Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (16 page)

An hour later Sal emerged from his apartment, humming “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and nearly bowled Angelina over.

“Holy crap,” he said, catching her upper arms so she didn’t fly backward.

“Sal,” she squeaked, her long fingernails grazing his pristine white button-down as she grappled for something to hold on to.

“You okay?” he asked, righting her. The stairs were dangerously close and she was lucky she didn’t take a tumble.

“Yeah,” she said, looking up at him. Her brown eyes were ringed red and makeup streaked her cheeks. Something crawly wriggled inside him.

“What’s up?” he asked cautiously while locking his door.

“You know what’s up. You know how terrible this all is.”

He spun toward her, his mind grappling with a million thoughts but centering on one—she’d found out about Rosemary. And the hot-tempered Angelina wouldn’t take it well. “What?”

“This whole thing,” she said, swiping at fresh tears pooling in her eyes. “How could you—”

“You don’t have the—”

“Aunt Louisa always loved you.”

“Aunt Louisa?” He stood far back in the dark on this one, but relief that he didn’t have to deal with Angelina’s jealousy that morning bloomed in him.

“You mean you don’t know about Aunt Louisa? Your ma didn’t tell you?” Angelina said, placing her hand on his arm. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard. It’s the worst news possible.”

He didn’t know what in the hell Angelina talked about. “Did something happen to Mrs. Grimaldi?”

“The garbage truck? The wreck?” A fresh wave of emotion seemed to hit her and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh God.”

Sal took Angelina’s trembling hand. “What happened?”

The Genovese family had been friends with the Vitale family for generations and Angelina’s mother, Marianna, had three sisters, one of whom was Louisa Grimaldi, whose husband owned a dry cleaner’s. Sal had always liked Louisa with her dimpled smile, good Italian bread, and red cowboy boots. She had a crush on Johnny Cash that surpassed the county singer’s death.

“She’s dead,” Angelina wailed, nearly collapsing. “I thought you knew. Your mother said she tried calling you and you didn’t answer. But I assumed she talked to you this morning. I called three times myself.”

“Uh, I had my phone on vibrate. Had trouble sleeping last night.” Which was not a lie. No way could he tell her about Rosemary now. Not when she was this emotional.

With nothing left to do, he curled an arm around Angelina’s thin shoulders and pulled his keys out of his pocket. He didn’t want to let Angelina in his apartment, but then again, the death of her aunt had knocked him for a loop. “Here, come sit down. Let me get you some cold water or something.”

Angelina nodded, sniffling and swiping at her cheeks. She wore a business suit, dark gray and impeccable with a bright-pink, silky-looking top. Her heels clacked on the old linoleum in the hallway. Opening the door, he stepped back to let her pass, but she reached out for his arm. “I’m glad you’re here. She always liked you so much.”

Had she? Sal didn’t know. He’d been around the woman only a few times. Plus, the only reason he was here for Angelina was because she’d shown up on his doorstep. “Louisa was a nice lady. I’m sorry for your loss, Angelina.”

She swallowed hard and then stepped inside his place, which was neither pristine nor posh. While the location was good, he’d never bothered to make much of the place. He’d collected leftover furniture from his parents and brothers and bummed his grandmother’s secondhand dishes. The place had always felt temporary to him.

Angelina looked around, her nose wrinkling before she smoothed her face into an accepting one. Tricks of the trade, no doubt. “So this is your place?”

She didn’t sound impressed. He hurried to pick up last Sunday’s
New York Times
from the end of the couch along with a stack of folded laundry he’d yet to tuck away. “Sorry it’s a bit of a mess. I’ve been busy lately.”

“It’s fine,” she said, sitting down on the cleared spot. She grabbed his arm. “Sit with me?”

What else could he do?

Gingerly he sat next to her, toeing a flip-flop back under the coffee table next to its mate. “Can I get you anything?”

She shook her head, lower lip trembling. “I can’t believe what happened to her. The police said it was her fault, so Uncle Joe can’t even sue the stupid city. She T-boned a garbage truck and they’re checking her blood alcohol. But Aunt Lou didn’t drink. Sure, the communion wine and maybe a nip every now and then. Oh God, it’s just so horrible.” Angelina pressed her hand against her mouth again and then collapsed against him in tears.

