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  “Yes, sir?”

  “If this whole running-for-President thing doesn’t work out for you, you can always come and work at Parma Johns. We could use another good cook and I think you might be just the ticket.”

  “Well, I. . .I. . .” Beau cleared his throat and looked into the camera. “We all know that’s not going to happen, but thank you kindly for the offer. You know what I always say. . .a well fed voter is a happy voter and a happy voter is happy to vote for DeVine.”

  “Hogwash.” Laz took his fork and cut off another piece of veal and stuck it in his mouth. “Goofiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll like my new motto,” Beau added. “Feeding folks from coast to coast.”

  At this point, I thought Laz was going to slug him. He mumbled the words, “That jerk stole my slogan!” under his breath and his face turned beet-red.

  Beau, probably trying to figure out a plan of escape, took a little nibble of the veal. A smile turned up the edges of his lips and the word “Delicioso!” followed.

  Laz appeared to rally. He looked straight into the camera, his voice animated as he spoke: “I’ve seen a lot of cheese in this kitchen today, but not much of it has been on the food.” He slapped Beau on the back, which sent the senator into a coughing fit. Just about the time he recovered, the director yelled cut and Victoria swept in to make sure her husband-to-be was okay. Rosa started scolding Laz, who went off on a tangent about blood-sucking politicians. Mama stood in the background looking mortified and Pop. . .well, he inched his way backwards out of the room.

  I was tempted to do the same. Still, I knew I must stay and face the music—er, face the bride and groom. Likely there would be a bit of dust to settle after the lights and cameras were turned off.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Love Takes Time

  Do you ever get the feeling that the only reason we have elections is to find out if the polls were right?

  Robert Orben

  After the Food Network guys slipped out I caught a glimpse of the Secret Service fellows in the kitchen nibbling on leftovers. They seemed more relaxed than before, though one of them—a fellow with a mole on his cheek—kept a watchful eye on Beau, who followed Rosa and Laz out of the kitchen and into the living room. O’Conner dove into Uncle Laz’s Eggplant Parmesan and a look of satisfaction came over him. He and the guys started talking about their favorite foods and before long everyone was relaxed and happy.

  So much for ‘No lighthearted conversation.’

  Minutes later, we were all seated on the oversized sofas, relaxing. Mama and I served up cups of coffee and Laz kept Beau entertained with his Food Party campaign ideas. They started out okay—and our guests laughed at most—but after a while Laz got just plain silly.

  “First, I think there should be a tax break for everyone who eats pizza at least once a week. Secondly, I believe—and I mean this with my whole heart—that we need to pass a law that families must eat together at the kitchen table at least three times a week. That’s not asking too much. And, finally, I’m convinced we need to insist that families visit their homelands so that they never forget where they came from.”

  “Only, many of them don’t really know where they came from,” Mama countered. “You know? I have friends who are fourth or fifth-generation Texans. Maybe they don’t know where their families originated.”

  “Then we should insist they go to one of those ancestry sites to find out.” Laz nodded. “When I’m elected I’ll propose a bill to Congress. Every man and woman should know his or her heritage. It’s so important.”

  “What do you think, Beau?” my uncle asked after filling our ears with his ideas. “Will the voters go for that?”

  At once, Beau’s smile faded. The words, “I wish I knew what the voters wanted” threw us all for a loop. Just as quickly a forced smile lit his face. “I mean, I know what they want. They want someone fresh and new who will realign this country’s moral compass. I plan to be that someone. And I think your ideas are terrific, Laz. Absolutely terrific.” A fake smile followed.

  In that moment, I saw a hint of pain in Victoria’s eyes. Though she never said a word, I understood her. She was about to marry a fellow who had become one big sales pitch. Every word out of Beau’s mouth was a slogan of some sort or a blurb about how he planned to save the country.

  More than anything, I felt sorry for her. I could tell D.J. was uncomfortable with the dynamics between the two, as well. Instead of joining in the conversation, he offered to head over to Sophia and Tony’s place to pick up our kids. Go figure.

