by Sidney Ivens
“Yeah.” He rubbed his hand along his pant leg and tapped a foot. “You still employed?”
“Yes. Dustin just texted me. He can see Fenway from his hotel room.”
“Hey. I want to apologize regarding Chris. My reluctance to hire him.” He traced a fingertip over the wood box. “You guys saved my ass.”
“Your mother made the real difference.”
“Yep.” He patted the box. “Everything I need is right here.”
“Are you going to use most of her recipes, then?”
“I thought you could help me with that.”
“Nick.” She knew they waited outside. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
He nodded toward the box. “I’ve narrowed it down to one.”
She glanced at him, confused. “Only one recipe?”
He kept looking at the recipe box, obviously cueing her to open it.
Curious, she pushed back the wooden lid, the box now empty of recipes, cards replaced by the deep purple velvet pouch with a cord drawstring—the same one she’d found under his pillow. A jeweler’s box poked from its velvet cocoon.
Her heart pounded so hard she could feel the vibration in her ears.
He grinned. “You wanted to know what was in it.”
“You put something in it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t do this to me. Don’t. Not after Friday night. I can’t take it.” With trembling fingers, she removed the pouch from the box and clumsily opened the jeweler’s box. An engagement ring glittered from the velvet slit, blue jewels set in diagonal bands, nestled around a glorious diamond in the center.
“Mama hid it behind her recipes. She saved it for you.” He lowered himself to his knees and scooted closer to her chair. “I had the jeweler add sapphires to the diamond to match your eyes.”
“When?” She swallowed hard. “When did you do this? I w-wondered when you—”
“Elena. I fell for you the moment I met you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did, baby. There was something really alluring about that linebacker turtleneck.”
“But, but . . . the class. You insulted us.”
“Don’t you know boys tease girls they like?” He cupped her hand with both of his, his palms warm on her skin. “Maybe I should’ve gone with something more contemporary, something of your own.”
“No.” She hugged the hand holding the ring to her chest. “It’s an honor having this one.”
“Just like the Indy Jones knight said. I chose wisely.” He gestured toward the ring. “May I?”
She was too stunned to speak and simply watched as he took out the ring and slipped it over her finger. Sniffing, she wiped under her eyes with the rim of her right palm.
“Well?” Still on his knee, struggling to balance himself, he grinned. “I think there’s a word involved here. One syllable. Although I do know you favor polysyllabic—”
“Yes, you monster. Yes.” She leaned over and threw her arms around his neck, and they tumbled onto the floor, kissing. Several minutes later, she’d regained most of her composure. Well, almost. When she smiled, the muscles around her mouth felt wobbly. “I’ve got a surprise too.”
He helped her to her feet, one arm steadying her back, the other holding her hand. “Can my heart take this?”
She turned to wave at the windows.
The front door opened, letting in chilly March air. Work boots clomped almost in formation, heavier footsteps, and about a dozen young men emerged from the shadows, some in fatigue t-shirts, others wearing backward baseball caps.
Kyle Hotchkiss led the way and halted a few feet short of them. “We’ve eleven strong here.” Smiling, he strode forward, hand extended toward Nick. “Let me put it this way. You help our guy, we help you. We’re going to help you get to Opening Day.”
Go, eat your food with gladness
and drink your wine with a joyful heart.
—Ecclesiastes
Well, sports fans, it’s almost two years later, Christmas time, and the place is hopping. We’re near the bar section, where the bartender, Joe, is inspecting the beer taps.
“Mister Z, how are you going to keep this a secret?”
“Shh. A master’s at work.” I lean over to pat a belly.
Then he wipes a clean rag over the already-spotless counter. He’s got a ruddy face and burly shoulders that go into tomorrow. A new hire, friendly as they come, a local who takes pride in his work. Earlier, his family stopped by to say hello and wish him well on his first night. He introduced me as “Mister Z,” and I shook hands with his wife, kidded around with his two junior-high-aged kids. Fraternal twins, he tells me. “One looks like me, the other like the milkman.” His better half slugged him on the arm on the way out, mouthing “behave.”