Sal patted her awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Angie. She was a good lady.”

“I know,” Angelina sobbed, clutching his only clean shirt and boohooing into it. He truly felt bad for the woman whose best quality was her closeness with her family. Her loyalty was one of the reasons Natalie Genovese liked her so much. That and she had a good job. For a few seconds, he patted her and let her cry it out.

Finally, she lifted her head. Mascara streaked her cheeks and her hair flew about her head, falling out of the bun thing she’d pulled it into. “Life is so precious,” she whispered.

And then she kissed him.

He hadn’t been expecting it, so his mouth was halfway open, which Angelina took full advantage of. He froze for a moment and then he pulled away, trying to remember Angelina was overwhelmed with emotion.

She stared at him with glassy eyes and a half smile. “I guess I shouldn’t have done that, but I’ve been thinking about kissing you again. You’ve been so distant and I’ve tried so hard to get you to . . . like me.”

Honesty was something he always appreciated, but at that moment after she’d kissed him—after she’d shown up for comfort—it was the last thing he wanted. Days ago, he’d tried to have an honest conversation with her about where he stood, but she obviously hadn’t gotten the message. Friends didn’t kiss friends like that.

Sighing, he shifted away. “I like you, Angelina. Our families have been friends for a long time, and this is a sad day for you, but I’m not sure kissing should be something we engage in, you know? You’re dealing with the shock of your aunt’s death.”

She stared at him for a few minutes, a long few minutes. Finally, her shoulders sank and she swiped a finger under her lower lashes, stanching the tears. “You’re right. Now’s definitely not the time. It’s just I’m human and I needed someone, you know?”

He nodded because what else could he do? He felt uncomfortable. Like a man in a room full of snakes. Not that Angelina was a snake. But he still felt like he couldn’t step left or right without getting struck.

“I should go,” she said, rising and pressing her hands against her skirt. “You don’t mind my using your powder room?”

He had no idea how clean his bathroom was. Probably had underwear on the floor or towels hanging over the shower curtain. Might have left his deodorant out. “Uh, I’m not sure how clean it is.”

Her mouth twisted faintly. “Well, I can’t go to a showing like this. I need to wash up and fix my face.” She picked up the designer bag she’d dumped on his couch.

“Right through there,” he said, pointing to his right.

She went in the bathroom and closed the door.

Sal dug his cell phone out of his pocket and texted his father he’d be late. He added Angelina had shown up upset about her aunt, which would soften the ass chewing he’d get for coming in late. Then he set about picking up his place.

He’d planned on bringing Rosemary to Brooklyn to see some of the other parts of the city, so the place needed a good scrubbing. Maybe he’d call Merry Maids. And put fresh sheets on the bed.

A ding on his phone relayed a text from his pops.

Don’t worry. Take care of Angie.

Of course his father would say that since Sal’s mother had likely already selected his and Angelina’s wedding china.

He managed to pick up the living area and toss the papers into the recycling bin before Angelina emerged, looking more put together, hair back in place.

“I took a little time to tidy up your bathroom for you,” she said, rubbing her lips together. Fresh shiny gloss coated her lips and the pink matched the rims of her eyes, which still showed sign of grief.

“You shouldn’t have,” he said.

“You’re out of cleaner so I had to use a damp washcloth. No problem. It was the least I could do for showing up here blubbering like a baby.”

He felt the words stick in his throat. “It’s okay. I’m glad . . .” He’d wanted to say he was glad to be there for her. That they were friends. Sort of. But he didn’t want to lead her on, so he snapped his mouth shut.

“Thank you,” she said, walking to him and taking his hand. “Will you come to Aunt Ginny’s tonight? Everyone would love to see you and I already know your mother and father are bringing food. The wake’s tomorrow, so it’s just family and close friends tonight.”

Angelina’s lips trembled as she studied him. The morning light slanted in, like an unwanted reality. Here was his world knocking at his door. His family would be there, and if he didn’t show, both families would take it as a mark of disrespect.

So what could he say?

