Fools Rush In Page 9

  “Well, he’s in his element then,” D.J. said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “My brother’s a mighty fine cook. He took a blue ribbon at last year’s Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo for his brisket, and his ribs are the best in south Texas.”

  “Mmm. You’re making me hungry for barbecue.”

  “Well then, I’ll have to take you up to meet my folks when this wedding shindig is over. Maybe for the Fourth of July. We always have a ton of people over.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, we spend the day eating brisket and watermelon and playing chickenfoot.”

  Chickenfoot? I didn’t have a clue what that meant but decided not to show my ignorance. If the boy wanted me to play chickenfoot, I’d play chickenfoot. And I’d eat a truckload of barbecue, as long as I could do it with D.J. sitting at my side.

  Snapping to attention, I remembered the reason for my call. “Can you meet at my house at noon?” I asked. “You guys can have lunch here. We really need to talk about this wedding. Hopefully it won’t take long, and that way we can kill two birds with one stone.”

  D.J. readily agreed, and I hung up, feeling my first glimmer of hope all day.

  Then I remembered the cowboy boots.

  Excusing myself from the kitchen, I grabbed my laptop. Finding eBay was the easy part. Locating twenty used boots was a bit harder.

  Crazy thing about eBay—you have to bid on items. I didn’t have time for that. I needed my cowboy boots, and I needed them now! Still, what choice did I have?

  Flying into action, I found a multiboot collection with only twelve hours of bidding left. Bidders weren’t always winners, so I overshot my estimate, then used the company credit card to secure my place in line. Sharlene’s dad could pay me back later.

  Afterward, with Precious on my heels once more, I joined Rosa and Bubba in the kitchen. My aunt had rolled out the dough for the ravioli and was explaining the process in detail. Bubba seemed to be an apt pupil. Would wonders never cease?

  I’d just opened my mouth to ask, “How’s it going?” when my father plodded into the room in his boxers and undershirt. Nothing like greeting the company in style. I started to make introductions but never had the chance. Pop took one look at our very tall guest and whistled.

  “You play basketball, boy?”

  Bubba turned to him with the same crooked grin I’d seen on D.J.’s face. “Yes, sir. Played for three years at Splendora High.”

  “When you’re done in here, let’s go outside and shoot some hoops.”

  Well, terrific. Ravioli and a basketball game.

  My father exited the house through the back door, never knowing—or caring—who exactly he’d be shooting hoops with. Or the fact that he’d be playing in his underwear.

  My mother joined us—fully made up and looking like a queen in clothes that now matched perfectly. Quite a contrast to Pop, and an odder contrast still to the stocky, un-made-up Rosa, who worked with abandon in her flour-covered apron.

  Welcome to the Rossi family.

  Just then the music changed. “Strangers in the Night” came on. Rosa stopped her work, her eyes filling with tears. “I love this one,” she whispered. “It’s the song Ol’ Blue Eyes is going to sing to me when I get to heaven.”

  For a moment, the entire room was at a standstill as a lone tear trickled down my aunt’s wrinkled cheek. She closed her eyes and began to rock back and forth, as if dancing with an imaginary partner.

  With perfect timing, Bubba extended his hand and asked, “May I have this dance?”

  Her eyes flew open at once, and a look of wonder came over her. When she nodded, he swept her into his arms, and the two of them began to waltz around the room to the melody of the familiar Frank Sinatra tune. I felt pretty sure my aunt could die right then a happy woman. I might just offer to go with her, to avoid some of this embarrassment.

  I observed the action in front of me in a state of disbelief. Rosa sang along with Frank in a voice as clear as crystal, a look of sheer contentment on her face. Bubba joined in, singing in perfect harmony. Who would’ve known hunk-a-Bubba, the barbecue aficionado, was a vocalist? I filed the information away, in case I ever needed someone to sing at Club Wed.

  Mama opened the fridge and pulled out a Pellegrino, then took a seat on a nearby barstool with her ankles delicately crossed, looking every bit the royal lady. And Pop . . . through the kitchen window I caught a glimpse of him in the driveway, still dressed in his undergarments, setting up the portable basketball hoop in preparation for his game with our new guest.

