Fools Rush In (27 page)

I had to agree. The pair I’d selected for the wedding ended up being just the right fit. Maybe I’d been won over to the other side after all. Still, I couldn’t keep the Lanciottis. I had to track down the owner. Had to tell her the truth.

Turning my sights to my email, I located the original email from the woman who’d sold me the boots. I located her name—Victoria Oldenburg—on the receipt. Found her address as well. And it didn’t take much work on my part to locate her phone number.

With nerves kicking in, I punched in the number. She answered after the second ring with an abrupt, “Hello.”

“Mrs. Oldenburg, this is Bella Rossi from Galveston. I’m the one who purchased the boots from you on eBay a little more than a week ago.”

“That’s
Ms.
Oldenburg,” she countered in an all-too-serious voice. “And there’s no refund or exchange, so don’t even bother to ask.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m not calling to get my money back or because I’m unhappy with the product. Quite the opposite.” I went on to explain that I’d located a pearl in the midst of the oysters I’d purchased from her. “There’s a pair of boots here worth thousands of dollars.”

She snickered. “The Lanciottis.”

“You . . . you knew about them?”

“Of course.” The tone of her voice changed as she continued. “Brian was always keen on expensive things. He used to brag that he was the only man in Lubbock with boots like that. Ya know, he was probably right, but I always hated to hear him carry on about it, especially in such a public way. He sure was a prideful man.”

All this talk about Brian in the past tense made me wonder if he’d gone on to that great boot maker in the sky. But I couldn’t just come out and ask, could I? “So, you meant to sell them to me for twenty dollars?”

“Yep. Serves him right.”

Okay, now we were talking about him in present tense.

The not-so-happy Ms. Oldenburg went on to share far too much information about her ex-husband—how he’d left her for a pretty young thing named Missy who worked at his office. How he’d neglected to return home to pick up his things before marrying Missy and building a mini mansion on the outskirts of town. How she—the first Mrs. Oldenburg, not the second—had sold off all of her ex’s possessions on eBay to get even. How she’d laughed when the sale of the boots had gone through.

The woman’s enthusiasm grew as she told the story, but mine did not. In fact, I felt sicker by the moment. “So, you’re telling me I purchased something that didn’t actually belong to you?” I asked when she finally paused to breathe.

Her voice took on a defensive tone. “Hey, all of the women’s boots were mine. I wanted to get rid of any evidence of my former life. And I had every right to sell the others. Brian left his stuff here when he took off. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know.”

Okay, well, I’d heard that one before. I could almost envision the neighbor kid with my pop’s prized basketball in his hand. “But does he know what you’ve done?”

“Yeah, he knows. That’s between us. You just enjoy those boots now, honey. And if you know anyone who might want to buy a Ford F-450 Super Duty for pennies on the dollar, let me know.” After a guttural laugh from the now-infamous Ms. O, the call ended.

I held the phone in my hand, flabbergasted. As I looked around at the boxes, the truth registered. I didn’t have just a houseful of boots. I had a houseful of
stolen
boots. Brian’s boots, to be precise.

Had he mourned their loss? Did he want them back? Only one way to know for sure.

I got back on the Internet, looking up the address for Brian Oldenburg. It took nearly an hour of work on my part, but I finally reached him. I quickly explained the predicament, and for a minute, I thought the fellow might cry.

“You . . . you’ve got my Lanciottis?”

“I do. Where should I send them?”

“And the others? You have all the others?”

“I do, but I’ve used quite a few of them.” I further explained the situation, and he responded with, “You can keep those. No problem. But I’d do anything to have those Lanciottis back. And there was a pair of snakeskin boots I was partial to. Oh, and a goatskin pair that’s worth a pretty penny. I’d like to have those three back. Don’t give a rip what you do with the others, especially the ones that belonged to my ex-wife.”

There was something about the way this fellow said the word
ex-wife
that caused my skin to crawl. Sounded so . . . final. So bitter. What was it with these two? Surely they’d loved each other once. Right?

After giving him my address, he agreed to have UPS come by to pick up the three boxes and to cover all costs related to the shipping. He also offered to reimburse my $800.

“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Oldenburg,” I argued. “I feel bad enough already. Trust me.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m happy to do it.” He laughed. “I can’t wait till I run into my ex-wife at the racetrack wearing those Lanciottis. It’ll be worth every penny.”

