With hands clutched to her chest à la Rosa, she muttered, “That dog is evil.”
I wrapped my little angel in my arms, prepared to argue the fact, when her growl morphed into a full-fledged barking fit aimed at my sister.
“We need an exorcist,” Sophia said. “I’m calling for a priest.”
“But we’re not Catholic,” I protested. “And neither is the dog.” No indeed. The Rossis—at least those under sixty—were all of the Methodist persuasion. Rosa and Laz still clung to their Catholic roots, but the rest of us had made the switch years ago during a local Methodist revival. I couldn’t speak for Precious, of course. Based on her actions, I’d have to conclude she had not yet been won to the Lord. But I was working on it.
“That mongrel needs help.” Sophia dove into a lengthy speech about the various demon spirits currently residing inside my dog, and I did my best to remain calm. While our local Methodist congregation had a multiplicity of ministries, I seriously doubted they catered to canines, even those in need of spiritual help. Not that it mattered. I would prove my pup’s innocence to everyone, sooner or later.
Still Sophia continued on, ranting and raving.
“Enough about the dog already.” I managed to get Precious under control, gave my sister a polite nod, then eased past her and continued on my way to my room. As we parted ways, I was pretty sure I heard her say something about joining the witness protection program to get away from our nutty family.
Settling down onto my bed, I kicked off my shoes and reached for my notepad, the one I’d carried around for days. With Sharlene and Cody arriving tomorrow evening for their final meeting, I had little time to wrap up my plans. Precious sat at the edge of my bed, still panting from her earlier escapades. It must take a lot out of a dog to be so disobedient.
Going over my list, I noted a couple of discrepancies. We’d need to tweak the menu a bit. No problem there. Jenna and Uncle Laz would be catering the event, and they were the best in the business, hands down.
Next I turned my sights to the decor. Sharlene had been specific. She wanted a cowboy boot theme—both in the ceremony and at the reception. Her colors? Red, white, and blue, of course. With yellow roses in abundance. I’d balked at the idea. At first. But it was growing on me. This was a true-blue Texas event, after all. And the week before the Fourth of July, no less. We had to do it right. Not an easy task, what with everything being so last minute and all. I only hoped my jumbled nerves wouldn’t get in the way as I attempted to pull off my first themed wedding—in a hurry!
I rolled over on the bed, still clutching the notepad. Precious curled up next to me, finally opting to behave. Giving her a tender rubbing behind the ears, I begged her to change her evil ways, lest I turn her over to her former owner, my ex-boyfriend.
The tiniest sigh escaped my lips as I contemplated Tony DeLuca. Much as I’d tried to love him, I couldn’t. Still, he was perfect—at least in my mama’s eyes. Came from just the right Sicilian family. Spoke fluent Italian, with just the right lilt in his voice. On top of all this, the man was gorgeous, as in Hollywood gorgeous. Dark hair, deep brown eyes, tanned skin, perfect physique. Plus he had a knock-you-down wardrobe and always looked like he’d just stepped out of a magazine. He happened to be related to the best tailor in town—a real advantage for a man who stood only five seven. One thing was for sure, Tony DeLuca could shop. I’d give him that much.
These days I found myself hoping he’d start shopping for a new girlfriend—soon.
At least he could afford to spend money on clothes and grooming supplies. He had an amazing job. I wanted a man who wasn’t afraid to work, to get his hands dirty. Not that I wanted Tony—at least, not anymore. No, three years of dating the wrong man had shown me exactly what I
wasn’t
looking for.
Not that Tony was a bad guy. Not all bad, anyway. Okay, he spent a little too much time in front of the mirror. He was what Pop called a diva-dude. And then there was the clothing issue—mine, not his. Tony insisted on picking out my clothes—everything from casual wear to fancy. He also encouraged me to wear makeup around the clock, even when no one was looking.
Why he cared so much about my appearance was a mystery. Pride, perhaps? Anyway, no matter how much makeup I wore, I’d never be as pretty as Tony, so what was the point in trying?
