The Queen of Minor Disasters (16 page)

I’m wearing jeans tonight,
since I spend most of my days in dresses. I choose a dark pair and wear a tight
white tank top, with a pearl colored chiffon shell on top. I like the effect of
the cool white, contrasting with my skin. I finish off the look with extra tall
wedges, gold hoops, and a Fendi clutch.

“You’re wearing jeans?” my
mother asks in shock when I step into the kitchen.

“Mom, I wear dresses
every day
,” I whine like a twelve year
old.

“Let her wear whatever the
hell she wants,” my dad chimes in. He winks at me.

“She’ll look out of place,” my
mother squeals. She always has to have the last word.

Still, I don’t change. I’m
wearing jeans. Period.

At 8:00 my parents and I walk
directly across the Island to the Lancetti’s house. Much to my mother’s dismay,
Pietro and Gina left for New York right after the beach. Mario and Dante said
they’d go to the barbeque later and Lorenzo has stuck his ground. He’s not
coming to the Lancetti’s this year.

 The Lancetti’s house is
located right on the 99
^th
Street beach so we’re on opposite ends of
the island, but since it’s only one mile from beach to bay it’s a very short
walk.  The house is enormous and makes ours look like a shack. It’s built of
yellow stonewalls, reminiscent of the villa in Tuscany where Mr. Lancetti
originally wanted to retire. The roof is my favorite part, because its
terracotta tiles remind me of a Spanish hacienda.

As if being right on the beach
weren’t lavish enough, they have a large pool in their back yard, facing the
ocean. I used to imagine living in that house, and spending each night in the
pool, listening to the ocean in the background.

The entry way is paved in
Italian tiles and the skylight in the foyer makes it seem as though you’re
still outside. The professional grade kitchen, with its Sub-Zero fridge and
Viking Stove, looks like it’s not used too much. I don’t think the Lancettis
come down the shore all that often. It’s a shame to waste a house like this.

Mrs. Lancetti greets us at the
door. She’s wearing a flowing strapless maxi dress and has turquoise stones on
her sandals. For not coming down the shore much, she has a pretty flawless tan,
and the black of her dress only accentuates it. She’s a classic beauty, slightly
younger than my mother, though they look about the same age. The one thing I
love about Anna Lancetti is that she’s never confined to one look. Some women,
especially women in their fifties and sixties, tend to stick with what they
know, but Anna is a chameleon; each time I see her she has a new look. Tonight
she’s sporting a Cleopatra hairdo, complete with thick bangs cut straight
across her forehead. I can’t help but think how much better it looks on her
than it would on me. “Come in DiLucios, come in!” She squeals, hugging each one
of us as we enter her kitchen.

A small crowd is gathered
around the buffet, which is set up on the island in the kitchen. They turn to
look at us, and continue on with their conversations.

“Where’s Lorenzo?” she asks.

My mother huffs. “He might
stop by later.”

“Oh, it’s a shame he’s not
here, I have the
perfect
girl for
him.”

I find it strange whenever
someone wants to set one of my brothers up. If the girl is perfect for Lorenzo,
why not set her up with Mario? Or Dante? There’s really not too much surface
difference between them. Still, she doesn’t offer this match to either of my
other brothers, so I’m guessing the girl has been to the restaurant and tasted
his food.

I’m surprised my brother is
still single. Everyone knows women are suckers for a man who can cook.

Mr. Lancetti comes in from the
sliding glass doors. He’s a short, round man, with a big bald head and warm
smile. He smells slightly of smoke and charcoal and I wonder if he’s been
manning the grill. Usually this is a catered event. I really hope they’re not
skimping this year. I only came here for the food. Barbeque ranks pretty high
on the Food Therapy list.

 “Antonio!” he yells and gives
my dad one of those manly hugs that end with a loud pat on the back. “So good
to see you all.  Who wants a drink?”

Um, me.

We all follow Mr. Lancetti to
the bar area, where a bartender is mixing drinks. I look around casually to see
if I know anyone, but the guest list pretty much only includes well to do
people in their sixties. Hopefully none of our customers are here. I secretly
plan on getting drunk.

My dad orders a Bombay
Sapphire martini with olives; Dante and Mario, who arrived by car two minutes
after us, opt for beer; and my mom orders a white wine spritzer like the other
women here. I really want vodka, but opt for a glass of champagne instead. All
I need are the town gossips saying I have an alcohol problem. Plus, I can just
down this and sneak back for a martini in a few minutes.

Drinks in hand, we disperse.
My dad hangs back with Mr. Lancetti, my brothers go outside by the pool, and I
mingle in the kitchen with my mother. I’m by far the youngest of the women
here, and the most casually dressed. I feel a little childish in my jeans, and
secretly wish I had put on one of my dresses.

“So Stella,” Mrs. Lancetti
says to me over the poached Salmon. “I heard about your boyfriend. I’m so sorry
to hear that.”

I shoot my mother a death
look. She looks back innocently and takes a sip of her drink. “We’re just
taking a little break,” I mutter.

The women all look
uncomfortable. Some exchange glances with each other, others looks down at the
salmon, and still others give me an apathetic look, as if to say “yeah right.”
What the hell do they know anyway? We
are
just taking a little break. I mean, we talked last night didn’t we?

