STAIN (My Soul To Wake Book 1) (21 page)

Please enjoy this sample of

BABY V

Book one in the

Chianti Kisses

Series

Also from

Tara Oakes

PROLOGUE

The definition of an arranged marriage:

Marriages in which family members take a significant role in bringing a couple together. Relatives, particularly parents, often take the initiative to find, evaluate, and approve potential spouses for their children.

CHAPTER ONE

The church bells finally finish chiming but I can still feel their metallic vibrations course through me. At least I will
never
have to hear those god awful bells again. Ever. Four years of listening to the slightly off-beat tolls have been enough to drive me to loathe them on more than one occasion. In the beginning, they were charming... that lasted all of a week. Soon after, I could sense the daily noon ringing like a well-tuned internal alarm clock, as it usually meant that I was late for class. If I was
really 
lucky, it meant only that my rare, but desperately needed afternoon nap was about to be interrupted. I know I’m not alone in my lack of affection for the old bells, because whenever anyone refers to them... it’s always as the  “damn bells.”

I look around at all of the other girls lined up with me and wonder if any of them are thinking the same thing about that last ringing. It was just another one of those  “last”  memories we would all share before graduation. Our last exam, last night in our out-dated but charming dorm rooms, last assembly-line styled breakfast, and our last days as students at St. Bart's. Until today, we had all been heading down the same path. In about two hours, we would splinter away into a hundred or so different ones.

“Well, do I?”

I snap out of my daze with a confused  “Hmm?”  to my right.

“V... do I look like I have too much lipstick on? I want to be able to see my lips in the pictures, but not to look like a cheap pin up doll. Christy says I have too much on. I don't think I have too much on.  Do I
really
  have too much on?”

And this is the last time I would have to listen to Katherine Lang ask me one of her mind numbing questions.

“No. It’s not too much. The photographers are like ten feet away from the stage and I don't think they're taking close up shots.”  I really have no idea what kind of photos they were going to take, but I probably wouldn't have worn as much of the pale pink lip lacquer that the petite blond slathered on herself.

Thanks to the inescapable alphabetizing of last names, I have had to endure random questions like this for the last four years. I look down the line of endless burgundy gowns toward the coveted  “T”  section of the group with envy. Stephanie catches my eye, giving me an overly enthusiastic and sarcastic thumbs up.

I would give anything to change my name right now. Nothing too crazy... something generic like Tate or Thatcher will do. But
nooo
. I'm a Lombardi and stuck with the  “L”s for just under two more hours. I hope. 

I don't think this can last longer than that. Father Cross is known to give a long-winded Sunday morning sermon but even he wouldn't want to stand out here in the blazing sun any longer than he has to.

Before I can finish rationalizing the merits against a drawn out graduation day, the familiar orchestrated beginning of  “Pomp and Circumstance”  begins to play loudly. Taking a deep breath, I follow Katherine's lead toward the stairs of the newly erected stage. As I grab hold of the bannister, I stand tall on my toes to try and see out into the crowd.

Hundreds of happy faces and flashing cameras are staring back toward us. Quickly glancing over the waving children, pointing parents, and people fanning themselves with folded programs, I scan for the large group of familiar faces that are waiting to see me take a seat behind the podium. I am about to give up and turn my attention toward the last step, when I find what I am looking for. A dozen or so adults and a gaggle of little kids all with the same light olive skin and dark brown hair as mine, stand out against the background. I smile knowing that my family is beaming looks of pride in my general direction.

Concentrating on the task at hand, I carefully walk halfway across the stage to my assigned seat, sitting as gracefully as I can. Mission accomplished. The last thing I need is to trip over my tent of a graduation gown and fall flat on my face before my brothers. They would never let me live it down.

The sun beats down on us like a fry lamp at any given fast food establishment. Our gazes respectfully aim toward the back of Father Cross' head, but I'm sure I'm not the only one stealing glances of their personal group of fans every few moments.

