Fools Rush In Page 12

  When I shrugged, they all stared at me in abject silence. No doubt everyone in the Rossi clan thought I’d lost my mind. They’d given me Club Wed to run, and I’d turned it into a country-western theme park. How would I ever redeem myself from this fiasco? If I could’ve two-stepped out of the room, I would have done it right then and there. Instead, I stood in silence, trying to think of something brilliant to say.

  Uncle Laz reached for a box that contained a pair of traditional Western boots. He opened it and gave a whistle. “These are really nice.” Pulling one from the box, he added, “And they’re just my size.”

  “Uncle Lazarro.” I shook my head, hoping he’d take the hint.

  He shrugged, then pushed the box back in place. “I’m just saying . . .”

  “I’ve never worn cowboy boots before,” Sophia admitted as she perused the boxes. “Have you?”

  “Nope.” I’d tried on a pair back in high school but found them hot and uncomfortable. Couldn’t see what so many of my classmates saw in them, though they seemed to be all the rage in Texas.

  “Don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Marcella agreed. “And some of these . . .” She picked up a box of orange and brown boots with a look of disgust on her face. “Well, they’re just hideous. Who would wear something like this?”

  “Right. I know.” I shrugged.

  “And some of these look like they’ve been worn before,” Mama added, opening one of the more beat-up boxes for a peek inside.

  “Yes. I bought them all secondhand.”

  She immediately dropped the box and stepped back as if a snake had bitten her.

  A few minutes later I managed to convince everyone that I had things under control.

  Rosa went off to finish cooking lunch, and Mama joined her, no doubt to talk about me behind my back. Likely she had a psychologist on speed dial. And who could blame her? Laz lingered with me a few minutes, looking in the various boxes, and Pop disappeared into the living room to watch television with the boys.

  As I stared at the scene in front of me, I tried to figure out what to do. Sure, I’d sounded confident in front of the others. But was I?

  Some of the boots really could be used as decor for the actual ceremony. I’d certainly ordered enough yellow roses to put together a few lovely boot-themed floral arrangements around the outside edges of the gazebo. And perhaps an idea for the rest would come after pondering the matter awhile. In the meantime, I decided to stack the boxes according to usability. Those appropriate for table centerpieces and/or other decorating on the left, everything else on the right.

  I’d no sooner chosen the twenty boots for the reception than Rosa called out, “Venite a mangiare.”

  No one ever balked when the “come and eat” call went out. The boys rushed from the living room, almost knocking me down. As they plowed on ahead of me, I deliberately hung to the back, trying to work up the courage to talk to Armando alone. D.J. would arrive in a couple of hours, after all, ready to learn the soundboard. Could I convince my brother to give up the reins just this once? Perhaps if I played the “baby sister is crazy about a big, handsome cowboy” card, he might be swayed.

  Hmm. Better wait until after he’d had some of Rosa’s good home cooking.

  We arrived in the kitchen, and Armando immediately took note of the birdcage in front of the big bay window. Rosa had covered it with a lace-trimmed cloth, but that didn’t stop my curious brother from sneaking a peek inside. When he lifted the lace trim, Guido hollered out, “Wise guy!”

  “We have a bird?” Armando dropped the cloth and stared at me.

  I sighed. “We have a bird. If you want the details, ask Uncle Laz.”

  Armando went to do just that, and I turned to my aunt. “Rosa, what’s up with that white fabric over the cage?”

  “Ah.” She nodded, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Prayer cloth.”

  “Prayer cloth?” Somehow I couldn’t imagine Guido holding a prayer meeting inside the cage, so I lifted the edge of the lace and peeked inside. Immediately he released a string of expletives. I dropped the cloth back into place and shrugged.

  “I took one of your great-grandmother’s handkerchiefs to Father Espinosa, and he prayed over it,” Rosa explained. “It’s been blessed.”

  “A blessed handkerchief?”

  She explained in fluent Italian her theory that the bird wouldn’t dare commit a sin as long as he stayed underneath the covering of the blessed hankie. I lifted the edge again, and “Go to the mattresses!” rang out. I let the cloth fall back into place, and Guido grew silent.