  I shot an urgent prayer heavenward, pleading with the Almighty to help me. How and when had things spiraled out of control? Was there any returning from the abyss?

  From the looks of things, I had my work cut out for me.

  10

  Little Did We Know

  Jenna and Uncle Laz arrived at five minutes to twelve, just as my father coaxed Bubba outside to shoot a few hoops. Mama had managed to convince him to put on a pair of slacks—Pop, not Bubba—and the two guys took turns aiming at the basket. Seemed odd, my five-foot-nine father standing next to someone of Bubba’s stature, tossing the basketball around.

  Jenna took one look out of the kitchen window at D.J.’s younger brother and froze in her tracks. I’d seen her flabbergasted before, but never to this extent. “W-who is that?” she whispered.

  “Bubba Neeley, D.J.’s younger brother.”

  “Mama mia.” Her green eyes widened, and she leaned a bit closer to get a better look. “That’s our barbecue guy?” She grabbed a loose red hair and began to fidget with it. I’d never seen her this flustered before.

  “Yes, but Jenna, you’re practically engaged,” I reminded her. “Remember David? Your boyfriend?”

  “I . . . I know.” She kept a watchful eye through the kitchen window as Bubba sank another shot. “He’s . . . he’s . . .”

  “He’s offshore. Working to earn money so he can ask you to marry him.”

  “No, I meant . . .” Jenna leaned her elbows on the counter and focused all her attention on Bubba. “Wow, he’s really tall.”

  “No, David isn’t tall.”

  “David? Hmm?”

  Good grief. I’d already lost everyone else to the craziness. Now Jenna?

  “Quando il gatto non c’è il topo balla.” Laz’s animated voice rang out as he observed the expression on Jenna’s face. “When the cat’s away . . .”

  “The mice will play,” I finished. “But this is one mouse who needs to stay focused.” I glared at Jenna. She shrugged, then gazed back at Bubba, her eyes wider than the pepperoni on the Simpatico special. With her cheeks flushed pink like this, her freckles were even more pronounced.

  Laz peeked out the window. “So that’s the barbecue guy?” He huffed. “Doesn’t look like much of a cook.”

  Jenna watched in rapt awe as Bubba shot the basketball through the hoop for the umpteenth time. “Oh, I don’t know . . . looks like he’s cookin’ to me.”

  Laz rolled his eyes.

  “Why so cynical today?” I asked. “You probably never thought D.J. could make a pizza, and now that South of the Border special is your main attraction!”

  “Humph.” He glanced at Rosa. “Speaking of which, what’s for lunch?”

  “Ravioli.” She pointed to the stove with a confident look on her face. “Bubba helped. He’s really something.”

  With another grunt, Laz opened the cupboard and pulled out a box of antacids. After filling a glass with water, he dropped in a tablet and waited. It fizzled up and he gulped it down, then let out an exaggerated belch. Lovely.

  Rosa turned back to her work, muttering under her breath in Italian.

  Just then the doorbell rang, and my heart shifted into overdrive. D.J.! I tried not to look too anxious as I made my way to the front door. As it swung wide, I gazed into the beautiful eyes of the world’s most handsome carpenter-turned-deejay. His smile sent my heart into a flutter. And those broad shoulders! The man belonged on
the cover of Tool Time magazine.

  Unfortunately, Precious chose that moment to go into attack mode. I scooped up the ornery pooch and did my best to get things under control before stepping out onto the veranda. When the yapping stopped, I brought D.J. up to speed. Number one: Bubba had made Rosa’s day by singing and dancing with her. Number two: His culinary skills were quite good, particularly where ravioli was concerned. Number three: He could shoot a mean basket. Number four: He’d won over my father—no small task.

  To prove my final two points, I led D.J. around the side of the house to the far end of the driveway, where Pop and Bubba continued on with their basketball game. Bubba hollered out a greeting, then dribbled the ball our way and passed it to D.J., who took a random but perfectly aimed shot.

  “Two points!” we all shouted as it slipped easily through the hoop.

  Looked like both of the Neeley boys were cookin’ today. And boy, I decided as I fanned myself, were they ever generating heat.