Hmm. At once I thought of one of Aunt Rosa’s famous sayings:
Non si puo avere la botte piena è la moglie ubriaca
—you can’t have your cake and eat it too. Sure looked like Mr. Oldenburg was gonna try.

I hung up feeling a bit nauseous. What would drive a couple to such lengths? Surely they’d once been a happy duo, facing each other at an altar to exchange “I dos.” Likely they’d been addicted to each other in the same way Sophia had described. Now they met at the racetrack to argue over who got the boots? And if the former Mrs. Oldenburg had been this vengeful about cowboy boots, how had she treated their poor children? If they had children.

I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind but found it difficult. What was wrong with couples these days?

These troubling thoughts stayed with me as I considered my line of work. I loved the wedding biz. Loved it. Loved making the plans. Loved pulling off a great event. Loved the look of pure joy on the bride’s face. Loved watching the couple ride off into the sunset for their happily ever after.

Only one problem—I’d never really taken the time to think through the happily-ever-after part. What happened to my wedding couples after the big day? Would Sharlene and Cody still be blissfully happy a month from now? A year? Would they always feel the joy, the elation, or would the problems of life eventually kick in?

I sighed. The Oldenburgs might as well have kicked me in the shins with those boots of theirs. They’d certainly knocked the wind out of my sails.

My thoughts shifted to D.J. once again, and my heart took a plunge in the way Sophia had so aptly described just this morning. Why hadn’t he called? Was he avoiding me? Had that incident with Tony been the nail in my proverbial coffin?

My gut twisted at the very idea, and I had to admit, I was addicted. D.J. Neeley was my caramel mocha macchiato. Only now he’d gone missing. Would he forget about me? Cast me aside like a worn boot? Would he move on to someone new and build her a mini mansion on the outskirts of town?

Determined not to let these questions get me down, I focused on my job—planning happily ever afters for everyone but me.

23

I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face

The following morning I awoke to the shattering of glass, followed by Aunt Rosa’s shrill voice. Stumbling from the bed, I made my way to the window to peer outside. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my gaze shifted to the lawn, where I saw Rosa with the broom in her hand.
Oh no! Not again!

She sprinted across the yard, her floral bathrobe flapping in the breeze. A couple of foam curlers bounced onto the grass as she rounded the corner. Once again the Burton boy was on the bristly end of the broom.

Swinging open my window, I heard Rosa shout, “And don’t let me ever catch you doing that again!”

I shot out of bed and raced down the stairs, my eyes still sticky from sleep. Precious followed on my heels, her shrill yapping likely waking everyone in the house, including Guido. From the kitchen I heard him squawking, “Go to the mattresses! Go to the mattresses!” Still, none of this made sense. What had the kid done at this time of morning to get Rosa all riled up?

Pushing propriety aside, I swung the front door open and stepped outside in my shorts and T-shirt. At that very moment, the Burton boy raced past the front steps. He paused long enough to holler, “Help me, please! She’s gonna kill me! Do something!” He wasn’t playacting this time around. I could read the terror in his eyes.

Now, I knew Aunt Rosa didn’t have it in her to hurt anyone, but I could see how easily this could be misconstrued. She did have that wild-eyed look, after all. And her Italian phraseology let me know she wouldn’t stop until she caught the kid.

My, how that woman could rant. And I had to admit, after years of listening to my aunt’s temper-induced shouts, I now knew more saint names than the pope. It appeared one or two of them—saints, not popes—might just be on the Burton kid’s side today. He made an abrupt turn toward his home, managing to make his way across the street and onto his lawn. Once there, he stopped cold, panting. Instead of his usual taunting, he disappeared into his house.

Rosa appeared from the side yard, dragging the broom behind her. She looked winded but otherwise in fine shape. “I’ll . . . get . . . him . . . next . . . time.”

“What did he do?” I reached out to give her a hand up the front stairs onto the veranda.

“Broke . . . into . . . the . . . house.”

“W-what? When?” This revelation put a whole new spin on things.

“Just a few . . . minutes ago. I found him in the kitchen . . . stealing food.”

