Fools Rush In (3 page)
Cruising down Broadway with the afternoon sun blazing high in the sky, I fumbled around with my right hand in my oversized Balenciaga handbag—a Christmas gift from my ex-boyfriend, Tony DeLuca—all the while keeping my left hand on the steering wheel. Not an easy trick with an ill-mannered pooch wrapped around my neck.
It took a few seconds of scrambling, but I finally came up with the phone. Now, to locate the deejay’s number. I nudged my fingers into the pocket of my jeans and eased out the scrap of paper. Seconds later, safely pulled up to a red stoplight, I made the call.
Four rings later, the guy’s voice-mail recording kicked in. “Hey, you’ve reached Dwayne Neeley. Sorry I can’t get to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Dwayne. Only he’d pronounced it
Duh-
wayne. Interesting how the name matched his over-the-top Texas accent . . . which, to my way of thinking, proved to be a little too heavy on the twang. Maybe I could get him to tone it down a bit before the big day. Then again, he did have that nice bass sound to his voice. Crowds always loved that. I know I did. In fact, I loved it so much that I missed the changing of the light. The guy behind me gave a gentle reminder with a toot of his horn that green, at least on Galveston Island, still meant “go.”
Startling to attention, I forged ahead down the busy street, leaving a message as I went. “Hi there.” Speaking in my most businesslike voice, I continued, “I’m looking for a deejay. My name is Bella Rossi, from Bella’s wedding facility on Broadway.” I caught the mistake and corrected it. “Er, Club Wed on Broadway in the historic district. If you’re interested in a great paying job weekend after next, please give me a call at 409-555-0402.”
I hit E
ND
and tossed the phone into my purse, then leaned back against the seat. Well, tried to lean back, anyway. My rotten-tempered pooch let out a yip, and I found myself offering a rushed apology to the world’s most self-absorbed canine. Precious indeed.
Oh well. No time to worry about that right now. No, right now I had a job to do. Having never before planned a wedding with a country-western theme, I had my work cut out for me. Though I’d spent most of my growing-up years in Texas, I’d never been into the whole cowboy-meets-cowgirl scene, and I’d certainly never line danced. Strange, I know. But in our family, it was the mambo all the way. Or one of Aunt Rosa’s famous country folk dances.
Still, I would pull off this themed wedding or die trying.
Hmm. Nix the latter.
I pulled the SUV into the driveway, startled to find my aunt chasing a neighbor boy with a broom in her hand. This wasn’t the first time I’d caught her in such an aggravated state. Last time, however, it was Uncle Laz on the other end of the bristles.
I stepped out of the car to watch all of this go down just as Rosa hollered,
“Gli dai un dito e si prendono il braccio”
to my mother. I knew the meaning, of course: “Give them a finger and they’ll take an arm.” Fully translated: “Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.” Still, I couldn’t imagine what the neighbor kid had done to deserve this.
The boy turned back and shouted, “Watch out, people! That old lady is crazy!”
I wasn’t sure I could dispute him, though Rosa was usually tearing into Laz, not neighbor kids. With Laz, she was on equal footing.
Rosa, my mother’s oldest sister from Napoli, and Lazarro, my father’s pizza-loving older brother, had an understanding. They would go on hating each other until the day they died.
There were mixed stories regarding the origin of their feuding. Something about Frank Sinatra having a better voice than Dean Martin was all I’d been told. Oh, and Rosemary Clooney. Somehow she factored into the mix. At any rate, the bickering—both in rapid-fire Italian and rough-hewn English—had gone on for nearly sixteen years, and frankly, I’d had enough.
But today Aunt Rosa seemed content to chase the neighbors, not Laz. Though she did it with the usual amount of gusto. Her salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper these days—was a fright. And her plumper parts—mostly around the midsection—seemed to lag behind a bit as she ran. Then again, the support hose and heavy black orthopedic shoes probably gave her an added advantage. I could almost see her gaining on the kid.
Precious scrambled out of my arms and down onto the ground, where she shot off after the boy, probably thinking him to be a burglar. Her frantic yaps filled the air, adding to the chaos. I called out to her, but she paid no attention. Nothing new there.
