Dirty Rotten Tendrils (22 page)

We had just concluded our circuit of the humongous paprika-colored master suite, complete with king-sized heart-shaped bed covered in black satin, when the doorbell chimed.

“More guests!” Pepper said to the dog, who gave a tiny yap. “We’re so excited to meet Rafe’s mom. Aren’t we, Ginger? We’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

I had a feeling Pepper and Ginger were going to spice up Francesca’s day, too.

 

 

By the time I made my way to the top of the staircase, Pepper was halfway down and Francesca was having her hand shaken vigorously by Al, with Marco standing at her elbow. I wanted to hurry so I wouldn’t miss a moment of the two women meeting, but I couldn’t move fast because of the blasted shoes. How did Pepper manage? Maybe I needed lessons.

Marco’s mother was wearing a classy black skirt and a cream-colored silk blouse with black pumps, her glorious dark hair waving prettily about her face and a richly colored scarf tied around her shoulders. I couldn’t help but admire her, especially in contrast to Pepper.

“Here’s my wife now,” Al said, as Pepper tap-tapped toward them.

Francesca turned with a smile that froze into place. Her eyes widened as she took in Pepper’s ensemble, and then she placed one hand over her heart, as though to catch her breath.

Pepper extended her hand, then spoke loudly, as though Francesca was deaf. “I’m—so—pleased—to—meet—you, Fran—cesca.” She glanced at Marco. “She understands English, right?”

“I’m pleased to meet you, too,” Francesca said politely.

“Wow,” Pepper said. “Your sons sure take after you in looks. I was telling Abby earlier that everyone says me and Cinn could pass as sisters.”

“Your boys could pass as sisters, too,” Al said to his wife, and then both of them slapped their thighs and laughed uproariously. “It’s an inside joke,” Al said. “Pepper’s sons are performers. They bill themselves as Jude and Babs . . . you know, as in Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand.” He elbowed Marco, who uttered a simple “Ah!” as if it now made sense.

Francesca was too stunned to reply. She caught sight of me coming toward the group and quickly held out her arms to embrace me. “Abby,
bella
,” she cried, enfolding me in a hug. She whispered in my ear, “I’ll never forgive Rafe for this.”

I gave her a sympathetic squeeze.

“Pepper’s gonna take you on a tour, Francesca,” Al said, clapping Marco’s mom on the shoulder. “Say, does anyone call you Frankie? Helluva lot easier on the tongue.”

Marco’s mother gazed at him in total stupefaction. I’d never seen her rendered speechless before.

Totally unaware of her reaction, Al said, “Abby, Mark, let’s go start on the appetizers.”

“C’mon, Francesca,” Pepper called. “You gotta see my kitchen. It’s something else.”

Which prompted Al to play out his half of their stale joke about some
place
else. While they performed, I took the opportunity to whisper to Marco, “Any luck?”

He handed me my glass. “No opening.”

“What are we going to do? Cinnamon and Rafe will be here any minute!”

Marco straightened as Al came up and put his arms around both of us. “Ready for shrimp? No pun intended, Abby.” He elbowed Marco and winked at me. Rather, at my breasts. Once more and he’d be wearing an eye patch.

Time to be blunt. “Mr. Howard, there’s something we need to discuss.”

“Excuse me, boss,” a tall man in a white waiter’s coat said, stepping out of a doorway at the back of the house. “Phone call.”

“Take a message,” Al said.

“It’s Cinnamon.”

“All right, I’ll get it in the den.” He smiled at us. “Help yourself to the food, right through that doorway on the other side of the hall.”

Moving fast on his short legs, he swept up a portable phone in the den, then walked out of sight with it. But we could still hear his end of the conversation.

“What’s the problem, Cinn? Hey! Don’t cry. What’s that? You broke up? You gotta be kidding . . . Okay, just come home. Forget about the ring. Come home so we can get this straightened out.”

“They broke up!” I whispered to Marco. “We’ll never get the ring back now.”

“Patience,” he whispered.

“What do you mean? Do you have a plan?”

