Fools Rush In Page 10

  “’Scuse me?” D.J. narrowed his eyes.

  The Burton boy scowled before repeating himself. “I said, ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law.’ And you’re trespassing on our property, by the way.”

  “Technically I’m standing on the sidewalk,” D.J. informed him, the level of his voice now intensifying. “And so are you.”

  The kid scooted back onto the grass and gave him a “what are you going to do about it?” glare. He held on to the ball like a dog with a bone.

  “Give it up, kid.” Bubba reached out to take the ball, but the Burton boy took another giant step backward.

  “Who’s gonna make me?”

  “I’m gonna.” Bubba took one step onto the grass.

  I shook my head. “Don’t do it,” I warned under my breath. “It’s not worth it.”

  “But that ball’s worth—” Bubba clamped his mouth shut, apparently not wanting to give the kid any more fodder.

  “Worth a lot of money, huh?” The Burton boy gave it a once-over. “Enough to buy a new Plan B?”

  “Plan B?” I’d like to give him a Plan B.

  “What are you talking about?” D.J. asked.

  The kid’s jaw tightened. “Plan B. My skateboard of choice. To replace the one that crazy old lady stole from me.”

  My jaw tightened at the words crazy old lady, but I managed not to respond. How dare he say such a thing! I crossed my arms at my chest and stared the kid down. Two could play at this game.

  “First of all, she’s not a crazy old lady. If you’d give her half a chance, you’d know that. Besides, you provoked her. Second, she didn’t steal your skateboard. You were on our property. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, remember?”

  The kid’s demeanor changed right away. “Hmm. Well, when you put it like that . . . Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.” His eyes narrowed as he said, “I’ll trade.”

  “Trade?” My aunt hadn’t agreed to give up the skateboard, but surely, considering the circumstances, she’d come to her senses and work out a deal. Right?

  “One basketball for one skateboard,” the Burton kid said with a nod. “We’ll just call it even. And I’ll talk my dad into dropping that lawsuit he’s planning to file.”

  Please. You’re not fooling me.

  Just then, Rosa came sprinting across Broadway, broom in hand, Italian threats streaming from her mouth. Her wind-whipped hair, gray on black, made her look a bit like Cruella de Vil . . . from the neck up, anyway. The apron-covered day dress, sagging support hose, and black orthopedic shoes created a completely different image. Still, as she ranted and raved, I gave up on my plan to prove her sanity.

  The boy took one look at her and took off running. She 113 started off after him, the shoes giving her an added advantage.

  “Rosa, you don’t want to end up in jail!” I called out as she crossed over onto his property line. That stopped her cold. She planted both feet on the sidewalk and shouted in lyrical Italian as the kid headed into his house, Pop’s basketball in hand. So much for thinking they might be willing to strike a deal.

  Bubba pulled off his cap and scratched his head. “I ain’t never seen a kid talk to adults like that before. That boy needs a serious comeuppance.”

  “No kidding,” D.J. agreed. “But I somehow doubt he’ll ever get it. Something tells me he runs the show over there.”

  “No doubt,” I said quietly.

  We stood there in silence for a few minutes, hoping the little thief would return. No such luck. We eventually made our way back through the early afternoon traffic to our front yard. The conversation vacillated between contacting the kid’s parents and letting him keep the basketball. Both options left me feeling nauseous—especially when I saw the look in Pop’s eye as he shuffled up the drive and into the house.

  As soon as we reached the veranda, D.J. glanced at his watch, and his eyes widened. “It’s ten after one. I have to get back to work.”

  “Me too,” Jenna said. “We’ve been gone way too long.”

  As D.J. turned to leave, something caught my attention. A black limousine pulled into our driveway and came to an abrupt halt just a few yards away from us.

  “Are you expecting company?” I asked Mama.

  “No. I don’t know who that is. But what a car!”

  A tall and stately driver, dressed in a black tuxedo, white dress shirt, and black bow tie, climbed out of the driver’s seat. His dark moustache and neatly edged goatee complemented his formal attire. He tipped his cap to us, then opened the back door of the limo and reached inside, coming out with something rather large covered in a colorful cloth. My mind reeled at the possibilities.