My mama—still regal and slender at fifty-seven—stood on the porch, shouting out to my aunt in Italian, “Rosa,
lasciare il ragazzo solo
. Leave the boy alone.” Either Rosa didn’t have her hearing aid turned up, or she simply didn’t care to listen. The stubborn sixtysomething continued on around the side of the house, broom slicing through the air as she hollered out to the kid in Italian. Poor little guy. Probably never knew what hit him.
I looked up at my mother with a grin. “Rough afternoon?”
She swept a perfectly manicured hand through her dark hair, then turned to me with an exaggerated sigh. “You have no idea.”
“But I’ve only been gone an hour.” I climbed the stairs up to the veranda to join her. “What could have possibly happened in that length of time?” The cool afternoon breeze off the gulf provided a momentary relief from the mid-June heat. It caught a piece of my long, curly hair and whipped it into my face. I pushed it away and continued in her direction.
“I’m not sure you want to know.”
She proceeded to fill me in, whether I wanted to know or not. Apparently the kid had turned our veranda and front steps into a skate park, maneuvering his board back and forth, up and down, until Aunt Rosa, who’d been baking bread inside the house, finally snapped.
A shiver ran down my spine as I contemplated what
that
must’ve looked like.
“She confiscated the skateboard,” Mama explained. “Said she’s not giving it back until she gets a written apology—in English and Italian.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yeah. But the kid wouldn’t go down without a fight. Said his daddy’s a lawyer.”
“Uh-oh. The new family across the street?” I glanced across Broadway at the beautiful historic home recently restored. We’d watched them move in just the day before. Tens of thousands of dollars in antiques and other fine furnishings had given us plenty to talk about over dinner last night.
“Yes, the Burtons. So much for making a first impression.”
“Man. I really hoped to get off on the right foot with them.”
From what I’d heard through the grapevine, Bart Burton planned to run his office out of his home. Knowing that made me feel better about the fact that we ran a business along Broadway. Not that the neighbors were complaining, necessarily. The area boasted dozens of beautiful historic homes, many used for residential purposes, others used for business. There was a nice mix of both. But having another businessman close by might draw in clients. I hoped. Unless he was a divorce attorney. Hmm. I’d have to check into that.
Mama tried to pick up where she’d left off, but the sound of Andrea Bocelli’s rich tenor voice interrupted her. My cell phone. I prayed it was the call I’d been waiting on.
“Sorry, Mama.” I reached to open the slender pink phone. “My deejay awaits.”
“Deejay?”
After a nod in her direction, I mouthed the words, “I’ll fill you in later,” then answered with a tentative “Hello?”
“Bella Rossi?” The same twangy voice greeted me, though slightly deeper than I’d remembered. I felt myself captivated by this Texan at once. Surely he was tall and brawny with a five o’clock shadow. I could envision him now in his boot-cut jeans and starched button-up shirt. To complete the picture—cowboy hat and boots, naturally.
“Yes?” I finally managed as my imagination got itself under control.
“I’m returning your call. Something about a job at your wedding facility.”
“Yes, thank you for calling back so quickly.”
“No problem. I would’ve called sooner, but I had the music turned up and didn’t hear the phone.”
“Understandable.” Even now I could hear an unfamiliar melody in the background. More twang-twang. Perfect.
“I’m working a job on the west end of the island for the next few weeks,” he explained. “But I can probably swing a second gig, as long as it’s not time consuming.”
“Just one day’s work. The last Saturday in June.” After a second thought, I threw in, “Though, if you do a great job—and I’m sure you will—we could probably talk about more opportunities in the future.”
“Sounds great.”
Trying not to gush, I added, “I’m looking for a pro, and you come highly recommended.” I didn’t want to carry the flattery too far, not knowing his capabilities, but a little enticement never hurt.
“Well, thank you for the opportunity. I’ve only been on the island a few months. Folks down here are mighty friendly.”
Yep. The voice was definitely growing on me. I could almost picture him now, standing off to the edge of the crowd, microphone pressed to his lips as he urged folks to take one more spin around the floor.
“Where are you from,
Duh-
wayne?” I couldn’t resist.
“Splendora.”
Okay, so he had me there. “Never heard of it.”
“Small town about an hour north of Houston. Off Highway 59. Tucked away in the trees.”
