On Any Given Sundae (5 page)

“Okay, but one more thing—”

“Yeah?”

“If he tries any fresh moves on you, just
tell me,” Gretchen said. “I’ll have him bound and gagged so fast he
won’t know what hit him.”

Elizabeth laughed and hung up. How could she
tell Gretchen that doing this very thing to Rob had been the
cornerstone of many of her high school fantasies? Rob bound. Rob
gagged. Rob all hers.

She rested her head on her arms, thought
about the terror-inducing event that stretched out before her
tonight and began hyperventilating in earnest again.

***

Five-thirty wasn’t The Witching Hour in
anybody’s book, but Elizabeth decided it ought to be renamed.

She dressed carefully and conservatively in a
pale pink shirt and dress slacks, adding a light summer sweater to
camouflage the inevitable sweat rings—from nervousness not high
temperatures. Then she packed herself and the pastries she was
bringing into her Camry, drove over to Tutti-Frutti with all of
forty seconds to spare and eased her way out of the car.

“Perfect timing,” Rob said, emerging from the
sweets shop before she had a chance to change her mind and speed
away. “I’m parked across the street.”

“H-How did the shifts g-g-go?”

He took her elbow and led her toward his
sporty red car. Her pulse shot up to well over a hundred, and it
surely had nothing to do with taking her first ride in a
Porsche.

“Awesome,” he said. “People were real
friendly and had lots of questions about our uncles. They wanted to
know where in Europe they were headed, what kinds of sites they’d
planned to see, and I told them I’d have to ask you because you’re
the keeper of all those details.” He grinned at her, opened the
passenger’s door and continued his monologue. “Oh, yeah. And the
florist was back for a repeat of yesterday’s double scoop. And I
had an interesting conversation with your friend Jacques about the
making of éclairs. He promised to bring me a sample to taste
tomorrow.”

“D-Did he?”

Good heavens. Jacques must’ve really taken a
liking to the guy if he offered freebie treats to a non-chef. She
glanced at the man sitting next to her as he put the car into gear.
So confident. So smooth. So very charming. It was no wonder Rob
Gabinarri wormed his way into everyone’s good graces. She tried to
imagine what it would be like to be that comfortable in her own
skin. A virtually impossible daydream.

“Yes, indeedy,” he said. “Oh, and I gathered,
after talking with Jacques, that Gretchen is some kind of sorceress
with truffles.” He nodded in her direction but didn’t actually
require her response, for which she was grateful. “My buddy Miguel
in Chicago has a real sweet tooth, so he’s always bringing in new
desserts for me to try. Plus, he makes a wicked Mexican Hot
Cocoa—with cinnamon and chili pepper and a bunch of other things I
can never keep straight. Man, I tell you, it is
spicy
, but
one of the most magnificent creations imaginable on a freezing
January morning when the wind chill is twenty below.”

She swallowed, trying to channel “winter” but
not succeeding. Even with the cool breeze blowing through the car
window, she was broiling. Her body temperature must be hovering
somewhere dangerously high. And, jeez, she didn’t even want to know
her blood pressure.

Rob yakked about the parade of thrilled
visitors who entered and exited the shop, about the delightful
summer weather, about how refreshing it was to be in a small town
again (albeit briefly) after the frenzy of a metropolis, and he
jabbered on about fifty other things during the winding drive to
his mother’s house. Stream-of-conscious chatter.

Except…

Well, she almost missed it, but she didn’t.
She tried to ignore it, but she couldn’t. Rob talked twenty miles a
minute, fast enough to do a snow job on a polar bear, except there
was something in the cast of his expression that seemed to do
battle with his words. The set of his jaw, maybe. The cloudiness in
his eye. Whatever it was, Elizabeth got the distinct impression
that all was not as amusing or as agreeable as it seemed. But, for
the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t be. Rob
lived a charmed existence. Only, by the time they’d parked in front
of his mother’s two-story Colonial, she was convinced he didn’t
think so.

“W-Why did y-y-you ask me here?”

A trace of panic flashed across his face then
disappeared. He shot her one of his oh-so-divine grins. “Mama said
she hadn’t seen you since you were a little girl and, when I told
her we were working together at the shop, she said it would be so
nice to have Siegfried’s niece over to dinner.” He patted her hand.
“And I really appreciate you coming, too.”