  The well-dressed stranger approached our sweaty crew with the contraption in hand and posed his opening question. “Is there a Mr. Lazarro Rossi here?”

  My uncle hobbled his way forward, cane in hand. “I am Lazarro Rossi.”

  “Ah. Very good.” The fellow smiled and introduced himself as Joe Barbini. “We meet at last. Mr. Lucci speaks of you often.”

  “Salvadore Lucci?”

  A gasp went up from everyone in the family as Uncle Laz’s old friend was mentioned. I watched as my uncle’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Barbini nodded. “I’m sorry to tell you Mr. Lucci has suffered a stroke and will be in rehab for several months.”

  “Oh no! Poor Sal!” Uncle Laz shuffled about with his cane in hand, moaning in passionate Italian about how he had failed his friend on a thousand levels. How a better man would have won Sal to the Lord by now.

  Mr. Barbini listened intently and nodded politely until Laz reached the end of his speech. “Mr. Lucci has asked that Guido stay here with you. Until he recovers, that is.”

  “Guido?” Uncle Laz’s brow wrinkled.

  Mr. Barbini pulled the cloth away to reveal an ornate cage with the most exquisite green and red parrot inside. As soon as the bird came into view, a string of curse words escaped his beak, followed by an ear-piercing, “Go to the mattresses!”

  “What in the world?” I took a step toward the cage but stopped in my tracks as Guido lifted his leg and made a noise that sounded just like a machine gun going off.

  Aunt Rosa let out a bloodcurdling scream and looked as if she might faint, which sent D.J. rushing to her side. God bless that cowboy from Splendora.

  The noise finally stopped. For a moment, no one moved. Mr. Barbini, looking more than a little embarrassed at the bird’s behavior, finally broke the silence. “My apologies. Guido’s had a long drive from Atlantic City. Carsick, you see. Now, I’m not making excuses for his behavior, but I’m sure he’s exhausted. And he doesn’t do well with change. Never has.”

  “Am I to understand you drove all the way from Atlantic City in a stretch limo . . . to bring us . . . a bird?” My mother turned to him with a look of horror on her face.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Mr. Barbini nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

  “But, I’m confused.” Uncle Laz gave the parrot a careful once-over. “Why did you bring him here, of all places?”

  The limo driver set the birdcage on the veranda and cleared his throat. “Mr. Lucci explained that you’ve always been like a brother to him. You’re the only one he trusts.”

  We all turned to face Laz. His eyes welled up with tears once again.

  Mr. Barbini hoisted a large bag of bird food out of the limo and placed it on the veranda step, alongside another bag labeled Supplies. Then he pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to my uncle. “I believe you will find what you need inside. Instructions for Guido’s care. His feeding schedule. Prescriptions for allergy medications. Those sorts of things. Oh, and he’s overdue to have his wings clipped again. You might want to take care of that before he takes off flying.”

  “Feeding schedule? Allergy meds? Wings clipped?” I scarcely had time to get the words out before the fellow tipped his cap, climbed back into the limo, and backed out of our driveway. From inside the cage, Guido contin
ued to chatter, this time repeating the words, “Wise guy.”

  I happened to catch D.J.’s eye and had to wonder what the poor boy was thinking. Would he run as fast as he could from this nutty family of mine? Head back to Splendora to give the folks at his church a list of prayer requests about the crazy people he’d met in Galveston?

  My handsome deejay turned to me with an engaging smile, and all of my fears dissolved in an instant.

  “Gotta go,” he whispered. I could almost see the sadness in his eyes. He slipped an arm around my waist and gave me a comfortable hug—a sure sign he wasn’t going anywhere for long. I wanted to melt in his arms, to spend the rest of my day staring into those baby blues. Instead, I returned the hug, then watched as he and Bubba ambled down the driveway side by side.

  “Mama mia,” Jenna whispered once again.

  I responded with a quiet, “Amen to that!”

