That's (Not Exactly) Amore (18 page)

I feel my claws unsheathe.

The old lady points her crooked index finger across the table where there are two empty seats side by side. “You, Nancy. Sit there.”

I can’t believe it!

“Nana,” Nancy says, “Joe brought a friend. I’ll sit by Uncle Frank.”

“Your friend will not mind.”

Wanna bet? But the look of challenge in the wicked eyes prompts me to say, “I don’t mind at all. After all, this isn’t a date. Right, Joe?”

His eyes cloud, but only for a minute. “Yeah, right.” His shoulders shrug beneath the wonderfully-filled-out jacket. He turns to Nancy. “I guess you’re my dinner date.”

Somehow I feel like I just got shafted. “Come on, Laini.” Joe places his palm at the small of my back and leads me to the seat next to his dad. My legs shake as he pulls the chair out for me. “Dad, do you remember Laini? You met her at the coffee shop.”

He gives me a once-over and I know he has no idea who I am. “Sure, sure. Have a seat, doll.”

Joe leans in close to me. I fight the urge to close my eyes and take in the scent of soap and aftershave. It’s not Polo, but Joe doesn’t need expensive cologne to make my knees rubbery. The thought makes me feel a little disloyal to Mark. Anyway, Joe leans in close to my ear and whispers, “You sure about this? Nancy can handle my dad. You should come back to my side of the table and sit with me.”

He doesn’t think I can handle his dad? A sixty-something guy with gold chains around his neck? Come on. I raise my chin and give him a cocky half-grin. I whisper back, “If she can handle him, so can I.”

His gaze slides over my face. He grins and nods. “If you need me, give me a wave.” He gives Frank a raised-brow stare. “Dad, behave yourself.”

“Huh?” Mr. Pantalone looks up from his conversation with a busty blonde. I fight against rolling my eyes at the cliché.

Joe sends me a wink.

“Joseph!” Nana hollers. “Come and sit.”

“Just remember,” he says softly, for my ears only. “It was your choice.”

“I think I’ll live.”

I slip into the seat to the right of Frank Pantalone. There’s something very Tony Soprano–ish about him, and my bravado vanishes as quickly as it came. I absolutely can
not
hold my own in a conversation with this thug. I look around for someone else to talk to. Anything’s got to be better than getting off on the wrong foot with a guy who could very likely order a hit on me for any reason. You never know.

On my right, a slightly-older-than-middle-aged woman is sipping what is too obviously a glass or two past her first of vino. “Hiya,” she slurs. “I’m Bev.”

Oh, boy. These are my choices? A Marlon Brando wannabe on one side and Bev the Lush on the other?
God, get me out of this nightmare. Please.
“Hi, I’m Laini.”

“You came with Joey?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I look toward him, hoping he’ll be staring back, but he’s listening closely to Nancy.

The wine must not be affecting Bev’s vision too much, because she notices the direction of my gaze and gives a scowl and a “fuhgetaboutit” wave. “Those two. Why don’t they just give in and marry each other? It’d make the old lady happy, and I mean, it ain’t like either one of ’em’s gettin’ any younga, you know what I mean?”

She gasps so loud I’m afraid she might have sucked all the oxygen from the room. I think maybe she’s having a heart attack or something, because her palm is flat against her considerable chest as she shakes her head.

“Are you okay?” I ask, about to grab my phone and ready myself for the possibility of calling 911.

“I just can’t believe I said that when no more than two minutes ago you said you came here tonight with Joe.” She practically growls as she turns her glassy-eyed glare on Joe. “What a bum. Abandoning you for that floozy.”

“It’s all right, ma’am.” How is it that she practically has my date married off to another girl and I’m the one consoling her? My life is not charmed, I tell you. “Actually, Nancy is my roommate and a friend. I don’t consider her a floozy. And Joe only brought me to meet some prospective clients. So you see, there’s not a problem.” I don’t think I’d sound too convincing to anyone with less than three glasses of chardonnay in her. But lucky for me, this woman doesn’t seem to be able to hold her liquor.

“Clients?” she says in a voice almost as nasal as Fran Drescher’s. “What sort of clients, honey?”

Embarrassment catches my throat a little. It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with baking, but in view of Nancy’s position as a hotshot stinking architect, the thought of ’fessing up sort of fills me with a case of “not on your life.” It’s pride. Yes, pride. Most likely the kind that goes before a fall. But I’m powerless to stop myself from blurting out, “I’m a designer.”

