Fools Rush In Read online

  “Mama mia, let’s escape! Let’s fall in love! Let’s eat chicken parmesan, fettuccine Alfredo, and Bubba’s down-home barbecue without gaining a pound. It’s all possible when we hang out with Bella Rossi in Fools Rush In. Janice Thompson’s first installment in the Weddings by Bella series is a fun, welcome distraction from life’s boredom and stress. You’ll fall for Bella’s D.J. even faster than she does. And you’ll root for the Rossi and Neeley families as they break down cultural barriers and rush toward each other, arms wide open. No fools, they!”

  Trish Perry, author, Beach Dreams

  and The Guy I’m Not Dating

  “From the Lone Star state, where everything is supersized, Janice Thompson brings us the larger-than-life story of Bella Rossi and her transplanted Italian family. I fell in love with the Rossi clan, a delightful collection of quirky characters who feel as passionately about their pizza as Texans do about chili. Add a hunky cowboy with a slow Southern drawl, and you’ve got a recipe for one terrific story. Polish up your line-dancing skills and get ready for a boot-scootin’ good time with Fools Rush In.”

  Virginia Smith, author, Stuck in the Middle

  “Janice Thompson is a master storyteller who draws her readers into the tale along with the characters. From page one of Fools Rush In, I felt as if I were Bella’s best friend, sitting down with her over cups of Italian cappuccino while she told me the latest happenings in her zany family. One of my top picks for 2009, Fools Rush In earns a permanent place in my library.”

  Ane Mulligan, editor, Novel Journey

  “Janice Thompson’s gift for writing humorous, romantic tales proves true once again in her book Fools Rush In. The story unfolds on Galveston Island, where Bella Rossi, a wedding planner of Italian descent, meets D.J. Neeley, a Texan through and through. Such a blending produces a joyous, fun-filled adventure for readers, whose lives will surely be richer for the time they spend at Club Wed in Fools Rush In.”

  Nancy Jo Jenkins, author, Coldwater Revival

  “Fools Rush In is a charming tale about stumbling upon love and finding a bit of your true self along life’s journey. Wedding planner Bella Rossi bounds from one crazy situation to another in this fun read that makes you grateful for the truly important things in life—a loving family and a strong faith. Like fine seasonings in rich gravy, Janice Thompson skillfully blends in several insightful moments to distill truth in a meaningful way.”

  Megan DiMaria, author, Searching for Spice

  and Out of Her Hands

  Weddings BY Bella

  BOOK ONE

  Fools Rush In

  A NOVEL

  Janice Thompson

  © 2009 by Janice Thompson

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P. O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Thompson, Janice, 1959–

  Fools rush in : a novel / Janice Thomspon.

  p. cm. — (Weddings by Bella ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 978-0-8007-3342-1 (pbk.)

  1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Weddings—Planning—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3620.H6823F66 2009

  813'.6—dc22 2009015690

  Most Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Some Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Published in association with MacGregor Literary Agency.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  In memory of my stepfather, Billie Moseley,

  a true-blue Texan,

  who is currently residing in heaven . . .

  and likely still wearing his boots

  Contents

  Prologue

  1: Mambo Italiano

  2: Just in Time

  3: Fools Rush In

  4: Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?

  5: Make the World Go Away

  6: Simpatico

  7: With My Eyes Wide Open

  8: You Belong to Me

  9: Young at Heart

  10: Little Did We Know

  11: That’s What I Like

  12: Who’s Sorry Now?

  13: Walk on By

  14: Pennies from Heaven

  15: Walkin’ My Baby Back Home

  16: Please Don’t Talk about Me When I’m Gone

  17: Memories Are Made of This

  18: Let’s Be Friendly

  19: Turn the World Around

  20: In the Chapel in the Moonlight

  21: Baby, It’s Cold Outside

  22: Which Way Did My Heart Go?

  23: I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face

  24: I’d Cry like a Baby

  25: Return to Me

  26: Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime

  27: You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You

  28: That’s Amore

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  If Uncle Lazarro hadn’t left the mob, I probably wouldn’t have a story to tell.

  Okay, so he wasn’t actually in the mob, he only sold vacuum cleaners to a couple of guys who were. In the ’70s. In Atlantic City, New Jersey. Before I was born.

  But still, mob ties are mob ties, right? And we Rossis certainly know how to take a little bit of yeast and puff it up into a whole loaf of bread—which means we’ve managed to elevate Uncle Lazarro’s story to folklore status. And why not? As my mama always says, “A little extra spice never hurts the sauce, just gives it more flavor.”

  Depending on who you ask, it was a Damascus Road experience that did it. Uncle Lazarro swears he was blinded by a bright light that drove him backward to the ground, just like the apostle Paul in the book of Acts.

  My Aunt Bianca, God rest her soul, told the story a little differently. In her version, Uncle Lazarro was hit by a bus on a city street late at night while walking home from a bar in a drunken stupor. She said the headlights came at him like two glowing snake eyes just before the kiss of death. She always exaggerated her s’s when she said the word ssssnake, which made the story more exciting.