He dove into a detailed explanation of small-town life in the piney woods of east Texas, but I only half heard what he had to say. His lyrical voice pulled at me, like the tide urging my heart out to sea. Still, I’d better stop myself before proposing marriage to this total stranger.
“I’d like to meet with you in person at my facility to talk more about the job, if you’re available tomorrow.”
“Sure,” he said. “What would be a good time for you?”
Remembering my bride and groom would arrive at six the following evening for a final planning session, I responded with, “What about 5:15?”
“Not a problem. I’ll see you then.”
I proceeded to give him the directions, then we ended the call. Seconds later, Aunt Rosa came sprinting around the side of the house, a long string of Italian words flowing in the breeze and a half-crazed Yorkie-Poo yapping at her heels. The boy was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t stop Rosa from carrying on with a vengeance. She’d paused long enough to pluck a few tomatoes off the vine in Uncle Laz’s garden. I could almost see the look of horror on Laz’s face now. No one messed with his garden. Surely Rosa didn’t plan to pelt the kid with the tomatoes, right? Nah, she was probably just trying to save herself a trip before cooking dinner.
With the dog so stirred up, I couldn’t make out everything my aunt said, but I managed to decipher a bit of it. Something about a lawsuit against the neighbors. Or maybe it was a lawsuit
from
the neighbors. I couldn’t be sure. I gave Mama a shrug and headed off to the house, far more important things on my mind.
As I entered the house with Precious in my arms and started up the stairs, a familiar Frank Sinatra tune greeted me. As Ol’ Blue Eyes crooned across our piped-in PA system, I found myself caught up in the words. One thing could be said of the Rossi household—we never lacked for music. Variety, yes. Music, no.
My sister appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in a luscious pair of jet black capris and the prettiest hot pink top I’d seen in ages. Amazing strappy sandals, luscious handbag, lots of bling around the neck and the wrists. Yep, I’d raised her right.
“Hey, Bella.” Her thick, dark hair bounced off her shoulders as she took a couple of steps toward me.
“Sophia. You look great.” I offered up a little whistle as I took her in. In so many ways, my younger sister resembled my mother, right down to the manicured nails and tattooed eyeliner. I got a little wistful about the fact that her head— underneath those cascading locks—was perfectly rounded. This I knew for a fact, having seen it myself when she was born. Sure, I was only six at the time, but my baby sister’s bowling ball perfection had made the headlines, at least in the Rossi family.
“Thanks.” She released an exaggerated sigh. “I was supposed to have a date this evening, but it fell through.”
“Oh no.” I hated to say that Sophia struggled in the date department, but something always managed to go wrong.
“Yeah.” She sat down on the top step and groaned. “That means I have to have dinner with the family tonight.”
“Hey,” I argued, “nothing wrong with that.”
The roll of her eyes let me know her take on the matter.
Just then, Dean and Frankie, my brother Nick’s boys, came bounding down the stairs dressed in shorts and swim goggles. Odd, since we didn’t have a pool. Dean, the chubbier of the two, had something in his hand that looked like an electronic game of some sort. I couldn’t be sure. He called out a threat to his brother, and they nearly knocked me down as they blew by.
“Slow down, Deany-boy!” I called out. He paused just long enough to glare at me for calling him by the dreaded nickname, then picked up his pace once again.
“Stop running in the house!” Sophia shouted as the boys reached the bottom of the stairs. They disappeared into the living room. She turned to me with yet another groan, followed by an explanation. “They’ve been awful this afternoon. I took them to Stewart Beach, and the lifeguard kicked us out.”
“What did they do this time?”
“Well, apparently they were wreaking havoc in the men’s room. No idea what all they did, but it was enough to get us ousted from the place. And I don’t think they want us to come back. That’s a huge problem because the summer just started. Seriously, how am I going to keep them busy? I’ll go crazy if we have to stay at home.”
“There are plenty of other beaches on the west end of the island,” I offered. “Jamaica Beach, Pirate’s Beach . . . and you could always hit one of the pocket beaches out near the state park. They’re more secluded anyway. Not as many people for the boys to annoy.”
“Like that would stop them.”
“Well, if you don’t like the beach idea, take them to Moody Gardens or the waterpark. Or Seawolf Park to see the submarine. They love that.”