She scrutinizes me and a funny look slips across her pudgy face. “Since when did designers start wearing JC Penney?”

Okay, this woman doesn’t need even one more sip of that wine. How the heck did she know I’m wearing department store clothes? “Let’s get something straight right off the bat,” I say with a sniff. “These are from Sears, not Penney’s. And I’m not that kind of designer anyway. I’m an interior designer.”

Interest springs to her Tammy Faye eyes. “Well, that’s a different story, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe I have a job for you.”

At this moment I am keenly aware of two things. One: the Laini angel sitting on my right shoulder all dressed in white and wings. And two, the Laini devil wearing a skintight red bodysuit and carrying a pitchfork.

The angel tells me I should definitely confess to this woman—explain that even if I graduate, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be any good at this job and I’m seriously rethinking this career path.

“Do not,” Angel Me says, “allow her to hire you for a job you’re not only ill-equipped to take on, but for which you also do not have a degree.”

Devil Me, on the other hand (or shoulder, to be precise), tells me, “Don’t be a chump. Take every bit of advantage of this drunken woman who so callously made you see how perfect Nancy and Joe look with their heads close together talking about something that obviously needs close-to-the-ear communication.”

I stare at Nancy and Joe again. Joe doesn’t seem to remember he brought a different girl. Doesn’t he even wonder how I’m doing over here all by myself, sitting with people I don’t know? I mean, even if it is a non-date, I deserve the occasional glance from him. I think I do anyway. And so does Devil Me.

“Wh-what sort of job?” Oh, boy. Dread infuses me. This can only end badly. Unless, that is, I turn to the light side and start listening to my inner angel.

“I got a couple of rooms need changed. My husband, Ernie”—(sign of the cross)—“may he rest in peace, had the same nasty wood paneling in his office from the day we bought that house until he died two ye-ahs ago.” Another sign of the cross. “I been plannin’ to change it ever since. You want the job?”

“B-but I don’t . . .”

She takes a sip of her wine. “If you’re good enough for Joey, you’re good enough for me, honey.”

Speaking of Joe, he just touched Nancy’s hand and then laughed at something she said. Even the feathers on my angel’s wings ruffle at that. Is it any wonder I suddenly turn to this woman and say, “I’d love to take a look. We’ll fix up your husband’s (may he rest in peace) space before you know it. Can I get your number?”

All I can say is, the devil made me do it.

Twenty minutes of discussing Bev’s dead husband’s office and I’m wishing I was a drinking girl myself. I almost cry real tears of relief when someone taps my shoulder. “You Miss Sullivan?” I turn to find two men, decked out in expensive suits and gold rings on their fingers.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Tony.” He jerks his thumb at the identical man next to him. I’m guessing identical twins. “This is Sam. Joey says you’re looking for some business.”

From the looks of these two characters, I’m not sure what kind of “business” we’re talking about, but since Joe sent them my way, I’ll listen . . . cautiously.

“Hold on, you two,” Bev slurs. “This girl is going to design Ernie’s office for me. So I get her first.”

“Design?” Tony frowns. “I thought you was a baker.” Oh, yeah. That was the purpose of tonight, wasn’t it?

“I’m baking my way through design school,” I say, trying to suppress the sudden rise of laughter at the whole ridiculous situation.

“Hey.” Frank pulls himself away from the blonde on his other side and joins our conversation. “What are you two guys trying to do? Nick ain’t going to let this girl go. She’s a gold mine.”

Tony sends him a scowl. “Mind your own business, Frankie. Joey asked us if we wanted to try out some of her stuff.”

“Look,” I say, swallowing hard, “you don’t have to. . . .”

“Don’t be silly,” Sam says, placing a meaty hand on my shoulder. “We know what a profit your stuff is bringing to Nicky’s place.” He sends me a wink. “He can’t keep you all to hisself, can he?”

I can’t help but smile.

Tony grins back. “Shall we step out for a minute and talk business?”

I glance over at Joe. He smiles and nods. My heart soars at the pride shining in those eyes. For the life of me I can’t look away, and neither does he. Is something happening here? Self-consciously, I touch my fingers to the base of my throat. His eyes flicker down to my fingers and back to my eyes. His lips part as he takes a long, slow breath. I can almost feel his arms around me.