That he had plans with another woman . . . a woman who was a temporary reprieve from his scheduled life? A woman who would be just a memory, leaving him here to live out the life already unfolding before him?

He had little choice. His mouth tasted sour with regret as he said, “Sure. I’ll come by after work and pay my respects to your family.”

“Thank you, Sal. You’re a good guy.” Angelina rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. He followed her out the door, stepping out behind her and locking up.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Angelina said before clacking down the hall. Just as she turned to descend the steps, she gave him a tremulous smile, an I’m-so-brave-to-face-the-day smile that was a nail in the coffin of his familial obligation.

Yeah. He was stuck.

And it sucked. Because every hour, every minute was now precious to him.

He pulled out his cell phone and sent Rosemary a text.

Might not make tonight. Family obligation.

Somehow that was the theme of his life.

Chapter Fourteen

If trudging up a five-story walk-up was challenging, then walking up a five-story walk-up while carrying a rented sewing machine was grueling.

When Rosemary got to the top floor, she collapsed against the door and slid down, holding the precious (and expensive!) rented sewing machine in her lap. Beside her was a bag containing trim, spools of thread, and a Dr Pepper.

The weird lady in 5D poked her head out and stared at her questioningly. “Do you need me to call 911?”

“Uh, no. I”—pant, pant, pant—“think I will be okay.”

The woman narrowed eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses that should have been chic, but the frizzy hair and patterned silk caftan said differently. “What are you doing with that sewing machine?”

“Being crushed by it,” Rosemary joked, lifting the rented Singer off her. “Seriously, I’m going to piece together all the skin I’ve been saving from young boys and make myself into a man.”

The woman drew back.

Rosemary pressed a hand. “I’m joking.
Silence of the Lambs
? No?”

The woman shook her head, still looking concerned. But then she stuck a cigarette into her mouth and lit it from a lighter in her pocket. “I worked for Karl Lagerfeld.”

Rosemary struggled to rise, sliding the machine to the side. “
The
Karl Lagerfeld?”

“Do you know any other Karl Lagerfelds someone would say they worked for?” she drawled with a raspy voice that held a trace of exotic accent. She opened the door a bit wider. “You’re Halle’s sister?”

Rosemary shook her head. “Cousin.”

“You want a cup of tea? I have chamomile.”

Rosemary was intrigued. She’d seen the woman poke her head out a time or two, but Halle hadn’t said boo about her neighbors. Merely instructions for the two uppity creatures who liked to sharpen their claws on anything squishy. Like her stomach. “I’d love a cup of chamomile.”

The woman jerked her head and opened the door wider.

The place smelled like an ashtray, but it was wonderfully arrayed with bright colors and actual swaths of fabric. It was a feast of sensual delight, sans the cigarette smell. Huge beanbags resting on overlapping carpets surrounded by funky curved furniture and lamp shades with tassels. Rosemary didn’t know whether she’d entered a sultan’s harem or a decorator’s crime scene. “Wow.”

“Eh, I like color.”

“That’s an understatement,” Rosemary said, setting the machine and her bag on the industrial table holding three vases of various flowers. “But I love it.”

“I’m Gilda Besson.”

“Rosemary Reynolds.”

Gilda went into the small galley kitchen and put a kettle on. “So tell me what you’re doing with a sewing machine. You a designer, too?”

“No,” Rosemary said, eyeing the huge canvas that covered a good three-fourths of the far wall. She had no clue what it was, but the patterns were mesmerizing. “Well, not really. I have a fabric shop in Mississippi and I like to make pillows with vintage fabrics. Thought I’d piece a few together while I’m here.”

Gilda arched a thin brow. “Hmm.”

Rosemary spotted the workstation then. Beside the very small bed was a table holding a sewing machine. Shelves holding boxes of what looked like notions. “You still do design work?”

“I’m a milliner,” Gilda said. “Of course, I’ve been lazy about it these few months. Had I known you were renting a sewing machine, I would have loaned you mine. It’s gathering dust.”

And then Rosemary noticed the high shelf that extended around the entire room filled with mannequin heads holding fantastical hats and fascinators. “Oh, look at that,” she breathed spinning around. “I’d say you have good reason to be lazy. What a collection. Do you sell them?”