  11

  That’s What I Like

  Life is full of curious coincidences. I call them bada-bing, bada-boom moments. Those strange coincidental times. Take, for example, the time my oldest brother, Nick, ran a red light and sideswiped a woman driving a brand-new Mazda Miata. They ended up married six months later, and subsequently produced two of the most spoiled children on Planet Earth. And then there was the time Mama and I drove to the airport to pick up Aunt Rosa, only to find her in police custody. Who knew she was a dead ringer for a murder suspect back in Napoli?

  Yes, the Rossi family had surely seen its fill of coincidences, large and small. And lately I’d started to wonder if these so-called ironies were truly accidental, or if the Lord just had a quirkier sense of humor than I’d imagined. Did heaven cry out, “Bada-bing, bada-boom,” every time something coincidental happened? If so, then the angels who’d been assigned to my care must be plenty busy of late.

  On Friday morning I awoke thinking of the recent ironies in my life. Specifically, I pondered the whole D.J./deejay thing. What were the chances a man’s name would create such lovely chaos? And what were the chances these unpredictable twists of fate would continue?

  At 8:30 I faced my first coincidence of the day as I stood in the doorway of Laz’s bedroom, staring at Guido’s cage. How ironic that Sal Lucci, a man with dubious connections, would send his unholy parrot all the way from New Jersey to live with a Christian friend in Texas. Surely the Lord had a hand in this.

  I looked at Guido, perplexed. Though beautiful on the outside, he certainly needed a lot of work on the inside. Could Laz handle it? Did he really have it in him to nurture our new fine-feathered friend?

  “What are you thinking, little bird?” I asked. “Do you think you’re ready for life in the Rossi household?”

  Just then, Guido opened his beak and warbled out the first line of “That’s Amore.” I’d been hearing it all morning. How Uncle Laz had managed to teach the bird so much in such a short time, I couldn’t say. I had my suspicions he’d done it just to torment Rosa. After all, there were only so many times a day you could hear a parrot squawk, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie” before snapping like a twig. Of course, after wrapping up his new song-and-dance number, Guido continued to add his “Go to the mattresses!” addendum, and then always threw in a round of faux machine gun fire. The bird had a real knack—I had to give it to him.

  Laz had promised to “get this bird walking the straight and narrow in no time.” And now, as I stood in his doorway, gazing at the brilliantly colored parrot, I almost thought it possible. As if to prove me wrong, the ornery bird let a string 119 of curse words fly—words that had never before been used in the Rossi household. Well, with the exception of that one time when Uncle Laz hid in the broom closet and scared Aunt Rosa right out of her false teeth.

  With a sigh, I turned and headed down the stairs, ready to get to work. Club Wed called, and I must answer.

  For whatever reason, focusing on the wedding proved to be problematic. I wanted to think about D.J. About his beautiful eyes. About his lanky walk. About that mesmerizing voice, buff physique, tall stature, and winning smile. I did not want to work.

  “Mama mia!” What a challenge! How would I ever get any work done?

  At 10:00 in the morning, just an hour or so after arriving at the wedding facility, I faced my second coincidence of the day. It started with an unexpected phone call from someone with a 713 area code. Houston.

  I answered with my most professional voice. “Thank you for calling Club Wed, Galveston Island’s premiere wedding facility. This is Bella. How may I assist you?”

  The bubbly female voice on the other end of the phone practically oozed excitement. “I’m Marian,” she said. “And I’ve heard such wonderful things about you from my friend Sharlene Billings.” The vivacious young woman went on to explain that her boyfriend, Rob, had just proposed, and they were interested in the medieval wedding package.

  “We go to the Renaissance festival every year,” she explained, “and I love dressing in the costumes. I’ve always dreamed of a Camelot wedding. And isn’t it so cute that my name is Marian? Rob always calls me Maid Marian. Adorable, right? So, we just have to have a medieval ceremony. We’ve got our hearts set on it.” She went on to gush over the amazing coincidence that had caused our paths to connect. She found it ironic that one of her best friends in the world had recommended a facility that happened to specialize in—of all things—medieval weddings!