Mine is probably one of the larger ones. Sister Mary Francis wasn't thrilled when I handed in my seat count for the ceremony. I'm sure she would have told me to trim it a bit but held her tongue thinking about the amount of zeros on my family's endowment check to the school every year. 

Most of them are here today. Well, the ones living on this side of the Atlantic, anyway. Mom, Nonna, Aunt Rosie, my brothers with their wives and kids... and Theresa and Dom.  I take inventory of each of them as I check them off my mental family list.  And then I notice it.

“Miss Katherine Lang”

Father Cross turns slightly toward us as Kate gently squeezes my hand before getting up to receive her diploma. I smile and nod in return... chuckling a little when I notice the pink smear on her left hand.  She had decided to remove some of her war paint before having her perfect smile immortalized for her graduation pictures. Smart move.

I quickly move my attention back to my personal group of troublemakers starting to share collaborative looks between one another as they sit up in preparation. This is
not
good. If the four of them are communicating through silent glances and nodding with little smirks thrown in, that means they are all thinking somewhere along the same line. I'm on the receiving end of those lines of thinking more times than I care to recall.

The applause is loud but polite for Kate. Her family makes the expected cheers with her name being added to phrases such as,  “Go Kate!,” “That's my sister,”  and  “Yay Katie!”  Perfectly fine, tasteful and acceptable.

She grasps her diploma, faces the small group of men with wide-angle lenses stationed below the stage, and I can imagine her flashing the megawatt but slightly plastic smile she is famous for. It's the same smile she gives everybody, every time, exactly the same. I'm sure it was perfected somewhere around thirteen years old in the company of her vanity mirror. Lipstick was probably added somewhere around her sweet sixteen for dramatic effect.

The applause dies down while Father Cross angles himself back towards the microphone perched atop of the podium. 

“Miss Vincenza Maria Lombardi.”

I hold my breath and stand up, preparing for the noise.

I lock eyes with Father Cross, steadily heading in his direction. I have tunnel vision.
Just concentrate on reaching the podium and take my diploma when he hands it to me.
This is all I can think of to drown out the spectacle starting to erupt about ten rows deep into the crowd. 

My eyes do not budge from that diploma as it nears. The last thing I need to do is give them a reaction. I've learned the hard way over too many years, that if they see the slightest bit of frustration or acknowledgement... then it just carries on longer.

Father Cross, headmaster of St. Bartholomew's Women's University, looks like a deer caught in headlights. I'll bet he's never had this happen in the twenty-plus years he's given this same drawn out commencement speech, handing out these leather bound diplomas. I can't ignore the touch of irony in the situation, though.

Here stands the man who time and time again refused to change the outdated school curriculum after countless petitions and student senate meetings. 

Finishing and Etiquette courses are mandatory no matter the degree you were completing. After all, St. Bart’s is well known to be one of the finest (and few remaining) institutions where the daughters of the upper-crust can be educated in all things  “proper and polished”.

With families like this seeking out their services, why would they change protocol? It isn't like the students are paying the bills or granting the ostentatious endowments. The families do, and the last thing Father Cross will let happen on his watch would be for the benefactors to suddenly loose faith in his archaic and traditional policies.

And yet here we are on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, enjoying the fruits of his labor... while the wealthiest, most financially generous family that this school has likely ever seen is making a scene the likes of which St. Bart's gentry have ever witnessed.

A very small, crooked smile is fighting through all of my efforts of suppression. It is the same type of smile this man has given me every time I presented him with the school year’s latest petition to no longer mandate trivial classes such as  “Traditional dance,” “Entertaining,”  and  “Social graces.” 

I extend my right hand out toward the deep burgundy leather portfolio he is grasping and my left hand to take his salutary greeting. Widening into a full smile, I turn in the direction of the photographers below, and the clicking sounds begin. His palm is sweaty, but cold. Weird and gross at the same time.