  Afterward, Aunt B. would lift her tiny silver crucifix to her lips, give it a kiss, then roll her eyes heavenward and mouth a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty—not just for sparing her husband’s life, but for returning his sanity and his religion.

  Regardless of whose story you believed, Uncle Lazarro ended up at the Sisters of Mercy hospital in Atlantic City, where the nuns got ahold of him and led him to the Lord. He called it a “come to Jesus” meeting, and his eyes filled with tears every time he spoke of it.

  According to my pop, my uncle gave up selling vacuum cleaners that same night. From what I hear, he was never quite the same . . . and neither was anyone else in my family. Funny how one event can change absolutely everything. In our case, it set the wheels in motion for the whole Rossi clan to end up in the most illogical of places—Texas.

  Transitioning my story from the East Coast to the humid South would be impossible without mentioning my uncle’s love
for pizza. It’s one of a million things we have in common, particularly when it comes to deep-dish, heavy on the pepperoni. He’s also keen on coffees, especially the flavored ones with the foam on top. So when he came up with the idea to move to Galveston Island in the late ’80s to open Parma John’s—a pizzeria featuring the ultimate in Italian coffees—everyone took the news in stride.

  Likely, my parents were intrigued by Lazarro’s suggestion that they join him in this new venture. My pop, heaven help him, has always been lactose intolerant. I’m still not sure what motivated him to follow after this mozzarella-driven Pied Piper. Probably just his overwhelming love for his older brother. Love and loyalty—these have always been powerful opiates in the Rossi family. I’ve found them to be both a blessing and a curse.

  How my uncle settled on Galveston Island is another story altogether, one that involves the untimely passing of my beloved Aunt Bianca, may she rest in peace. Upon her deathbed, she mumbled these strange and startling words: “Toss my ashes into the Gulf of Mexico.” At least we think she said the Gulf of Mexico. My mother insists she must’ve meant Galva Messio’s, her favorite shoe store. Then again, my mama is always looking for an excuse to shop.

  Regardless, the entire Rossi clan ended up in Texas, a far cry from Atlantic City not just in miles but in personality. Transplanting the whole group of us—three adults and five children—was no small feat. And the little things nearly proved to be our undoing. For example, I spent the better part of my elementary years figuring out how to transition from “you guys” to “y’all,” something I thought would never come naturally. Now I can “y’all” with the best of ’em.

  Turns out Galveston Island was the perfect place to grow up and the ideal setting for a family business. In fact, it turned out to be such an ideal setting that my pop, probably weary with the whole cheese thing, decided to open a business of his own—Bella’s Wedding Facility.

  And that’s pretty much where my story begins.

  1

  Mambo Italiano

  To be twenty-nine and single in an Italian family is one thing. To be twenty-nine and single with a wedding facility named after you is quite another.

  From the day my father opened Bella’s, I knew I would never marry. I had enough working against me already. Legs as skinny as Uncle Lazarro’s walking cane. Interfering family members, who sabotaged every relationship I ever attempted. Now this. What were the chances someone would actually propose to a building’s namesake?

  Bella. My pop said he chose the name because I was such a beautiful baby. His face always lit up when he told the story of the first time he laid eyes on me in the hospital nursery. “What a vision of loveliness, bambina!” he would say. “All wrapped up like a piggy in a pink blanket with those big brown eyes peeking out . . . You were every papa’s dream!” Of course, he could never finish the tale without shouting “Bellissimo!” and kissing his fingertips with dramatic flair.

  I always loved that story.

  My mother, known for her brutal honesty, opted to reveal the truth in the trickiest of ways—by showing me photographs. Not only was I the homeliest baby on Planet Earth, my bald head appeared to be oddly misshapen. No wonder they kept me wrapped up like a sausage. They were afraid I’d scare the neighbors.

  I’m told by Aunt Rosa—Mama’s older sister—that the head thing got better as I aged—kind of like a melon coming into season. And my hair, a mop of long, dark curls, eventually covered up any remaining imperfections. Still, I never completely trusted my father’s stories after that. So when he announced his retirement from Bella’s a couple of months ago, I wasn’t quite sure I believed him.

  Only when he added “Bella will take over as manager, and we will all work for her!” did I take him seriously. But why in the world would he pick me of all people—a melon-headed spinster with skinny legs and a penchant for pepperoni?

  Inspite of my reservations, I eventually came to terms with my new position, even looked forward to the challenges ahead. Right away, I came up with the idea of changing the name of the facility, opting for something modern and trendy. I chose Club Wed, hoping it would draw clients from the mainland for one of our advertised themed weddings. Country-western. Medieval. Hawaiian. Forties Swing. You name it, I planned to offer it.

  Only one problem—I’d never actually planned a themed wedding before. We Rossis had only hosted traditional ceremonies and receptions. And now, with less than two weeks before my first Boot-Scootin’ bridal event, I found myself in a world of trouble. I needed a deejay who knew a little something about country-western music, and I needed one yesterday.