  Hmm. Seemed to be working. But how long could you keep a bird covered? And was he really feeling the effects of the hankie, or was he just scared of the dark? To test the theory once more, I lifted the edge of the lace. Guido hollered, “Wise guy!” Tossing the cloth back down, I noted his silence. I turned to my aunt, amazed. Maybe she was on to something here.

  I felt a little like Guido as the family shared lunch together. I needed someone to pull up the corner of my protective covering so I’d have the courage to say what needed to be said to Armando. After the meal, as he, Pop, Nick, Joey, and Uncle Laz accompanied me to the courtyard area of Club Wed, I managed to catch his ear. Pulling him behind the others, I asked, “Hey . . . favor.”

  “Favor?” He stopped and looked at me. “What is it?”

  “Remember I told you about D.J.?”

  Armando smiled. “Yes. I heard the story from several different people, actually. I can’t believe you actually fainted. I’ve certainly seen my share of swooning women, but no one’s ever fainted on me before.”

  “Stop it.” After slugging him in the arm, I continued. “Anyway, he’s coming at two. I still haven’t told him you’re back.”

  “Why not?” When I didn’t answer right away, Armando gave me a knowing look. “Aha. I see. Bella’s in love.”

  I felt heat rise to my cheeks immediately. “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s love, exactly. I haven’t even known him a week. But he’s pretty amazing, Armando, and I want him to stick around. So, could you . . .”

  “Back off? Disappear?”

  “Not that exactly. Just make him feel . . .”

  “Needed?” My brother gave me a warm smile, then slipped an arm around my shoulder. “I’ll make him feel so needed, he’ll think we can’t do this without him.”

  I didn’t say anything, but in my heart I wondered if I could pull off this wedding without D.J. He epitomized country-western to me. In fact, I’d probably never look at another cowboy boot without thinking of my sawdust-wearin’, slow-drawlin’ deejay.

  “He’s bringing a ton of country-western CDs,” I said. “So you guys will have to decide which songs are appropriate for the reception. Sharlene’s already given me a list of the main songs—for the father-daughter dance and that sort of thing. But the rest will be up to D.J. And you, of course.”

  “Of course,” he echoed. Then he gave me a wink. “I’m a team player. Nothing to worry about here.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Glancing at my watch, I gasped. Was it really ten after one? We had less than an hour to get the courtyard whipped into shape before the man who now captivated my thoughts arrived.

  Pop and Laz put together a plan for the gazebo, which needed a fresh coat of paint. Nick, Joey, and Armando went to work on the mowing, edging, and so forth. I had to chuckle, watching the three of them together. There were never three more different brothers. Nick—all two-hundred-plus pounds of him, the stable but quirky fatherly figure. Joey—smaller, tattooed to the hilt, and gentle as a lamb. And Armando—the not-quite-responsible-yet romantic who tended to put his wants and wishes above those of others. I had to give it to the Lord—he’d done a remarkable job of putting every personality type in our family.

  Determined to stay focused, I walked the aisle, trying to imagine how I might use some of the leftover cowboy boots to enhance the country-western ambiance. Hmm. Maybe a few along the edges of the gazebo. The rest . . . well, the rest I wou
ld keep packed away for a future date. No point in overwhelming the guests.

  After a few minutes of pondering, I went to work helping Joey in the garden, pulling weeds. He told me in a hushed voice about a girl he’d met at the restaurant. Norah. From the shimmer in his eye, I had to conclude she must be something pretty special.

  By the time 2:00 rolled around, I looked like a mess. I’d somehow backed into the wet paint and had a stripe across my back. And fifty minutes in the afternoon sun had me soaked to the bone. I could feel the makeup slipping down my face, and my wet hair stuck to the back of my neck. Pulling it back, I wound it in a knot atop my head. Still, that did nothing to counteract the wet puppy smell that now emanated from every pore.

  And my shoes! My beautiful sandals were covered in grass clippings and mud. I’d just decided to make a quick trip to the house to clean up and change clothes when I heard the scrape of D.J.’s tires as he pulled into the driveway of Club Wed.

  “Oh no.” I couldn’t possibly make it to the house without D.J. seeing me. Now what?

  “What’s wrong?” Armando looked my way, a crooked smile on his face. “Afraid this guy’s going to see you for who you really are?”