  I managed to hang on with political jargon eking its way out of Beau’s mouth every few minutes. Laz didn’t seem to mind. He just piggybacked on our guest’s stories, offering his wacky solutions for the country.

  Beau and Victoria left around seven o’clock. I arrived home in time to tuck the kids into bed. Afterwards D.J. and I settled in for the night.

  “Was it just me, or did that guy seem a little. . .” My husband paused and shrugged.

  “Fake?”

  “I was going to say full of himself.”

  “Yeah. I guess all politicians come across that way, though. They talk about themselves and their plan to fix things. . .a lot, apparently.” I paused and a memory came to me. “Hey, remember when Twila ran for mayor of Splendora last year? The other ladies couldn’t stand being around her. She started believing her own press.”

  “Yes, but she finally repented. That’s the difference, I guess. We know Twila. We trust her. With someone like Beau, you have to wonder if he can be trusted or if he’s just canned air. You know?”

  I shivered and then pulled the covers up to my chin. “Yeah but I’m getting to know Victoria and I think she’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s a great gal who doesn’t seem like the sort to make impulsive or foolish decisions, especially with something as big as her upcoming marriage. So, let’s give her fiancé the benefit of the doubt, okay? And they’re both Christians. . .or at least claim to be. So, maybe we’re just not used to the whole ‘campaigning’ thing. You know?”

  “Sounds like we’d better get used to it, if Laz is throwing his hat into the ring.” D.J. snuggled up next to me and then laughed. “Can you even imagine your uncle in the White House?”

  “Um, no.” I got tickled, just thinking about it. “He’d be serving up pizza in the situation room.”

  “There would be quite a few ‘situations’ all right. And you know Rosa would redecorate the Oval Office. It would be Italian all the way.” D.J. shuddered then leaned over and gave me a little kiss on the shoulder. “Every presidential painting would be surrounded by a gilded gold frame.”

  “I’d be more worried that Laz would keep Guido in there with him. He can’t seem to part from that bird for more than a few hours at a time, but he doesn’t do the best job keeping track of him. Remember that time Guido got loose and stole your dad’s toupee?”

  “Like I could ever forget that.” D.J.’s kisses traveled up my shoulder to my neck and I giggled.

  “Well, can you picture him flying around the White House, landing on some king or president’s head?”

  D.J. stopped kissing me and laughed. “Actually, I can. I can also picture him quoting scriptures to incoming heads of state.”

  “That might not be a bad thing.”

  “Until he belted out 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. Then what?”

  “Then Rosa would pacify her confused guests with some of her garlic twists and all would be well.”

  “True. Those garlic twists could certainly bring about world peace, don’t you think?”

  “Um, yeah. Or your mother’s chicken fried steak. It’s a close second.”

  “Mama. . .in the White House.” D.J. laughed. “If Laz became President, no doubt my parents would show up for a visit.”

  “On their Harleys,” I threw in. “With their Bikers for Jesus vests, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And the
Splendora Sisters would show up wearing their glittery blouses with their bouffant hair and overly-made up faces.”

  “Wanting to sing at some big Presidential event,” D.J. added.

  “And Laz would let them.”

  “And then the powers that be in D.C. would fall in love with them and they’d be asked to perform regularly, which would mean Twila would have to give up her job as mayor of Splendora. And before long heads of state would be seeking the ladies out for their opinions on political matters.”

  “They would give their opinions,” I added. “Probably on TV. Maybe the Larry King show.”

  “Larry King’s retired.”

  “Right.” I paused to think it through. “Jimmy Fallon. He’d do some sort of spoof with them. It would be hilarious. But the country would fall in love with them and before long they’d be asked to run for Congress. Or, better yet, Laz would appoint them to the Supreme Court.”

  “Things would really get interesting then.” D.J.’s eyes widened. “Can you even imagine Twila, Bonnie Sue and Jolene sitting on the bench?”