“I have a website,” Gilda said, pulling down cups. “But I’m not interested in me. I’m interested in you. Tell me about Mississippi and these pillows you make.”

Rosemary joined Gilda in the kitchen. She’d been sorely disappointed that she might not see Sal tonight, so she’d decided to plunge herself into another goal for the time she was in NYC. Designing pillows had always been a rewarding, stress-reducing task and she loved the results, as did her customers, who bought them for gifts. She’d gone out and scoured more secondhand shops for old pillowcases, sheets, and remnants so she could ship the materials back to Morning Glory. But that afternoon, she’d gotten an itch. The rented sewing machine would help her scratch it. “I love taking old fabric relegated to thrift shops and repurposing it.”

“And you plan to make pillows while you’re here?”

“Maybe a few,” Rosemary said, accepting the thin bone china teacup. “But I’m not here for that. I’m doing other things while I’m here, too.”

“Like that hunk?”

Rosemary felt her cheeks heat. “Uh, him, too.”

“You have good taste in men,” Gilda said, cracking a smile. The woman had a face that belied her age—she might be fifty or seventy-five years old. Hard to tell. Yet her youthful blue eyes sparkled with good humor.

Rosemary gave a self-deprecating laugh. “There’s not much to choose from back home in Morning Glory, so I’m having a little romantic fun while I’m here.”

“Is that why you came to the city?” Gilda asked, sinking onto a stool sitting beside the concrete counter. Something about Gilda was sage-like. As if the woman could be her Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Good question,” Rosemary said, taking the adjoining stool, feeling immediate kinship with the woman. Which was odd since they were nothing alike. Gilda had a horrible dye job and jewels sparkling on every finger. And Rosemary . . . didn’t and never would. “Actually, I came because my best friend died.”

Gilda’s eyebrows rose but she didn’t mutter any condolence. Just listened.

“I know that sounds weird, but Lacy wanted to see the world. She was full of life and had so many dreams. But sickness won. It wasn’t fair.”

“Life rarely is,” Gilda said, glancing toward the sheer curtains muddling the sight of the outside world.

“That’s so true,” Rosemary said, contemplating the tea leaves swirling in the bottom of the cup. “So Lacy left me a letter essentially calling me out. She said I was in a rut, treading water, locked in a too-comfortable room of my choosing. And she reminded me of all the things I’d said I wanted to do . . . and so I’m doing them. Well, not all of them. But I grabbed an opportunity and I’m focused on being open to what life has to offer.”

“Hmm,” Gilda said.

Okay, so maybe Gilda was a poor substitute for Obi-Wan. No insight, no wise words. Just a hmm.

Rosemary shrugged. “So I’m in New York City all by myself. I’m going dancing with handsome Italians, having sex in showers—”

“You’ve never had sex in a shower before?”

“Nope. And I’ve never dated a guy with a tattoo or taken a subway—or a cab, for that matter. And I’ve never entered a fascinating stranger’s apartment for tea. You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

“Ha. You’re the one making suits out of boys,” Gilda said with a smile.

Rosemary laughed. “Lack of oxygen makes me delusional.”

Gilda’s lips twitched. And then they sat for several seconds sipping tea and enjoying what sounded like the indigenous music of New Zealand. Not that Rosemary knew what that sounded like. She just guessed.

“I know you,” Gilda said, looking at her, eyes misty.

“Beg your pardon?”

“I was you. I’m from Minnesota.”

Rosemary waited, because Gilda had a certain way of not explaining herself, it seemed.

“I came to New York when I was seventeen. Told my ma and pa I wasn’t marrying no farmer. Met a costume designer and he took me to Paris. Taught me everything I knew. Wines, cheeses . . . and sex. All of it was intoxicating. I started hanging around designers and I learned how to make love, cry, wake up and wish I were dead . . . to fall in love. It was both painful and beautiful at the same time.”

“And now?”

Gilda laughed. “And now I’m an old woman. But I lived. I lived well.”