  “I just . . .”

  “Listen, Bella.” Nick drew near. “You need to let him see you like this. Trust me, if you marry him, he’s going to see you in far worse shape.” He dove into a story about Marcella’s less-than-perfect appearance first thing in the morning, and I punched him.

  “Who said anything about marrying him?” I gritted my teeth. “And besides, when I get married, I don’t plan to look like this. Ever. Early morning, late at night, or anytime in between.”

  Apparently my brothers—now looking and sounding more like the three stooges—found great humor in that one. I felt pretty sure folks on the mainland heard their laughter.

  D.J. chose that very moment to approach with a stack of CDs in hand. He took one look at me and grinned that crooked grin of his, the one that melted me like butter. “Now that’s what I like to see.” His gaze swept over me. “A girl who’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.”

  My fears dissolved immediately, and I was transported back to our date at the Prime Cut, where I’d looked—or maybe just felt—like a million bucks. Before the choking incident, anyway. Seemed no matter how hard I tried, I still came off looking like a goober. Oh well.

  Armando drew near and whispered in my ear, “So, this is Prince Charming, eh?” then nudged me with his elbow. I jabbed him and then forced a smile. Better make introductions.

  “D.J., this is my brother Armando.”

  “Oh yeah, the deejay, right?” I saw my cowboy’s expression change right away. Was that disappointment in his eyes, or relief?

  “I’m home, but, um . . .” Armando stumbled over his words. “I’m going to need a lot of help with this wedding Bella’s coordinating. Don’t know much about country music. And besides”—he slapped D.J. on the back—“you’ve got a great speaking voice. The guests will love that, so I’ll just run the sound, and you can call the show. How’s that?”

  “Well . . .” D.J. removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “I suppose that’s fine. Just show me what to do and I’ll do it. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” Armando gave him a confident nod.

  I looked back and forth between my brothers and the man who’d so recently swept me off my feet. Looked like they were all the best of friends. So far, anyway. But if I knew my ornery brothers, the peace would last only so long. Before long they’d be up to tricks, and D.J. would be boot-scooting out of my life. Just like Craig Harrison, who dated me briefly my senior year of high school. And James Kirkpatrick, the guy I’d dated in college. They’d both left—not because of anything having to do with me personally, but because they found my family too . . . overwhelming. Only Tony had stuck around—too long, actually.

  I swallowed hard. The very thought of losing D.J. brought the sting of tears to my eyes. As I gazed up at him, I thought, I’ve fallen . . . and I can’t get up. Not that I wanted to. No, I wanted to hide under the prayer cloth I’d knitted over my heart and force the real world to go away forever. Stop it, Bella. Don’t let your anxieties get the best of you.

  Pushing aside all worries about how I looked or smelled, I gave D.J. a reassuring smile, then led him inside the wedding facility to the reception hall. Armando tagged along on our heels, making wisecracks in my ear, just like he used to do when we were kids. The ribbing went on until we arrived at the soundboard, where my brother kicked into deejay gear. He turned on the system, reached for a microphone, and took the stack of CDs from D.J.’s hand. “Once we decide what songs we’re going to use that night, I’ll turn them into MP3 files. Put them in one folder in the right order.”

  “Sounds great. But hold that thought.” I headed off to my office for a notepad and a pen. As I passed by the mirror in the foyer, I did a double take at my reflection. Man. I needed a bath. And a fresh coat of makeup. And a new outfit. And a trip to the hair salon.

  On the other hand, D.J. had already seen me looking and smelling like this and hadn’t seemed to mind. Knowing that put me more at ease than ever. I couldn’t help but think of how different D.J. was from Tony in that respect. Tony would have sent me to the shower at first whiff.

  After a quick stop in my office, I returned to the reception hall with my notepad in hand, ready to get down to business. I found the guys seated together in front of the soundboard, talking about the ins and outs of the equipment. D.J. had that sort of paralyzed look on his face that came when you were venturing into uncharted territory.

  As I pulled over a chair and sat near him, I tried to look relaxed. Excited, even. “You’re gonna be great at this. I can feel it in my gut.” My confident smile would surely win him over.

  “Really?” He gazed at me with deep worry lines between his brows. “Cause all I feel in my gut is nausea.”