Marco took my elbow and steered me into the dining room. “Don’t say anything about the ring until we find out what happened.”

We detoured around the long, marble-topped mahogany table set with crystal, china, and silver to reach a huge serving table against the far wall that was loaded with platters of fruit and cheese and an enormous bowl of shrimp with a dipping sauce. Marco had just popped a fat pink shrimp in his mouth when Al entered the room.

“Kids!” he said, shaking his head. “That was Cinnamon. Seems she and Rafe had a falling-out. You know how young love is. One minute they can’t get enough of each other, the next minute they’re enemies. Anyway, I told her to come back here and I’d help them patch it up. I’m getting good at that. After all, I’ve had four wives to practice on.”

I wondered how many more wives it would take for him to get it perfect.

Al dipped a shrimp in cocktail sauce and stuffed it into his mouth. “Have one, Abby,” he mumbled, sauce in the corners of his mouth.

“No, thanks. I’m not a shrimp fan. Too many legs.” I took a cocktail pick and stabbed a cheese cube. No legs.

“So,” Al said, “what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Nothing that can’t wait until later,” Marco said.

“I got time now.” Al took another shrimp and crunched into it.

I could sense he wasn’t going to drop the subject until we gave him something, so I discreetly squeezed Marco’s hand, which was our signal to play along. “I noticed you don’t have a tea cart in here—”

“Abby,” Marco said in a warning tone.

“—and since you’re such a golf nut, I thought I’d mention that there’s a one-of-a-kind golfer’s tea cart for sale in my flower shop.”

“A what?” Al asked.

“Abby,” Marco said, “not now.”

“No, wait,” Al said, holding up a bejeweled hand, “I want to hear about this one-of-a-kind cart.”

I knew that would get his attention. “You’d love it,” I said. “It’s a unique piece of artisan furniture designed for the discriminating wealthy golfer and his wife who love to entertain. How perfect would it be for your amazing collection of furniture? You might even consider surprising Pepper with it. She’d be the only woman in the county to own one.”

“Only one, huh?” Al said, rubbing his chin. “Maybe I’ll drop by and take a look at it. Where’s this shop?”

“Bloomers is on the town square in New Chapel,” I said, “two doors down from Marco’s bar, Down the Hatch.”

Al tilted his head to look up at Marco, who stood a good head taller. “So you own a bar, too, huh?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Marco replied.

“How about that? You oughta drop by my club sometime, check out my bar—” Then, as though I couldn’t hear, he added quietly, “And the girls.” He elbowed Marco.

I elbowed Marco, too.

“Speaking of Dirty Al’s,” Al began, only to be interrupted by a clanking of bracelets when Pepper, Ginger, and Francesca returned. Fortunately, Marco’s mom seemed to have recovered from the shock of meeting the Howards. Her cheeks had regained their healthy color, and her smile had found its way back . . . until Al announced that he and Pepper had decided Cinnamon and Rafe should hold their reception at his club.

And Francesca asked, “What club would that be?”

“L
et me be sure Iunderstand, eh?” Francesca said, smiling so hard I could hear her teeth grinding. She touched the gold cross that she wore at her neck, as though drawing strength from it. “You want to hold
my
son’s reception at your gentlemen’s club?”

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a challenge. Marco moved closer to her, probably to restrain her in case she attacked.

“Al’s got a great big banquet room on the second floor,” Pepper said proudly, “and lots of staff to serve the food and drinks.”

I wondered if the staff would be wearing formal G-strings for the occasion.

“Hey, it’s free,” Al said with a shrug, “and we’ve got plenty of room for all five hundred guests.”

“Five
hundred
?” Francesca managed to say without choking.

“That’s our side,” Pepper said. “We weren’t sure how many you wanted to invite.”

Cinnamon chose that moment to burst into the castle and slam the door behind her, causing both of the Howards to spring into action.

“Hey, Cinnabun,” Al said, scooting out of the dining room, Pepper and Ginger close behind. “Come say hi to Mrs. Salvare and—”

“I don’t ever want to hear the name Salvare again!” Cinnamon shouted. “I
hate
Rafe!”