This moment is going on too long. I know that, but I’m powerless to stop it.

Nana, on the other hand, has all the power in the world. She smacks him on the arm and that’s that. He drags his gaze away and I get a glare from Nana. Clearly, she’s determined that he’s going to marry “her” Nancy.

I turn to the uncles. “Men,” I say, “let’s go talk business.”

17

J
oe insists on riding the train with me all the way to Long Island after the party. We drop Nancy at the apartment, where I grab my bag, and off we go to Penn Station.

“I mean it, Joe,” I say for the umpteenth time after we disembark from the train and hail a cab. “This really wasn’t necessary. I feel terrible that you came all this way.” And I do. Feel terrible, that is. Sort of. Mostly I’m thrilled he wanted to make sure I made it to Mom’s without being mugged.

“Don’t feel bad. I couldn’t let you come over here alone at night.”

He reaches across me in the backseat of the cab and I draw back, a little startled that he’s making a move. If I want to fudge the numbers, I can call this a first date, even though we’ve both made it clear it isn’t. Still, I can’t exactly go to a kiss yet. I could hold his hand, maybe let him put an arm around me.

His face is close. So close that if he wanted to, he could move in for a kiss and there’d be absolutely nothing I could do about it. Really, he could. Like, right now. If he wanted to, that is. Is it really fair to hold him to a set of rules that I haven’t shared with him?

My stomach lurches as he turns his head to look at me, smiles, then pushes the lock. “Don’t want you falling out.”

Be still my heart.

He settles back onto his side of the car, leaving me breathless and let down. And I’m pretty sure there’s a tiny smile lurking at the corners of his lips. As though he might have done it on purpose, knowing how amazing he looks and smells tonight. But hidden in the shadows, I can’t be positive. And why would he toy with me that way? I dismiss the thought as unlikely and relax as the cab whirs through the wet streets.

Joe breaks the silence. “Nana is relentless about Nancy and me,” he says. “I want to apologize again for forcing you on Aunt Bev and my dad.”

I shrug, still smarting a little over the image of Nancy and Joe with their gorgeous Italian heads together. Why did he have to go and bring that up anyway? “Actually,” I say, turning away from the window (which I’m starting to fog up, incidentally), “I had a nice chat with Bev. She might be interested in hiring me to redo her late husband’s office.”

His eyebrows go up. “You agreed to that?”

What is his problem?

“I agreed to take a look.” I narrow my gaze at him and muster as much attitude as the situation warrants. “Why? Do you have a problem with it?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. I just thought you’d have your hands full with the other stuff.”

“What other stuff? I don’t plan to pursue the contract until I get my degree.”

“The catering business. How did it go with my uncles?”

I smile at him and have to resist the urge to pat his cheek as though he’s a sweet ten-year-old boy. “I don’t have a catering business, Joe. Just an outside source for making supplemental money while I’m in school.”

“You plan to stop baking when you get your degree?”

I open my mouth to say, “Of course.” But I can’t quite bring myself to do it. Because I hadn’t really put two and two together and calculated the cost of getting that degree. If I work for another designer, which is the plan, I won’t have time for baking. And if I’m going to contract my own work—well—I won’t have time for baking then either. Not the amounts Joe and his uncles are asking for.

“Well?” Joe’s one-word question pulls me from my reverie.

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see what sort of job I line up after I get my degree.” It’s the easiest answer I can think of. And thank goodness the cabbie pulls up to the curb in front of my mom’s house, sparing me the necessity of elaborating. I pull on the handle, but the door doesn’t budge.

Oh, the lock. Joe and I reach for it at the same time. His hand covers mine and we lift the button together.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to be cool.

“No prob.”

I take a deep breath of cool March air as I step out of the cab. Then I realize that I didn’t pay and open the door just as Joe stuffs some bills into the cabbie’s hand.

“Close the door, lady,” the cabdriver grumps.

Sheesh.

He speeds off, leaving me to stare at Joe. “Hey, I was going to pay for that. I would have had to take a cab whether you came with me or not.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

Joe walks me to the door and, of course, I ask him in. I can’t expect the guy to take a train and then a cab (for which he paid) and not at least offer him a cup of tea. Even if he did leave me at the mercy of his drunken aunt.