  “Let’s start at the top.” Armando turned to D.J. with a confident nod. “Let’s get this show on the road.” At that point, my brother—God bless him—helped us lay out the order of events, and even gave D.J. a few key lines to memorize to help the evening transition more smoothly from one thing to another. They went over everything—introducing the bride and groom as they made their entrance, passing the microphone to the pastor to pray over the meal, setting up the couple’s first dance together as husband and wife, the father-daughter dance, and so on.

  Finally the moment came for D.J. to take the microphone. I could hear the nerves in his voice at first, but after a few minutes, he sounded like himself. Only better. Something about that deep voice amplified through the sound system made my palms sweat. Sure, he was working off a script now, but knowing him, he’d get the lines down before the big event.

  Eventually convinced he could actually pull this off, D.J. relinquished the microphone to my brother. We spent the rest of the afternoon doing something I’d never envisioned myself doing—listening to country-western music. I had to admit, the songs—at least the ones D.J. suggested—weren’t as stereotypical as I’d imagined. In fact, there wasn’t one song in the bunch about people getting drunk and cheating on each other. Looked like my cowboy had discriminating taste. Good taste, even.

  As the guys shifted from one CD to another, I leaned back in my chair, notepad and pen in hand. Every time we would hear a song that might work for the reception, I scribbled down the title. Before long, we had over two hours’ worth of music picked out. I could hardly believe it. A couple of the songs had such a great rhythm, I could barely sit still. Surely the ballroom floor would come alive with two-steppers when those were played. Several of the other songs were tender and filled with words of love. I closed my eyes and let the words sink in. In my mind’s eye, I could see myself in D.J.’s arms, dancing the night away.

  Who knew? I’d not only fallen for a cowboy, I’d fallen for his country-western music, to boot. Pun intended. Maybe I’d just never given it a chance before.
Funny.

  Looking at D.J., I realized there were a lot of things I’d never given a chance before.

  A sigh rose up as I imagined myself, like Guido, peering out of the bars of my far-too-small cage. Lifting the cloth. Peeking out at the world around me. Discovering new and somewhat frightening worlds. Just as quickly, that old gripping sensation took hold of my heart. I wanted to get beyond my fears of failing—fears that went all the way back to high school. Who cared if I couldn’t sing? Or act. Or play tennis. Did it really matter that I’d failed in my one attempt to run for office? Or that my name didn’t match my face? Or that my boyfriends found my family overwhelming?

  No, those things were behind me. Now, I wanted to walk on water. Wanted to dance to a country song. Wanted to lift my arms and praise! But could I? I’d lived one way for so long, I could hardly imagine anything else.

  As another twangy tune filled the room, D.J. looked my way. I couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. Maybe he could hear my thoughts. Can you learn to love me, just as I am? With my hair in a ponytail? With no makeup on? With all of my flaws?

  He flashed the warmest smile I’d ever seen, and my heart felt comforted. Maybe D.J. saw my insecurities, my fears. Maybe he knew God still had a lot of work to do in my life before I’d be good girlfriend material.

  Or maybe, just maybe, he saw beyond all that and simply wanted to flirt with the wedding coordinator instead of rehearse for the big night.

  I did my best to relax . . . and let him.

  13

  Walk on By

  On Monday morning I awoke with a splitting headache. In spite of the pain, work beckoned, so I dressed, haphazardly slapped on a bit of makeup, and headed next door to Club Wed. I could feel the bags under my eyes weighing me down. They, like my heart, felt the pull of gravity. On the way, I sipped a cup of coffee, my idea of a nutritious breakfast. I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in the Rossi family to disagree.

  As I made my way across the manicured lawn, I pondered the words from yesterday’s sermon. Reverend Woodson’s topic du jour—“Walking the Walk”—still had me reeling. His words about authentic faith had painted me into a proverbial corner. Specifically, when he said, “Bella Rossi, you need to be who you say you are, and do what you say you’re going to do,” guilt had risen up inside me like a mound of foam on top of one of Uncle Laz’s famed lattes. I had to wonder if the Lord above had flashed a heavenly spotlight over my head and whispered, “Preach this sermon just for her. She’s not going to get the message otherwise.”