This time she didn’t get blown off course by
his touch. Well, she did, but she also kept her focus on his face.
Rob Gabinarri was hiding something. If only she could articulate
her questions, she could get to the heart of it.

But, before her lips could form the words,
Alessandra Gabinarri came bustling out of the house.

“Roberto!” she cried, arms flung open.
“Little Lizzy, all grown up!”

Elizabeth glanced at Rob and he studied her
face for a moment. He looked surprisingly serious.
Contemplative.

“She likes to be called Elizabeth,” he told
his mother as they got out of the car and he handed over the bottle
of red wine (from him) and the box of pastries (from her). “And I’m
Rob, remember?”

The large woman wrapped Elizabeth up in her
ample arms and squeezed her before planting a kiss on either cheek.
“Welcome, Elizabeth,” she said. Then she embraced her son in a
similar manner. “Your brother and his family are here.” She eyed
the two of them. “Show her around the house and the garden,
Roberto. Dinner will be on the table in ten minutes.”

“Sure, Mama,” he said. “And everyone calls me
Rob now.”

His mother shrugged. “I named you. To me,
you’re Roberto. Live with it.” Then she grinned at them and went
inside.

“Impossible woman,” he muttered, but
Elizabeth heard the affection in his voice.

They ambled around the yard for a few minutes
as Rob pointed out the fruit trees and various flowers his mother
took pride in. Elizabeth thought of her own mom, who’d loved to
plant her annual vegetable garden. And not just tomatoes and
cucumbers either. Weird stuff. Eggplant. Summer squash. Rutabaga.
The dreaded okra. A pang of longing swept over her again. How she’d
love to make just one more phone call to her mom to chat about the
merits of harvesting sweet fruits versus bitter veggies.

“Gotta warn you,” Rob said as they headed
toward the house and passed by a prominent Mother-and-Child stone
statuette. “Mama’s really big into the whole Madonna thing, so
don’t be too shocked when we get inside.”

Elizabeth understood the allure of religion
and knew how prayerfully many Catholics regarded the Virgin Mother.
She gave him a solemn nod and walked through the backdoor.

Rob wasn’t lying. There were Madonna images
everywhere… The
pop singer
Madonna. On refrigerator magnets.
Tacked to the pantry door. A huge glossy poster of the singer,
circa 1984, dressed in white lace and ruffles in the foyer.

Rob nodded. “See. She’s almost a groupie.
‘Like a Virgin’ is still her favorite song.”

Elizabeth stood in place and laughed.

“What?” he said. “Some people are Elvis
fanatics and my dad used to think the Beatles were the best band
since—”

“No, Rob. I-I just thought you meant your mom
was really into the Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God Madonna, not the
Kabbalah-practicing-ex-wife-of-Guy-Ritchie Madonna.”

Now he laughed. “Well, she thinks highly of
them both, but none of us are real clear on the Virgin Mother’s
singing voice, so…”

Their gaze met and the strangest thing
happened. A look passed between them—a knowing, conspiratorial
look—one tinged with laughter and camaraderie. Elizabeth’s heart
leapt.

A lanky guy, who could only be Rob’s younger
brother Tony, peered around the corner at them. He’d been a
sophomore when they were high school seniors and had grown about
seven inches since she’d last seen him. He stepped forward.
“Roberto!” he said.

“Antonio!” Rob said back with raised
eyebrows.

“Okay, let’s cut the crap,” Tony said.
“Promise to call me Tony tonight. No more taking Mama’s side like
you did yesterday.”

“Golden Rule, bro,” Rob said to him.

“Yeah, I know.” Tony slapped his back and
turned to Elizabeth. “Hey, Lizzy. Or—sorry—Mama said it was
Elizabeth now. Great to have you here.”

“Th-Thanks.”

“You’ve got to meet my wife Maria-Louisa.
She’s in the basement with the kids but they’ll be up any minute.”
And he launched into a story about something one of his boys did in
school last month with a jar of black ants…and how the teacher had
been wary of him ever since…and how the woman must surely be
counting the hours until school got out for the summer.

Another gabby Gabinarri.

Then, before Elizabeth knew what was
happening, she got tossed into a whirling, swirling tornado of
gabby Gabinarris. A pack of them—four, no
five
children—emerged from the basement and descended upon Tony and Rob
and her, too, followed by a petite woman about Tony’s age
(Maria-Louisa, no doubt) with a bright smile and, evidently, an
unlimited supply of energy.