I’d rarely used the words “high maintenance” to describe a guy, but there really was no other way to say it. Tony was high maintenance. I’d put up with it for three years, then finally cracked. A girl needed to pull her hair up into a ponytail once in a while without hearing about it. And who cared if I skipped the mascara every now and then?
Still, Tony was a great guy. Just not the guy for me.
I thought again about Sharlene, the bride-to-be. Though we were nothing alike physically—her long blonde hair, curvy figure, and bright blue eyes set us worlds apart—we were kindred spirits. We both longed for the same things. Of course, she longed for them set to the tune of a Rascal Flatts song, and I preferred mine with an Andrea Bocelli melody lingering in the background, but other than that, we were just alike. We both wanted love. We both wanted the happily ever after. And we both wanted it now.
I closed my eyes for just a minute, allowing sleepiness to take hold. Maybe a little nap would do me good before dinner.
It didn’t take long to drift off. For some strange reason, I dreamed of a pizza-loving cowboy, one with a special anointing from on high to drive demon spirits out of badly behaved little dogs . . . one who didn’t care if I wore makeup or fancy clothes. In other words, I dreamed of my ideal man, my cowboy. Only, I hadn’t
known
I wanted a cowboy. Until now.
The sound of slamming doors roused me from my slumber. I could hear a myriad of voices rising up from the bottom floor, and the comforting smell of garlic and oregano filled the house. My mouth watered at the possibility of what awaited me downstairs. Surely Aunt Rosa was working her magic.
A smile rose at the memory of my aunt—straight off the plane from Napoli—complaining that our Galveston home had only one kitchen. “Every decent Italian home has at least two!” she’d informed us. Pop had promised to build on a second, but so far that hadn’t happened. I wasn’t holding my breath.
After taking a few minutes to freshen up, I made my way to the kitchen, ready to greet the family, pushing all cowboy images out of my mind once and for all.
Oddly, I found Tony standing near the stove, pressed squarely between Aunt Rosa and Uncle Laz, who appeared to be having it out. I almost missed him through the crowd.
Hmm. He might not be my cowboy, but it certainly looked like he needed my help. I took a few tentative steps through the throng of people—my mother, father, brothers, sister-in-law, and nephews—to come to his aid. Along the way, I shot a “why did you have to go and invite him?” look to my mama, who returned it with a rehearsed smile. Would her matchmaking attempts never end?
I drew near to Tony, and the familiar, yummy scent of his cologne sent my nostrils flaring. Crazy how a smell could drive you to your knees. I finally managed, “Hey.” Not brilliant, but it would have to do for an opener.
Tony turned to face me, his eyes widening as he took in my new blouse. “Bella, you look beautiful.”
Do not let him get to you. Do not let him get to you.
“Thanks. You look great too.” I eased him away from my feuding relatives. “What’s up with the two of them?”
“Ah. Well, it seems your Uncle Laz bought a new CD today and wanted to play it during dinner.
The Best of
—”
“
Dean Martin
,” I finished.
Say no more.
“Yeah.” Tony nodded, and his rich, coffee-brown eyes twinkled in true DeLuca style. “But apparently Rosa’s got her heart set on something different.”
Above the din of voices, I now took note of the music playing overhead. “Fools Rush In.” Ironic.
“Ol’ Blue Eyes.” We spoke the words together, then laughed.
“He’s the best,” Tony said with a shrug.
I put my finger over my lips and pulled him a few inches farther away from my uncle, who continued his passionate rant. “Just don’t let Laz hear you say that, okay? The last time, Rosa came after him with a wooden spoon in her hand. You should’ve seen the marks on his arms.”
“Well, Rosa insists she makes a far better chicken piccata when Sinatra is singing.”