  “I can’t imagine them sitting still that long. . .anywhere. And they certainly wouldn’t agree to wear the robes. Not without glittery collars, anyway.”

  “Right?” D.J. grinned.

  “I don’t know why we’re talking about this, anyway. It’s not like Uncle Laz is really going to run for President, anyway. He doesn’t even know where he stands on the issues. If you ask him about global warming he tells you that he gave up electric blankets when we moved to the south.” For whatever reason, this got me tickled. I laughed until I lost my breath.

  D.J. laughed, too, and leaned back against his pillows as he calmed down. “To be honest, I’m not sure Beau knows where he stands. . .on anything. Do you get the idea that he’s a little unsure of himself? When the cameras are turned off, I mean.”

  “Definitely.”

  D.J. sighed. “I hope—and I don’t really know the guy—but I hope he’s not just going through with this to try to prove something to himself or anyone else. Sometimes people get into things and feel like they can’t get out. Take the year I signed up for t-ball because my dad thought I should. I joined the team and there was no way out of it. Toughest year of my young life.”

  “I thought you loved playing ball.”

  “Nah, that was my brother. I was never very good at it. But I didn’t want to hurt my dad’s feelings. He wanted it for me, so I gave it my best shot. Maybe that’s what Beau’s doing too.”

  “Maybe. Not sure who he’s trying to impress, though. I can tell you one thing, it’s not Victoria. I suspect she’d be just as happy if he went back to work at the law firm he started a few years back.”

  “Can’t blame her there.” D.J. yawned. “Can you imagine how different life would be in the White House? I’m trying to imagine us living there with the kids.”

  “Um, no.” I cringed. “For one thing, how would we keep those four rowdies from tearing everything up? I’d look away for a second and some priceless keepsake signed by Abraham Lincoln would be turned into a paper airplane by Tres. Or some heirloom purchased by Mamie Eisenhower would be shattered by Rosie. And the twins would insist on being held during every Cabinet meeting. You know?”

  “I’d be more worried that you and I would never have any alone time.” D.J. gave me a funny look. “Do you think the Presidential quarters have video cameras?”

  “Ack. Never thought about it.” I giggled as my imagination kicked into overdrive.

  D.J. leaned over and kissed my cheek. “A fella needs his privacy when he’s got a gal as pretty as you.”

  “O-oh?” I giggled as he kissed my ear. “Why is that?”

  “Because, Bella Neeley, I couldn’t very well do this with the cameras rolling.” His kisses traveled down my neck to my shoulder.

  Delicious shivers came over me as I enjoyed his nearness. “Mmm. I see.” A contented sigh followed on my end. “No, you couldn’t.”

  “Guess I’ll never be president, then.” His gentle kisses moved down my arm and my eyes fluttered close. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? Um, no, I don’t mind. You don’t have to be anything. . .but you.”

  As his lips traveled back up my arm and eventually met mine for a kiss that set off fireworks, I had to conclude the obvious: D.J. Neeley might not be Oval Office material—he might not save the country from ruin—but he was all this little gal from Texas would ever need.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Crazy Little Thing Called Love

  There might be some serious fun in politics.

  Hunter S. Thompson

  In spite of my heavy workload, I did my best to focus on my family over the next several days. It felt so good to be home again, with our babies. We’d both missed them terribly while on our cruise. And it looked like they’d missed us, too. I could hardly get the twins to leave my side for more than a minute without crying. And Tres, from what we’d been told by his teacher, was struggling through first grade. Little Rosie—the apple of her Aunt Rosa’s eye—was a typical preschooler, filled with rambunctious shenanigans. And though these four kiddos kept us on our toes, D.J. and I loved, loved, loved being with them. We’d enjoyed our time away, of course. And though we’d had a wonderful time—Santorini being high on my list of places we’d visited—there was something to be said for the phrase, “There’s no place like home.”

  Home, of course, meant family.

  And family, of course, meant chaos.