  So did I. Would this be a good time to mention that I’d never actually coordinated one before? That the idea had just sounded good on paper? That I’d advertised something with confidence, without ever actually having pulled one off?

  Nah. Instead, I opened my book, and we set the plans in motion.

  “Do you have a date yet?” I asked.

  “Nothing solid, but we’re looking at the first Saturday in October.” She giggled, and I could almost envision the smile on her face. “Is that date available?”

  “It is. Are we looking at a morning, afternoon, or evening event?”

  “Oh, evening. I think a Renaissance-themed wedding will be beautiful in the moonlight.”

  “Perfect. Evening it is. Depending on the number of guests, you could get married indoors in the chapel or outside in the gazebo. Which would you prefer?”

  She giggled again. “Neither, actually. We have a friend in the acting business, and he knows someone who works with set design. We’d like to build a castle, if you don’t mind.”

  “B-build a castle?” I scribbled that down but could hardly believe it.

  “If the property is big enough,” she added.

  Marian went on to describe the castle in detail, then began to tell me her dreams for the ceremony. The groomsmen (knights in shining armor) and the bridesmaids (ladies-in-waiting) would be dressed in appropriate medieval attire, supplied on the bride’s end. And all music, decor, food, etc., would have that distinct Renaissance flavor. Just thinking about it got my already overactive imagination reeling. I could see the cake now—a towering castle with a moat. And the food! What fun Laz and Jenna would have, preparing an authentic medieval meal.

  After swapping the necessary information, Marian promised to send a check to cover the cost of the deposit, and I thanked her profusely for the business. As we ended the call, I offered up a prayer of thanks to the Lord for another ironic confirmation that he did, in fact, see me as the right candidate for the job. I could almost hear the heavenly “bada-bing, bada-boom” now.

  Around noon, my third coincidence reared its head. It started with what appeared to be a normal phone call from my brother Armando. I answered with my usual, “Hey, bro. What’s up?”

  “Just wanted to let you know that I’m headed home,” he responded.

  “Right. Tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “To teach D.J. how to use the soundboard.”

  “No.” Armando paused. “Coming home . . . for good. Just called Mama this morning and asked if I could have my old room back. Till I find my own place, I mean.”

  “Wow.�
�� Now, I must admit, a week ago I would have jumped up and down at this news. Back then I’d needed a deejay. But now, with the entrance of Dwayne Neeley Jr. into my life, God had filled that empty slot.

  Or had he? How could I possibly tell my brother he couldn’t have his old job back, especially when he was the only one who knew how to run the equipment?

  “What happened to your girlfriend?” I asked. “What was her name? Julia?”

  “She, um . . .” He groaned. “Do we have to talk about her?”

  “Well, no. I guess not.”

  “Let’s just say we had a little misunderstanding.”

  I knew all about Armando’s misunderstandings. They usually involved some pretty young thing in a short skirt. Someone other than whomever he happened to be dating at the time.

  “But weren’t you working for Julia’s father?” I asked. “I thought you loved your new job.” Maybe, if I played my cards right, I could talk him into staying in Houston awhile longer, even with girlfriend #863 out of the picture.

  “He fired me. See, there was this girl who worked in the office with me. She was always hitting on me . . .” He went on to tell a not-so-convincing tale of how he’d been falsely accused of romancing the wrong female. How it had all been a huge mistake. Not his, of course. He hadn’t done anything wrong, naturally. But now that he’d been victimized in such a public and humiliating way, he felt it would be best to come back home to Galveston. To the family. No doubt he wanted the safety of his family nearby—so that when Julia’s father showed up with a shotgun, he could hide behind the rest of us. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  Was it awful to admit I didn’t want him to return so quickly? If he showed up now, it would spoil everything. But how could I tell him that without hurting his feelings? Looked like I had a few decisions to make—and quick. We ended the call, and I spent some time trying to collect my scattered thoughts related to Armando, D.J., and the upcoming wedding. Surely the Lord had an answer to this mess.