“Mmm. Is that what I smell?” I worked my way back over to the stove for a quick peek. Yep. The bubbling sauce wafted up, overwhelming my senses. I closed my eyes and inhaled, hurled backward in time to Rosa’s first meal with us, sixteen years ago when she’d arrived straight off the plane from Napoli. After a moment’s pondering, I removed the top from a huge kettle, eyeing the thick minestrone soup inside. “Primo.”
Still, I knew there had to be more. My nose led me to take a quick peek in the oven below. Sure enough, I discovered three beautifully twisted loaves of Rosa’s homemade garlic bread. Could life get any better than this?
Looking around the room at this loud, wacky family of mine, I had to conclude . . . it couldn’t.
Unless you happened to factor in a boot-wearin’ cowboy spinning a sappy country tune.
Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?
The following morning, Aunt Rosa ranted and raved about the new neighbors and their threats to take us to court if the skateboard was not returned forthwith. She refused to return it, naturally. Until she got her apology in both English and Italian, the boy would never skate again. My mother’s words,
“E buona notte al secchio,”
echoed around the house. I’d heard the expression all my life, of course: “And good night to the pail.” Loosely interpreted, it meant, “That’s that! There’s nothing more I can do.”
For the better part of an hour, my mother pleaded with her sister to give in, but Rosa would not relent. Visions of lawsuits filled my mind, but I pushed them away. I had enough to think about, after all. I put together a list of questions for the bride-to-be, went over the items we’d have to rent for the reception, and spent every moment in between daydreaming about my new deejay.
At 4:30 that afternoon, I headed next door to the beautifully renovated Victorian home now known as Club Wed. My home away from home. My proving ground.
At straight-up five o’clock, a noise from outside caught my attention. An engine. From the sound of it, a pretty big vehicle had pulled into the driveway. Probably Eugene, our UPS guy, making a delivery. He’d become a regular fixture around our place.
I glanced out of the window, my sights falling on a black Dodge 4x4 complete with chrome, mud flaps, oversized running boards, and those big tires that looked as if they were made merely to be recycled as multiperson flotation devices. Not unusual in Texas, but more than a little out of place in our neck of the woods. I held my breath as the door swung open and Dwayne Neeley stepped out.
“Whoa.” My imagination hadn’t done him justice.
Tall.
Check.
Brawny.
Check.
Five o’clock shadow.
Check.
I stopped checking after that, worried I might lose track of the reason for his visit. He drew a bit closer, and I took note of the fact that Sophia—who’d been sitting on our veranda next door—was now on her feet, giving him a solid once-over.
Watch yourself, girl.
As Dwayne ambled up the drive, the pointed toes of his boots moving in perfectly timed steps, my heart seemed to beat along in sync. After a few seconds of staring at his broad shoulders and rugged good looks, I sprinted to the front door, pausing only to double-check my appearance in the front-hall mirror before stepping out onto the veranda. Once there, I did my best to look calm and unassuming.
A smile lit my cowboy deejay’s handsome face as he climbed the stairs to meet me on the porch. My, but the boy was tall.
“Dwayne Neeley?” I managed.
“The one and only.”
He extended his right hand. I took his hand but found it difficult to focus, because now that we were within handshaking distance, something else stood out, something that totally threw me. His clothes were . . . well, dirty. And he had that same wet-puppy smell Nick’s boys always got when they’d been playing in the summer sun too long. And I was pretty sure he had . . . sawdust? . . . in his hair.
“Nice to meet you.” I gripped his hand and focused on his eyes. Blue. Riveting. Perfect against the tanned cheeks and hair the color of the sand on East Beach—kind of a darkish blond. Completely out of place with the wardrobe. “Come on in.”
Dwayne flashed a smile and made a quick apology before we entered. “So sorry about the way I look. I came straight from work.”
“Oh, um, no problem.” Frankly, I’d never considered the fact that spinning tunes was such dirty business, but I didn’t waste his time asking about it. Instead, I led him inside and offered to give him a grand tour of the facility so we’d have a little more time to get to know each other before talking business.