  I did what came naturally when in a jam—picked up the phone and called my best friend, Jenna. She answered on the third ring, breathless as always.

  “Parma John’s, we deliver.”

  I couldn’t help but smile as I heard her voice above the strain of a familiar Dean Martin song. I started to say more, but she continued on before I could get a word in.

  “Would you like to try our special of the day—a large Mambo Italiano pizza with two cappuccinos for only $17.95?”

  “Skip the cappuccino. Let’s go straight for the cheesecake,” I said.

  “Bella?” She let out a squeal. “Is that you? Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “I love it when you give me the spiel. Makes me feel special. And hungry.”

  “You are special.” She let out an exaggerated sigh, and I could almost envision the look on her face.

  If I didn’t know her better, I would think she was schmoozing—trying to bamboozle me into buying the Mambo Italiano. But Jenna was the real deal, “a friend that sticketh closer than a brother,” as the Bible would say. Or, in this case, closer than a vat of melted mozzarella.

  I explained my predicament. As I started to ask for her help, she put me on hold and never returned. I listened to three rounds of “Mambo Italiano” before finally hanging up. Some things were better handled in person.

  After a hurried good-bye to my parents—who were scouring the World Wide Web for a great deal on a European vacation—I raced out of the door, hoping to find the deejay of my dreams. Only when I reached the driveway did I realize I had company. Precious, my Yorkie-Poo, circled my feet, trying to weasel her way into both my car and my heart.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I scolded. “This is a canine-free catastrophe I’m facing.”

  Three minutes later, I found myself belted into the front seat of my SUV, headed out onto Broadway with a Yorkie-Poo—whose disposition did not match her name—wrapped around the back of my neck like a lumpy mink stole. Some battles just weren’t worth fighting.

  We made the trip to Parma John’s in record time. As I pulled onto the Strand—Galveston Island’s historic shopping and business Mecca—a sense of wonder came over me. The cobblestone sidewalks put me in mind of an earlier time, before the 1900 storm that had taken the lives of so many. And to think the historic buildings were still standing after the recent devastation of Hurricane Ike—what a testimony! Somehow, the two-story brick buildings along the Strand had proven to be as stalwart as most Galvestonians.

  I parallel parked next to the sidewalk, not far from the Confectionery, one of my favorite places. Inside, children nibbled on taffies and licked the edges of ice cream cones. I’d spent countless hours in there as a child. Didn’t hurt that Uncle Laz had befriended the owners. In fact, he’d made his presence known throughout the district, often giving away pizza and coffees to his fellow merchants at no cost. One thing—maybe two—could be said of my uncle above all others. He knew how to win over people, and he had the strongest work ethic of anyone I’d ever met. Next to Rosa, of course. She lived with us and worked round the clock to keep us all fed. She worked from sunup till sundown most days, rarely complaining.

  Making my way past several of the shops, beyond the throngs of flip-flopping tourists, I finally landed in front of Parma John’s. Seeing the sign out front still made me smile. Though I’d been young at the time it went u
p, the love and care that went into it would remain with me forever—the same love and care that went into the design of the shop and the creation of the foods and coffees on the menu.

  Stepping inside, I found the shop filled with a larger-than-usual crowd, particularly for a Monday. No wonder Jenna had left me hanging. Likely, she was up to her elbows in sauce and sausage and would hardly remember I’d called in the first place.

  I slipped Precious into my oversized purse, then noticed the sound of teenagers’ voices raised in song. How Uncle Lazarro got these high schoolers hooked on Dean Martin was beyond me, but they seemed to have the lyrics to “Mambo Italiano” down pat. I found the choice of music quite clever. My uncle should’ve considered a career in marketing.

  Or wedding planning.

  Surely, if someone in my gene pool could come up with a themed pizza, I could carry through with a themed wedding, right?

  I caught a glimpse of my older brother, Nick, and gave him a wave. My baby brother, Joey, buzzed around cleaning tables but managed to flash a warm smile my way. I hollered out, “Hey, Professor,” and his cheeks flushed. No doubt he was tired of the name family members had given him after he’d acquired his associate’s degree at Galveston Community College. Others in the family teased Joey—all five foot five of him. His long ponytail and tattoos set him apart from the others, but I secretly favored him. Who could resist such a kindhearted nature? And that servant’s heart! Wow. We should all have a heart like that.

  As predicted, I found Jenna behind the counter, helping with the pizza prep. She looked up as I approached, and a dazzling smile lit her face. Until she heard Precious yapping from inside my purse. “You can’t bring that little demon in here,” she scolded.

  “She’s no demon,” I argued as I pulled the handbag a bit closer.

  Precious chose that moment to let out a growl. I peeked inside the purse, and she bared her teeth at me. I quickly closed her back inside, then turned to my best friend with a forced smile. “She’s getting better.”