My peripheral vision begs my attention. They're on their feet, hands in the air, pumping. Fingers are cupped around mouths to project the hooting and hollering further, louder. My little nephew Johnny is being held up in the air to add his own voice to the mix of calls being shouted my way. 

WAIT. There's a sign. Fuck. Really? A sign? I can't resist the urge any longer, and stare full-force in their general direction, taking in the entirety of it.

Mike, the youngest and most mischievous of my three older brothers (and most likely the ring-leader of today's affair), is holding up a rather large white cardboard sign with professional lettering sprawled across it... huge letters shining and sparkling in the bright sunlight.

WAY TO GO BABY V!

The blood rushes to my face before I can try and contain it. Mike is waving the sign back and forth, slowly, while doing his best impersonation of a rabid sports fan. His brown hair flops around from the sudden motion of jumping up from his seat. He sees me watching him and adds a nodding motion to his yelling.

John is next to him, holding little Johnny high above the crowd. Pure glee is painted across Johnny’s (“JJ”  as only I call him) round little face. As the eldest of my brothers and head of our family, John should know better than to encourage the next generation to jump on the  “Baby V”  bandwagon.  As angry as I am with him, I can't help but notice the look of pride on John as he holds his first born and only son up to watch me receive my degree.

Tony is next down the line of men making fools of themselves. His perfectly gelled coif and artificial tan stand out among the crowd of W.A.S.P.y alabaster complexions. The Jersey Shore has nothing on my brother Tony. He is suave to a fault and a killer lady's man. My inner Gloria Steinem is itching to add the phrase  “man slut”  to the mix, but Tony has a heart of gold and has never treated a woman badly. He treated them well in fact...
all
of them. But, he's a tamed man now, and married faithfully for over a year. Tony is so excited and laughing hard enough that he practically doubles over.  Dom is slapping him on the back while laughing himself. 

Dom. Gorgeous Dom with dreamy eyes. Tony was a ladies man, but he was just a wingman compared to Dom. Dom can have any girl he wants... and probably has. Growing up, all of my friends swooned over him like flies on ice cream, and he loved every bit of it. Domenico is not a blood brother to me like the other three, but close enough that I never hesitate adding him to their collective title.  They are simply,  “The brothers.”

Dom's eyes lock with mine long enough to see his famous grin and sly smile, before he adds the loudest boast yet to the ordeal. 

“Way to go, Baby V! Bring it on home!”

Before he can finish as enthusiastically as he started, Theresa elbows him hard enough to ensure there isn't a follow-up. That's my girl! Although Theresa is Dom's younger sister, she always has my back. As the only two girls in our family, we have an unspoken allegiance to each other.

Theresa has had her share of the boys' antics growing up, but, as the baby of the group... I bear the brunt of it.

Dom pretends to be injured, cowering away from his little sister while she returns her attention my way, and politely claps... just as I had done at her own graduation ceremony last year.

The two are quite a pair. For however handsome Dom is, Theresa is equally beautiful with her huge almond eyes, and long, wavy, blown-out hair. She is the closest thing to a sister as I'm sure I'll ever find.

After the full five-second timeframe perfected during countless hours of graduation rehearsal, I turn once more to Father Cross. His lip quivers a little in restrained anger as he issues his standard well-rehearsed words of wisdom.

“Congratulations my child... and God bless you.” 

Simple. Sweet. And probably more than a little difficult for him to say at the moment.

~*~

In a matter of moments, the great lawn has been transformed into a sea of chaos as relatives and loved-ones swarm around in search of their particular graduate. It probably doesn't help much that we are all dressed in the same identical burgundy ceremonial gown. Twice now, someone has grabbed on to me only to find that I was not exactly who they were expecting.

Maybe this will be easier if I just park it somewhere and wait to be found, instead of playing the maze-game with several hundred well dressed but impatient audience members? I head over toward the largest oak tree in the center of the lawn to relax under its shade until the craziness settles.