That's (Not Exactly) Amore (12 page)

And maybe I should be grateful to a certain widower named Aaron who fills my mother’s house with flowers and her heart with joy.

There are certain childhood memories that come back to me from time to time in the form of nostalgia. Things like spaghetti night that rolled around once a month from as far back as I can remember. It was the only time Mom left the kitchen and allowed my dad to take over a meal. Mom stayed out and I was allowed to help. I don’t remember whether or not the spaghetti was truly any good. But my time with Dad was delicious. During dinner, Dad’s rules applied. Laughter, funny stories, and noodle-slurping reined supreme. Back then, Mom’s eyes smiled. Last night I dreamed about them.

My eyelids, the so-called windows to my soul, lift and I glance around the darkened room. Dawn hasn’t even broken. It’s this time of day when I can never tell if it’s midnight or four in the morning. My gaze rests on the nightstand clock: 4:30. Time to haul it out of bed and get ready to deliver my rolls and stuffed sandwiches to Joe.

I push back the covers, shove down the PJ legs that always insist on bunching up around my knees while I sleep, and stand, pulling the quilt up over the mattress.

I gather my things for my shower and as I open the door, another wave of nostalgia hits me. The sound of my mom clanging pans and spoons in the kitchen. The sounds of childhood, but more than that . . . she’s humming. No—wait. My mother is
singing
. “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine . . .”

Her voice is beautiful. I’d forgotten. Mom always sang while she cooked. Dad would sneak into the hall and hide, so he could listen without being caught. Because once she knew anyone was listening, she clammed up.

My throat tightens as I walk quietly down the hall to the bathroom. The water steams over me along with a sense of bewildered optimism. My mother is changing.

Last night, our dinner with Aaron was pleasant enough. Mom enjoyed his company, I could tell, but I wouldn’t say she’s anywhere close to being in love. I mean, well, maybe. She did smile (with her eyes), when he complimented her sausage and kraut. And again when he ate two slices of peach pie à la mode.

By the time I finish upstairs and join Mom in the kitchen, she’s quietly standing over the stove, dishing up breakfast.

“I heard you singing.” I take the plate she offers and head to the table.

“Oh? I didn’t realize I was.”

She touches the collar of her robe—still the threadbare chenille my dad bought her, so I guess she’s not completely ready to let him go. For the first time in years, I’m actually fine with her wearing that robe.

“Breakfast casserole.” I slide my fork into the egg, sausage, and cheese dish. My mother never met a low-fat cheese she could abide, so it’s all fat, all the time. And oh-so-yummy.

Mom sits across from me and smiles. “I know it’s your favorite.”

My radar kicks in as I swallow my first bite. Is she buttering me up for something? I catch her gaze. “Everything okay, Mom?”

“Of course. Why would you ask?”

“Making breakfast casserole at five thirty in the morning, singing hymns . . . What’s going on?”

She blushes. “Well, I wasn’t planning to tell you like this, but Aaron has asked me to marry him.”

I laugh. “I bet you gave him a good piece of your mind.”

She doesn’t crack a smile. “Actually, I said yes.”

I lose my grip on the fork and it clatters against the plate. “You what?”

“I’ve accepted his proposal.”

“Ma! For crying out loud. You hardly know the guy.”

Her lips tip slightly. “I only knew your father two weeks before we married. And I think you’ll agree that worked out pretty well for over twenty years.”

I’m speechless. I mean, I knew about my parents, but for her to throw that back in my face as an excuse to rush into marriage . . . “Are you sure you’re not just over-romanticizing this thing with Aaron? I mean, what are the chances of love at first sight happening twice in one lifetime?”

“I don’t know how it happened twice, Elaine. But it has and I’m grateful.”

Anger shoots through me. How can she sit there, wearing my dad’s robe, and talk about falling in love with another man? A man whose bed she’ll be sleeping in. Or . . . I gasp. “Mom. He’s not moving in here, is he?”

A scowl twists her face. “Of course not. We’re selling his house and will buy a small house of our own.”

I suppose that means she’ll sell this house too. “Sounds like you have it all worked out.” I push back my plate. Who can eat?