  Pop leaned over and put his hands on his knees, panting. I hated to say he was out of shape, but . . . well, he was out of shape. “I’ll be back in a minute, boys,” he explained. “Got something I want to show you.”

  As he limped toward the house, I turned to the Splendora duo and shifted the conversation to the upcoming wedding. D.J. and I made plans to meet with Armando on Saturday afternoon. Thank goodness my brother had agreed to come back for a couple of hours and show D.J. how to work the soundboard. Bubba promised to chat with Laz and Jenna about the barbecue over today’s lunch. We’d iron out the details of Sharlene and Cody’s big day in no time. Looked like things were really moving along!

  Rosa interrupted our chat with a vivacious “Venite a mangiare!” which she hollered out of the kitchen window. Nothing new there.

  Still, our guests couldn’t seem to figure out her meaning, so I filled them in. “She’s saying, ‘Come and eat.’ Lunch is ready.”

  “Ah.” Bubba nodded. “It’s ravioli time.”

  “Right. And it’s better not to keep her waiting,” I whispered. “She gets cranky if the food turns cold.” I reached for the basketball and headed toward the back door, then led the way into the kitchen, where I placed the ball on the counter. My father joined us, holding yet another basketball, this one a brighter orange.

  I pondered his logic, especially in light of his earlier limp. “Hey, I thought you were done playing.”

  “I am. Just wanted the boys to see my prized possession.”

  He tossed the ball Bubba’s way, and Bubba let out a whistle as he read the signature. “Hakeem Olajuwon? Wow.”

  “Impressive.” D.J. drew close to look at it. “Hakeem the Dream.”

  “Hakeem the Dream?” Rosa looked at him with confusion etched in her brow. “Who’s that?”

  All of the men in the room turned to her at the same time, and for a moment I thought there might just be some sort of mutiny. So what if Rosa had never heard of the great Hakeem Olajuwon, former star player for the Houston Rockets? Was it her fault she didn’t follow basketball?

  “Hakeem Olajuwon,” Pop repeated, perhaps thinking she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Two-time NBA champion, 1994 MVP, and all-time leader in blocked shots.”

  Rosa snatched the ball from Bubba’s hands and placed it next to the other one on the counter. “In my kitchen we eat. We don’t talk sports.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bubba hung his head, duly chastised.

  He looked around for a place to sit, and I watched with fear creeping over me as he landed in the chair next to Jenna. My friend, usually talkative and bubbly, seemed nervous and quiet. I didn’t know what to make of her bug-eyed silence.

  Thankfully, Mama shattered the awkwardness with her usual premeal admonition to my father. “Take your pill, Cosmo.”

  “Oh yeah.” Pop rose from his seat and went to the cupboard, where he pulled out a familiar bottle. After swallowing down a lactose-intolerance tablet, he sat at the table, eyes wide as he took in the cheesy meal. As always, he bowed his head to pray, and the rest of us followed suit. The prayer—filled with heartfelt praises for all the Lord had done—brought a sense of stability to the proceedings.

  After his emotional amen, the real chaos began. After a little provoking from Uncle Laz about the proper way to barbecue a brisket for the upcoming wedding, a near-argument ensued. I tried to listen in but found myself staring at D.J. out of the corner of my eye instead. What great fortune! I’d shared a pizza with him yesterday and dinner with him the night before. Now, here he sat at my table, eating ravioli. The handsome Splendora cowboy had boot-scooted into my life—hopefully to stay.

  At my feet, Precious let out a whimper. I slipped her a tiny piece of ravioli on the sly. D.J. caught my eye and gave me a wink. Thankfully, he didn’t give me away. Just one more thing we had in common. He tolerated my dog. Perhaps one day he’d even learn to love her. I hoped.

  Jenna, who hadn’t uttered a word, finally managed some small talk. “Where are Sophia and the boys?” She directed the words at me, but her gaze never shifted from Bubba.

  “They’re at the Museum of Natural Science in Houston,” I explained. “Field trip. She tries to keep the boys busy as much as possible.”

  “Wow. She’s brave.” Jenna’s eyes widened.

  “Tell me about it.” I could only imagine the stories Sophia would have to tell when she arrived home. Then again, I might have a few stories of my own, the way things were going. I begged my heart to stop fluttering and turned my attention to the food once again.