“My Robbie says he saw you the
other day.”

Now all the ladies, including
my mother, turn their heads to look at me.

“Yes, he came to deliver the
bread.” I shrug my shoulders and pop a fried olive in my mouth like this is no
big deal, but I can feel my mom staring at me.

“He’s been living in Rome you
know,” Mrs. Lancetti says, as if she’s trying to sell him.

“That’s nice,” I reply. “Rome
is a beautiful city.”

The ladies start talking about
Italy and all the vacation hot spots they’ve been to. I excuse myself and exit
through the sliding glass doors, making my way towards the grill.

My dad, Mr. Lancetti, and a
few other men are smoking cigars near the pool. Dante joins them while Mario
talks to some man I don’t recognize. I’m sad that my brother is avoiding my
father, and hope that their relationship can be mended. If there’s one thing
about my brother, it’s that he’s a
testa
dura
. As stubborn as a mule.

The chef manning the grill is
replenishing the stock of hamburgers, sausages, and hot dogs on the buffet. A
waiter refreshes the fixings, placing new spoons in both the mustard and
ketchup, rearranging the slices of lettuce, tomato, and onions, and fluffing
the rice salad. This year, the Lancetti’s have arranged an impressive array of
bread to accompany the meats. I take a plate off the buffet line and reach for
a multi-grain bun.

“Bella Stella,” I hear Roberto
from behind me and I can’t help but turn around. “You look great,” he says.

“Thanks, you too.” I stand there
for a minute, holding my plate. For some reason, I’m nervous and can’t think of
anything to say. “Great party.”

“I guess,” he shrugs. “It’s a
little lame, but I missed it while I was away.” He looks down at my plate. “Did
you get something to eat?”

“I was about to,” I say
awkwardly. There’s something about this whole scene that’s making me
uncomfortable. I glance towards the house and see all the ladies in the kitchen
staring at us. They quickly look away, but it’s obvious. Suddenly I feel my
face flush. I may have been dumped by my boyfriend, but I’m certainly no
charity case. If Mrs. Lancetti and my mom have plotted to set me and Roberto
up, they’re in for a big disappointment.

I move towards the spread of
meats, as if to say to Roberto that I’m done talking. Hopefully he can take a
hint and realize that I’m not interested.

“So, how about that drink?” he
says from across the meat table.

I’m about to throw out the old
boyfriend excuse, but that would just be weird since Drew and I technically
aren’t together. Instead, I pretend not to hear him and focus on building the
world’s most decadent hamburger, topped with crispy pancetta, provolone cheese,
sautéed onions, and mushrooms.

I can feel Robert looking at
me, waiting for an answer. “I work every night,” I mumble, and top my burger
off with a thin slice of tomato. Finally, I reach for a large piece of red
onion because I will not be kissing anyone in the near future.

“Well how about tonight?” he
insists.

Why is he being so persistent?
And why won’t I just have a drink with him? He is kind of cute, and it’s not
like I have anything else going on. I hold up my burger and look at is as if it
has the answer to all my questions. As I’m about to take a bite, I hear the
clinking of glasses and the music is cut.

A bartender is passing out
glasses of champagne to each guest in preparation for a toast. I take one off
the tray, eager to gulp it down. Once everyone has a glass Mr. Lancetti taps on
his to get everyone’s attention. Thank God.

“I’d like to make a toast to
my good friends Antonio and Teresa DiLucio. As all of you know, they’ve had the
best restaurant in the Philadelphia area for the past twenty years.”

“With the best bread,” Mrs.
Lancetti shouts. Everyone laughs.

“And now, they have decided to
sell it. Let’s raise a glass to them for cent’anni of happiness in their
retirement.”

Everyone clinks glasses. I
look at my mother whose face is pale. Up until now, they haven’t told anyone
besides the family of their decision. Mr. Lancetti just made it public.

I scan the area looking for my
dad, and see Mario, leaving the through the pool gate.

Shit.

Roberto looks at me as I place
my plate and glass on a nearby table. “I have to talk to my brother,” I mumble
and walk towards the gate.

I exit and step onto the
beach, fumbling in my wedges. Mario is nowhere in sight. He must have gone
home. I take a deep breath and walk towards the water. The sky is beginning to
darken and in the half-light the ocean looks completely black.

I take a seat in the sand,
close my eyes, and listen to the rhythm of the waves.

“You okay?”

I look up to see Roberto
holding my plate and two glasses of champagne. He sits in the sand next to me.

“I’m fine,” I say though
truthfully I don’t feel fine.

“Have something to eat,” he
says handing me the plate. “It’ll make you feel better.”

I give him a funny look. Could
he be a supporter of Food Therapy too? I reach out and take the plate from his
hands and eye up the burger. It does look delicious.

“So I finally get to have a
drink with Stella DiLucio,” he says handing me the glass of champagne.

“I’m not really great company
at the moment,” I reply and take a swig of champagne. “What would you do if
your parents closed the bread company?”

“I would toast their
retirement. I’m not really into taking over the business. You should figure out
what you want to do aside from the restaurant.”

Again, he’s shocked me. Here
he is sitting on a fortune and he’s so happy to walk away from it. Sometimes I
wish it was as easy for me to walk away from the restaurant, but I’d feel so
guilty abandoning my family.