We heard shoes pounding on marble steps, and then a door slammed somewhere above us, echoing loudly in the great hall below. That was the problem with castles. Noisy.

Francesca said to us, “I think it’s a good time for us to leave, no?”

I wasn’t about to disagree, but Marco tried. “They made a meal for us, Mom.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I will say only two words to you, Marco. Dirty. Al’s.” Then she marched out of the dining room.

Pepper had followed Cinnamon upstairs, leaving Al at the bottom of one side of the staircase, calling, “C’mon, Cinn, this can be worked out! You’ll see.” He turned as we came into the hall and shrugged. “Kids. What can ya do with ’em?”

“Cinn, honey, open up,” Pepper called in a sweet voice, tapping on her daughter’s door. When that didn’t produce the result she wanted, she pounded on the wood and screeched, “Open this friggin’ door!”

“Daddeeeeeeee,” Cinnamon wailed from far off. “I want Daddeeeeeee.”

“Go take care of your child,” Francesca said, suddenly becoming helpful, although she did manage to get her point across. Cinnamon
was
a child. “We will make it another time, eh?”

“Are you sure?” Al said, looking relieved.

“Believe me, it is not a problem.” Francesca offered her hand. “Please give my thanks to your wife for her hospitality.”

With that, Francesca tossed one end of her scarf over her shoulder and marched toward the door. Marco retrieved my coat; then we said our good-byes and followed. Once outside, Marco helped me into the trench coat and held out his arm to support me, but instead, I took off my high heels and walked the rest of the way on bare feet. Cold, yes, but I’d had enough haute couture for one night.

Francesca was waiting by the car. “We will not speak of tonight outside the family.” Then she gave me a fierce hug. “Thank you, Abby.”

“You’re welcome . . . for what?”

“For not being like them.” With a shudder, she got into her car and rolled down the window. “Now I will go kill my lastborn.”

As I slid into the Prius, Marco took out his cell phone and called Rafe. “Mom is on her way to find you. You’d better be sick or dying, because she’s going to tear you a new one.”

Marco listened to Rafe as he buckled his seat belt and started the engine, then hit the speaker button so I could hear. “Rafe, would you repeat that?”

“I said Cinnamon wants a huge, pull-out-all-the-stops wedding!” Rafe said. “Do you know that the groom’s parents are supposed to pay for all the liquor at the reception? Can you imagine what Mom would do to me if I told her she had to pay for five hundred guests? So I told Cinnamon we’d just elope, and she went ballistic on me. What’s wrong with eloping?”

“Nothing,” I said, “unless your bride has her heart set on a big, traditional wedding. And by the way, five hundred is just the Howards’ side.”

“Did you know Cinnamon’s dad wants the reception held at Dirty Al’s?” Marco asked.

“He’s her stepdad, and yeah, she told me about that when we got to the club. But before you start yelling, I didn’t know Mr. Howard owned that kind of business. Holy crap, Marco, Mom would string me up by my thumbs before she let us hold our reception there.”

“Yep,” Marco said.

“Is my ring still in his safe?” I asked.

“No, we took it out,” Rafe said. “Then we argued about the wedding, and she threw it at me. Almost put out my eye.”

“Wait. You
have
my ring?” I cried. “It’s in your possession right now?”

“Oh, right,” Rafe said sheepishly. “I guess you want it back.”

He guessed? “Where are you?” I asked.

“I just pulled up in front of Marco’s apartment.”

“Okay, we’ll be right over,” I said.

“Rafe,” Marco cut in, “meet us at Abby’s instead. Leave now, before Mom gets there.”

Marco glanced at me as he tucked his phone into his pocket. “Unless you’d rather ask for the ring in front of my mom.”

“Good thinking, Salvare.”

 

 

Within fifteen minutes, Rafe had dropped off the ring and was on his way back to take his licks with his mom, and Marco was opening a bottle of wine in my kitchen, preparing a little celebration, while I put on some slow jazz, lit a few candles in the living room, and dashed into the bathroom to brush my teeth.