  “Could you pass the tomato sauce?” D.J. nodded toward the huge bowl in the center of the table. When everyone grew silent, he looked my way. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “It’s gravy, son,” Laz informed him. “When you’re at Parma John’s, you can call it what you like. We use the word sauce on our menu to appease the customers. But inside the walls of the Rossi home, it’s called gravy. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Gravy?” I could practically hear the wheels clicking in D.J.’s head. “But I thought gravy was brown. Or white. You 109 put it on potatoes or rice. Or some of my mama’s homemade biscuits.”

  “Not in this family,” Rosa informed him. She lifted the bowl of thick red gravy and passed it his way. “This is the best gravy you’ll ever eat.”

  “Humph.” Laz grunted and took another bite. I hoped he’d keep his opinions about Rosa’s cooking to himself today.

  After settling his dispute with Laz, D.J. took several more bites of food, then proclaimed it the best food he’d ever eaten, adding, “If I ate like this every day, I’d put on some serious weight.”

  I had to smile. “My aunt likes to joke that people leave her table ten pounds heavier than when they arrived. And that’s especially true when she makes meatballs.”

  The conversation shifted to talking about Rosa’s amazing cooking skills, and I noticed Laz’s silence. When would these two ever stop their squabbling over who cooked a better meal? Why not just combine efforts and keep the peace?

  Rosa served up double portions and wouldn’t let us rest until we’d all eaten ourselves silly. We shoveled down the food, bit by tasty bit. The ravioli was great, but Rosa’s homemade bread really made the meal, as always. I hoped to one day learn her secret. In the meantime, I redirected the conversation to talking about food for the wedding.

  After lunch, Pop rubbed his extended belly and turned to D.J. and Bubba. “Want to shoot a few more hoops before you go?”

  “Well, sure.” D.J. looked more than a little pleased at that idea.

  Laz decided to spend a few minutes in his garden before heading back to work. He disappeared with a basket in hand, hoping to find a few ripe tomatoes.

  Pop snatched one of the balls from the counter and made his way back outside with D.J. and Bubba on his heels. Jenna and I followed closely behind. My father, who appeared to have caught his second wind, moved amazingly fast. Still, D.J. managed to outscore him, though he was somewhat apologetic about
it. Minutes later, my father—looking weary and a bit flustered—took a flying leap upward and tossed the ball toward the basket. It hit the rim, shot to the ground, and landed hard on the driveway, then shot upward again. After several bounces, it began rolling toward the street.

  At that same moment, Mama appeared, holding the other basketball in her hand. “Cosmo, what are you doing playing with that signed basketball? Shouldn’t you be using this one?”

  A shock wave rippled through us. The ball rolling toward the street was my pop’s pride and joy.

  Bubba went running after it, shouting all the way, and D.J. followed closely behind. They bounded into the northbound lane, where a woman in an SUV missed D.J. by only a few inches. I let out a cry, and Rosa, who’d only just joined us, made the sign of the cross and called out to St. Joseph, patron saint of protection.

  I somehow managed to make it from the driveway to the curb in seconds, but I found myself trapped by a slew of oncoming vehicles. Standing behind Bubba’s wrecker, I readied myself to make my move. I watched in horror as an older-model sedan caught the ball with the edge of its rear right tire. It shot straight up in the air—the ball, not the car—then traveled across the grassy median and landed on the southbound side of Broadway, where it continued rolling, faster than ever.

  I cried out, “Be careful!” then squeezed my eyes shut.

  “I’ve got it!” Bubba raced across the second lane of traffic, landing in the yard across the street. Just as he reached for the ball, which had rolled to a stop near the sidewalk, a familiar-looking kid in shorts and a T-shirt snatched it.

  Yikes. The Burton boy. He gave the ball a solid once-over, smiling as he realized what he held in his hand. “Cool! Hakeem the Dream!”

  As I drew near, Bubba held out his hands and, true Southern gentleman that he was, flashed a smile at the kid, oblivious. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Help?” The boy gave him a quizzical look, clutching the ball. “You’re kidding, right? Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” He rolled the prize around in his hands. “My dad’s gonna love this. He’s a collector, you know.”