The right thing to do, of course, is to walk around the table, hug my mom, kiss her cheek, and congratulate her. So I do precisely that, although I admit I’m fighting back tears.

Mom rises to her feet and gathers me close. “You’ll see. Aaron is a wonderful man. He’s not taking your father’s place.”

“I know.” I mean, goodness gracious. I’m not six. “Well, my cab will be here any time, so I have to grab my stuff.”

I’m a popular gal on the train ride back to Manhattan. Even cold, my baked goods smell wonderful. Good thing for me I’m in a sour mood. Otherwise, I’d probably give away half my hard work to the commuters who are staring at me like hungry wolves at a flock of sheep.

But like I said, I’ve had a lousy morning and I’m not in the mood to share. This is the second day in a row that has started off great and then plunged into disappointment. I might just stay in bed all day tomorrow.

11

I
don’t understand Italian, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the angry voices shaking the walls outside Joe’s office are not reciting nursery rhymes.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” The counter boy looks at me wide-eyed and positively trembling. “Frankie Pantalone is in there.”

“Oh. You mean Nick’s brother?”

“Yeah, otherwise known as Joe’s dad.”

“What are they yelling about?”

Brandon gives a shrug. “I’m not sure. I forgot to learn Italian on the way to work today.”

“Wise guy.”

“We’ll get the permits.” Joe’s muffled growl slides through the door. Finally some English.

Another man’s voice shouts in Italian and the door flies open. I jump back. A tall, thick-chested man wearing an impeccable suit that I know cost at least three grand thunders out. He barely gives me a glance as he sweeps past. “I’ll be in the car, Mama. You talk some sense into the boy.”

Mama?

I peek inside the office. Joe is frowning after the man. An elderly woman steps up behind Joe and places a hand on his shoulder. His face softens and he turns. He lifts her hand to his lips. “It’s okay, Nana. It’ll all work out.”

“You listen to your papa, Joseph Pantalone. He is good man.”

And then it’s as if Joe remembers seeing me from the corner of his eye, because he turns to me, slips his arm about his grandmother, and walks her forward.

“Laini, I’d like you to meet my nana. Cecelia Pantalone. Nana, this is the girl I told you about.”

He told his grandma about me? Pleasure slides through me like a warm river of rich honey. I reach forward to take her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

I wait for her to slide her wrinkly, cold hand into mine, but she snubs me! She gives me a haughty perusal. When her gaze takes in my hair, she actually sneers. Sneers! Like her gray hair is better than my red? And what’s that grunt as she takes in my figure? The woman weighs two hundred pounds if she weighs an ounce.

Slowly, I lower my hand and hide it behind my back. I’ve never been so insulted.

“I go now,” Cecelia says to Joe. “You listen to your papa. It is the right thing to let him help.”

She gives me another unflattering once-over and brushes past.

Joe tosses me an apologetic glance and squeezes my elbow as he follows her. “I’ll be right back.”

“Right back” turns out to be fifteen minutes later. I settle into my booth with a white chocolate latte and pretend interest in the
Times
that was left on the table by the previous customer.

Joe slams into the coffee shop, anger splashed across his face and storming in his brown eyes. He stomps toward the counter, then seems to remember me and detours. “Thank you for bringing in the new rolls and the rest of the stuff.”

“My pleasure. I’m just glad they sell so well for you.” I probably don’t need to state the obvious, but I’m not great at small talk.

“Be sure to stop by my office on your way out and I’ll cut you a check.”

Deflated, I take a sip of my latte, thus preventing my need to speak. But I do have to swallow, I suppose. And Joe seems to be waiting for an answer. “Actually, I’m ready to go now. I have a class tonight I have to study for.”

“You walking home from the subway tonight like the other night?”

I nod. “Same class. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

“You didn’t mention that you do it three times a week.”

“It never occurred to me that I might need to give you my schedule.”

He gives me something of a bewildered frown.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s been a rotten couple of days.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You want to join me for a latte?” I ask him with uncharacteristic boldness.

He hesitates and I feel ridiculous. Is he actually trying to figure out a way to let me down easy?

Then just like that, he nods. His face seems to relax for the first time since I arrived. “I’ll be back.”

And this time he is. A couple of minutes later he returns with his own steaming cup of regular coffee.