“I guess you did,” Rosemary said, the chamomile tasting somehow more pronounced on her tongue. Something in Gilda’s eyes told a story of heartbreak, loss, and no regret. Whatever it was, it sat heavy in her gut. Maybe it was a sense of rightness, that Rosemary hadn’t been crazy as her mother suggested for coming to SoHo alone, for accepting Sal’s offer to go dancing . . . for taking tea with Halle’s odd neighbor.

“I’d love to see your pillows when you’ve finished them.”

“Oh,” Rosemary said, setting down the lukewarm tea. “Why?”

Gilda blinked. “Because I want to. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’ve seen the work of giants in the fashion industry. My pillows are a hobby.”

“So?”

Rosemary shrugged. “I sent Halle a few for her birthday and I found them in the top of her closet. Guess the folksy, arts-and-crafts vibe didn’t work with her midcentury modern look.”

“Go get them,” Gilda said.

Rosemary had no clue why Gilda was so interested in her damn pillows. “When I finish my tea?”

Gilda looked contrite. “Of course. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Ten minutes later, Rosemary handed Gilda the pillows she’d made Halle two years ago. A mixture of ticking and a gorgeous quilt she’d found in a shop on a Mississippi back road, the matching toss pillows had been pieced into a cross pattern, edged in tatting Rosemary had found in their great-grandmother’s hope chest.

“These tell a story,” Gilda said, fingering the tatting. “Did you do the tatting?”

“No, I found it in my great-grandmother Pearl’s trunk in the attic. It had been starched and wrapped around Coke bottles.”

“Fascinating. May I keep these for a few days?”

Rosemary didn’t know what to say. Though Halle didn’t seem to want the pillows, they did belong to her cousin. But then again, Rosemary would know where they were. “Uh, sure. I’m certain Halle wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t think she would,” Gilda said, stacking the pillows atop one of the beanbags. “Now, I’ll say good afternoon. My program is about to come on.”

“Oh. Of course. It was lovely meeting you. Thanks for the tea,” Rosemary said, moving toward the door.

Gilda showed her out and then proceeded to lock what sounded like Fort Knox. Made Halle’s dead bolt look like shoestring protection.

Just as she stepped into the hallway, her cell phone rang.

Her heart gave a leap as she imagined Sal on the other end telling her he was on his way. She pulled out her phone. Not Sal.

Jess.

“Hey, chickadee,” Jess said when Rosemary said hello.

“Hi, I’m sorry I missed your call last night,” Rosemary said, setting the sewing machine by her cousin’s door.

“I’m sure you have a good excuse, and according to Eden he has a six-pack. Go, Rose,” Jess said.

Rosemary laughed. “Hold on a sec. I have to unlock the door and then I want to tell you about the carriage ride I took in Central Park.”

“I already know about those. My mom took me when I was a kid.”

“Oh no. You’ve never had one like this,” Rosemary drawled before pushing into the SoHo loft.

“Really?” Jess returned with a drawl of her own and a laugh. “Do tell.”

If Sal thought sitting at his parents’ dining room table jammed in next to Angelina was hell, then sitting at the Vitales’ dining room table between Cousin Butch and the Vietnamese lady who lived next door to the Vitales was like swimming in a fiery lake of hell where flames singed his balls and bubbled his skin.

“Another cannoli, Sal?” Marianna Vitale, Angelina’s mother asked, passing a laden platter his way.

“No, thank you. It’s getting late and I—”

“Lou would have loved this,” Marinna said, tears flooding her eyes. “If only we would have done this when she was here, you know? She always said she loved when our families got together.”

Sal nodded. “Again, I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Vitale blew her nose into a lace hankie she withdrew from her pocket. Her brittle shoulders shook. “I know, I know. I’m so glad you’re here though, Sal. Angie appreciates it so much. This has been so hard on her, being so fond of her aunt and all.”

“Sure,” Sal said, catching his mother’s eye. She nodded at him, obviously pleased he had come.

Of course she’d sent him a text that said, “If you’re not at the Vitales’ tonight, you can find a new family.” He’d like to think she didn’t mean it, but he wouldn’t put it past her. Natalie Genovese didn’t shoot marbles. And she didn’t put up with any of her children being disrespectful.