  And that’s what we’d come to expect every time the Rossi and Neeley families came together. We anticipated nothing less when D.J.’s parents invited the whole Rossi clan to hang out with them in Splendora on Saturday, the 23rd of January. I could hardly wait to see my in-laws—and the rest of our Splendora friends, too. I particularly loved the idea of meeting at Bubba’s BBQ, the restaurant my best friend and her husband owned. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Jenna and Bubba. We were long overdue for a visit.

  Though the weather was cold and wet, the family atmosphere was warm and cozy. Gathered around sturdy picnic tables inside of Bubba and Jenna’s family-style restaurant, we chowed down on ribs, smoked turkey, brisket and sausage links. I loved every bite, but what really made my day was the people who gathered around us. Jenna. Bubba. Earline. Dwayne, Sr. Twila, Bonnie Sue, Jolene. . .and all of their respective spouses.

  Jenna and I gabbed like we’d been apart for years, and all the more when two of our friends—Lily and Jasmine—joined us. At this point the BBQ joint came alive with voices overlapping and people hugging. The kids had the time of their lives, hanging out with old friends and getting smooches from their Splendora grandparents.

  Everything was perfect. . .until Uncle Laz brought up politics. I knew from my years of experience that one never brought up politics around my mother-in-law unless one planned to get an earful. Anyone with any common sense at all didn’t go there. Ever.

  Unfortunately, Laz hadn’t gotten the “Don’t mess with Earline” memo. About halfway into our dessert he announced to the group that he was planning to run for president of the United States representing the brand-spanking new Food Party.

  Earline’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Lazarro, am I to understand you’re seriously runnin’ for office?”

  “Sure. I’m having yard signs made and everything. And buttons, too. That whole thing’ll be a hoot. Do I have your support, Earline? I need a campaign manager, if you’re interested in the position. I pay in pizza and pasta.” He gave her a playful wink and then took another bite of his banana pudding.

  She grew silent and I had a feeling her next words would not be encouraging. After a moment she released a slow breath, followed by the words, “So, the electoral process is nothing but a big joke to you? Is that it? You don’t see the gravity of the situation? This is a just a game to you?”

  “Uh-oh.” Jenna rose and headed toward the kitchen.

  D.J. made an exaggerated clucking noise as she disappeared f
rom view. Not that I blamed her. I was a chicken, too. In fact, I would’ve run, myself, if I didn’t have four small children to tend to.

  Uncle Laz looked genuinely hurt by Earline’s notion. “Of course it’s not a game to me. I just, well. . .”

  “Earline, honey. . .” D.J.’s dad put his hand on her knee. “Now, Laz’s just havin’ a little fun to ease the tension. It’s been a tough political season. A good laugh never hurt anyone, especially now.”

  “I beg to differ,” she countered. “Our country is in serious trouble. There’s no time for fun. This is a critical season we’re in, one that calls for prayer and intercession, not joking around.”

  I tugged at my collar. Was it suddenly getting hot in here?

  “Well, yes,” D.J. added. “But someone needs to break the tension. A little comic relief is good, as pop said. There’s no point in folks getting in a knot over things.” He took another bite of brisket and a satisfied look came over him. “This meat is really good.”

  “One thing I cannot abide, truly, is people who don’t see the seriousness of where we’re headed as a nation.” Earline began to fan herself. “Either you care about this country’s well-being or you don’t. Either you vote to change the course of a nation or you don’t.”

  Mama looked a bit perplexed by this. “Now, Earline, don’t throw the baby out with the bath-water. We all care about our country, but we don’t all vote the same.”

  At this point Earline rose and began to pace the room. “Oh, but we must. We must be like-minded. We’ve got to agree or let our disagreements topple the whole thing. At this point we cannot—and I repeat, cannot—afford to let the whole thing topple. There’s too much at stake.”

  “I plan to vote my conscience,” Rosa said. “And trying to get the rest of the group to go along with me is impossible, even on the best of days. I can’t even get them to agree what I should make for dinner, let alone who should be president.”