“Stealing food?” None of this made sense. The Burtons were millionaires, for Pete’s sake. Why would the kid need to scrounge for food?

“I caught him . . . in the act,” Rosa continued. “And when he saw me, he took off. Dropped a loaf of garlic bread on the floor . . . And he slammed the back door so hard the window broke. That’s when I took off after him.” She doubled over and took a few deep breaths.

“Wow.”

The word had barely escaped my lips when a UPS truck pulled into our driveway. I saw the puzzled look on Eugene’s face when he caught a glimpse of Rosa and me on the veranda in our pj’s. He ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair, then finally took a few hesitant steps in our direction. Something on the ground caught his eye, and he paused to reach down and pick up a couple of pink foam curlers. With a smile, he offered a shy “G’morning ladies” as he gave them to Rosa.

“Not exactly good.” Rosa proceeded to tell him about the day’s rocky start, and then invited him inside for a cup of coffee and some cinnamon rolls. He willingly agreed. In fact, I observed a bashful smile nudging at the corners of his lips. Hmm. Very suspicious.

As we all stepped into the front hallway, I noticed Uncle Laz inching his way down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other clutching his cane. He took one look at Eugene standing next to Rosa, and his expression tightened. His gaze shifted once again to the stairs.

“Morning, Lazarro,” Eugene said with a polite nod.

My uncle gave him a brusque “Hello” but didn’t look up.

I paused to watch the interaction between the three of them, noticing that something about this just felt strange. I’d known Eugene for years, but I’d never noticed the sparkle in Rosa’s eye when she looked at him . . . until now.

Suddenly it all clicked. All of the times she’d paid him special attention. The glasses of tea, the food . . . Did my aunt have a crush on the UPS guy? If so, did it not matter that she’d greeted him in her robe and curlers? And why did my uncle care? Were his feelings of animosity toward Rosa so strong that he didn’t want to see her happy at all?

Laz grunted and shuffled off to the kitchen behind my aunt and the UPS guy. Looked like Rosa wasn’t the only one who’d awakened on the wrong side of the bed. I couldn’t remember when I’d seen my uncle in such a state. What had happened to my family? Was everyone falling to pieces in front of my eyes?

Oh well. Nothing a hot shower and a cute summer outfit wouldn’t fix.

Determined to shift my thoughts in a more positive direction, I went through my usual morning routine, prettying myself up more than the norm in the hopes that D.J. would call and want to see me.

Once I’d approved of the reflection in the mirror, I headed back downstairs, intrigued by the sound of voices raised in anger coming from the back of the house. I made my way to the kitchen, where Mama appeared to be chaperoning Rosa and Laz while sweeping up bits of broken glass from the back window. She glanced up with a warning look in her eye, so I kept my mouth shut. As always, my aunt and uncle were going at it like two alley cats, only this time they had an audience. Eugene sat on a nearby barstool, watching the interaction with a puzzled look on his face.

“Whose business is it if I want to hang pictures of Sophia Loren in the restaurant?” Laz directed his words at Rosa, and his eyes flashed with anger. “She’s Italian, isn’t she? And it’s an Italian restaurant. I can put anything in my restaurant I want to put in my restaurant. No woman is going to tell me what to do.”

Whoa. I really had to clamp down on my tongue at that one.

The strangest look passed over Rosa’s face. Was that . . . jealousy? Just as quickly, she said, “Well, of course, Lazarro,” pasted on a forced smile, batted her lashes, and offered Eugene another cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll. I’d never seen her this flirtatious.

Wait a minute. Was this all some sort of act meant to ruffle Uncle Laz’s feathers? If so, it appeared to be working. Laz gave Eugene the evil eye, and our flustered UPS guy suddenly decided he needed to get back to work. He grabbed the boxes of boots and headed off on his way. I had no doubt he’d ask for a different delivery route next time.

Eugene had no sooner left the room than Rosa erupted in tears and ran out of the kitchen. Laz muttered, “Women,” then reached over, grabbed Eugene’s cinnamon roll, and took a bite, his eyes still flashing with anger. Off in the corner of the kitchen, Guido—who until now had remained quiet in his cage—erupted in a song that sounded strangely like “Amazing Grace.” In between verses, he hollered, “Wise guy!” a couple of times. Mama looked at me and sighed.