“Time for dinner,” the family’s matriarch
called from the kitchen. And, at those words, the tornado spun
toward the dining room.

Elizabeth looked long and hard at Tony’s wife
and her pounding heart eased at the sight. That must be heaven, 3-D
and in full color. Being the mother to a troupe of exuberant
children who loved her unconditionally, and whom she could love in
return. When Elizabeth was around kids, all of her
self-consciousness drifted away. Children were real and open and
honest. They didn’t hide their emotions or play games with hers.
She bit her lip. If only immaculate conceptions were possible in
this modern age.

“Elizabeth,” Rob and Tony’s mother said.
“Please sit here.” She pointed to a chair across from Rob and in
between two of the Gabinarri youngsters: A dark-haired, giggling
Camilla and a sandy-haired, hiccupping Sammie.

“Hi!” Sammie said to her. Hiccup. “I’m five.”
Hiccup. He covered his mouth, his eyes bugging out with laughter
and the astonishment of a bodily process that couldn’t be
controlled. “How old are you?” Hiccup.

“T-Twenty-seven,” she said. “Almost
twenty-eight.”

“Oooh!” Camilla said. “So, you get to have a
birthday soon.”

Sammie hiccupped again.

“I just turned seven three weeks ago,”
Camilla added. “When’s yours?”

“In July,” Elizabeth admitted. “The fifth.
The day after Independence Day.”

Hiccup. “Cool,” Sammie said. “My birthday’s
not—” Hiccup. “Until November. That’s too far away.”

Elizabeth smiled at him then snatched a
glance at Rob. He was staring at her curiously.

“This is my sister-in-law Maria-Louisa,” he
said as the petite woman sat down.

“Nice to meet you, Elizabeth,” Tony’s wife
said. “I see you’re getting to know Camilla and Sammie. These are
the triplets.” She pointed to the cluster of three identical boys
jumping on either side of her. “Matthew, Mark and Michael. They’re
three and a half.”

A chorus of Hi ‘Lizbet’s greeted her. She
looked deep into their brown eyes and fell instantly in love.

“Hello, boys.” She gave them her warmest
smile. “Are you three ever b-big. Are you going to sit right here
with us?”

“Of course,” Alessandra Gabinarri broke in.
“Everyone should gather ‘round the same table. To give thanks. To
eat. To talk about the day. I wish the others were here, too.” She
turned to the triplets. “Boys, sit down.”

Her grandsons did as she commanded but,
Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice, nothing could keep their little
bodies from squirming.

“Antonio, time to eat.
Now
.”

“Yes, Mama,” Tony said, looking sheepish as
he sauntered into the room and took his place at the head of the
table, between two of his children and opposite his mother.

For a moment, Elizabeth wondered about this.
Tony was only two years younger, it was true, but didn’t the head
of the table traditionally go to the eldest male present? Maybe
being a married father carried extra weight with Alessandra
Gabinarri.

She caught Rob staring at her again and being
surprisingly silent amidst the family chaos. Elizabeth, meanwhile,
answered questions galore from Camilla, Sammie and even an
occasional triplet. Dishes clattered as roasted potatoes,
manicotti, grilled carrots and tossed salad with crouton cubes were
passed back and forth. Hunks of bread slathered in garlic butter
were distributed to the crew. Wine or soft drinks were offered.
Nobody dared refuse anything.

“None of that stinking low-carb stuff for us
Gabinarris,” Tony whispered to her with one eyebrow cocked while
his mother heaped several spoonfuls of potatoes onto little
Sammie’s plate.

Alessandra stopped abruptly, ladle in the
air. “What happened to my music?” She looked accusingly around the
table. “Roberto, was it you?” she said.

Rob shook his head, wide-eyed but with
upturned lips, and his mother’s gaze fixed on Tony.

“Antonio?”

“Oh, all right. Yes, it was me.” Tony rolled
his eyes and threw his hands in the air.

His mother continued to glare at him.

“I’ll go put it back on,” Tony said.

“You do that, Antonio.” She set down her bowl
and crossed her arms. “Fooling with my CD player,” she muttered
until the strains of Madonna’s classic “Get into the Groove”
floated into the dining room. “Hmm. That’s better,” she said when
Tony returned. And the clattering, clanking, chattiness and general
chaos resumed again at the table.