He takes the seat across from me and inclines his head.

“Your nana seems nice.” Why do people lie about the obvious? His brow goes skyward and I grin.

A chuckle rumbles his chest. “What can I say about Nana? She has her days of niceness, but today wasn’t one of them. So let me apologize for her not-so-niceness to you. I assure you it wasn’t personal.”

Oh, yeah? It felt personal.

“It was more about me than you. She’s been on me about finding a nice Italian girl and settling down. I told you, she’s been trying to get me interested in Nancy since we were kids.”

I feel my claws unsheathing. If she wants a fight . . .

Joe shrugs. “Let’s not talk about her anymore.” He sips his coffee. “So, tell me about your rotten day.”

I sigh and launch into the tale of my confusing day. All about my mom. How she’s been in a state of grief and depression for twelve years and all of a sudden she’s singing hymns and smiling with her eyes and letting light from the sun into the house. I’ve always wanted my mom to find the silver lining in life. But there was no transition. No time for adjustment. Not for me anyway. Ma knows how I hate change. Couldn’t she have sort of eased me into this new romance of hers?

I sit back when I’m done, expecting, oh, I don’t know, some sort of validation of my feelings. I mean, he’s the one who asked, right? So why is he giving me that idiotic boy-grin? “I’m not sure I understand the problem. Well, except the part about the oven going out. That was inconvenient. Don’t you want your mom humming and letting in the light?”

“But what about the flowers and Aaron?”

“Isn’t she entitled to a little happiness?”

I stare at him. Have I been talking to myself here? “How can you not understand why I’m upset? My mother is a completely different woman. Church and flowers and picnics in February. I think she might be getting Alzheimer’s or something.”

A grin spreads across Joe’s face. “You sure this isn’t about you not being ready to let her go?”

“Well, if you mean I should be happy she’s probably having a nervous breakdown, then I guess you just don’t get it.”

His gaze narrows and he leans forward in his seat. “My mom died when I was ten. My dad was dating again less than a month after he buried her. I still resent him for not loving her enough to be heartbroken over her death.” He shrugs. “Your mom grieved for twelve years. Now she’s ready to move on. Be happy for her and let her enjoy the rest of her life.”

I hate it when other people can be so nonchalant about things they obviously can’t identify with. In all fairness, I have to admit he’s right. And my mom does have a right to be happy after all these years. But again, let’s take it easy with life’s big changes, shall we? Some of us don’t adjust well to sudden movement. What can I say? I’m the jumpy type.

Anyway, in the spirit of reciprocity, I take a swig of my neglected white chocolate latte and settle my attention on his brown, beautiful eyes. “Okay. Your turn. What was all that about with your dad and Nana?”

Joe’s whole demeanor changes in an instant. I can see frustration build at the very thought of one or the other of his elders. I’m guessing his dad is the cause, but after meeting the old woman, I figure it could be either. He scowls. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, come on. I told you my problems. You tell me yours. You’re messing with a code of honor, here.”

“It’s not the same. Trust me.”

“Why?” I say, my voice flirtatious. “Is your dad trying to make you an offer you can’t refuse?”

Tabby, Dancy, and I have always joked about Nick being a mobster. He looks like one and he is Italian. It was always a fun little fantasy. Only I guess Joe doesn’t think it’s very funny, because his expression remains sober.

“He wants to use some of his influence with city hall to get our permits to go through quicker than normal.”

I shrug. “That would be great. We could get started.”

He scowls again. Fine, sheesh. I shrug. “Just a thought.”

“You don’t understand, Laini. It’s better to go through proper channels just like anyone else.” He stands. “I’ll go get your check.”

I watch him go, his shoulders drooping a little. I guess I should have left well enough alone.

Meg Ryan stands on the wooden bridge panning the horizon on every side, looking for her NY152. We see a dog and hear an offscreen Tom Hanks call for Brinkley. And then we know. Well, we already knew. But now Meg starts to figure it out too. Tom Hanks comes into view and their eyes meet. It’s a magical moment. Made even more magical because of the knowledge that Tom Hanks won Meg’s heart even though he single-handedly forced her Shop Around the Corner out of business. Now that’s romance.