We’re at the height of the dinner hour. More customers overflow from the entrance where the maître d stands (it’s Nemo, folks).
The restaurant’s got the best kind of publicity, word-of-mouth recommendations. The wood floors have a luster and the brick walls can withstand the storms. The sturdy wooden furniture matches the new theme, Italian elegance, draped white linens over square-shaped tables, oblong tables for large families and groups, and the second floor reserved for private parties. On the books tonight are three celebrations, including a baby christening.
Piped throughout the dining rooms, Sinatra’s singing “I Got You Under My Skin.” Nat King Cole just finished up “The Christmas Song.”
People are leaning into each other, talking, making eye contact. An older couple teasingly debate which appetizer to order.
I’d describe the decor as eclectic. Lots of neat stuff hanging on the walls; our customers comment on it all the time. Glass-encased uniforms from all wars and framed photos of American soldiers. Under each picture are purple hearts and other medals.
Random shelves hold backlit shadow boxes and contain unexpected treasures, Russian nesting dolls, and English teacups. On a wall hangs the Capote picture, while an antique map of Italy greets folks at the entrance.
The recipe box sits on a stand, center stage, near the menus. Likewise protected in a shadow box, it’s spotlighted with a soft glow from a LED light. All the handwritten recipes have been preserved in a protective seal in my office.
Mama’s living on forever.
There’s a twenty, thirty-minute wait, but the guests are kept busy, children with crayons and paper and yep—you guessed—books, courtesy of Aunt Robbie and Elena.
Old folks, kids, the middle-aged, teenagers, we cater to them all, and the walls, the food, the Sinatra and classical music piped in soft to encourage conversation—it’s history continuing forward.
Yeah. I’m running an Italian family restaurant, part pasta, part chophouse, all passion.
Name of the joint?
MAMA’S BEST.
“Joe,” I say. “Could you send one of the guys to go get Chris?”
“Sure.” He taps the shoulder of the other bartender and maneuvers around the bar. He heads toward the back.
At the door, two familiar faces appear, scarves secured under their red frosty noses. One shrugs free of her wool coat, the redhead who calls herself Pissed—Gingerella—is helping push a wheelchair farther into the entrance area. Inside it sits Miss Indigo, elbows jutting out on the armrests. Her head’s wrapped in a red Hollywood style turban and her gaudy earrings are the size of saucers.
I hustle over to them, a big smile on my face.
Miss Indigo glances up at me, the high priestess sparkle still in her eyes. “Apparently you make better food than doing pedicures.” Nose high, she adjusts a red shawl on her lap. Her right foot is in a lumpy cast.
I drop to my haunches to look at her. “What happened?”
She covers her face. “I slipped in my bathroom. Slipped on foot lotion. Don’t you dare joke, young man. We’re here for the party upstairs.”
“There’s a small elevator over there.” I nod toward the center of the room.
Miss Indigo plucks at the shawl. “Does Elena wear the scarf I gave her?”
I reach for her hands. “All the time.”
The redhead pushes her farther into the room, and I signal for a waiter. Instruct him to lead them to the small elevator upstairs. He offers to push the wheelchair and the redhead nods, stepping back.
“Hey. Gingerella,” I call out.
The redhead turns around and comes closer. She drapes both of their coats over her arm, about to weave around the dinner crowd. Her eyes narrow at me. “Yes?”
“Nice of you to help her out.”
“Oh.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Margie.”
“Margie.” My hand forms the OK symbol. “You’re good people.”
She smiles and shakes her head.
I call over Nemo. “Bring me the bill when they’re finished.” I’m going to figure out how to deduct the party bill, comp their meals.
By now, Chris is here, wearing his white chef coat and black slacks. He’s cooking next to some of Chicago’s finest chefs, learning his craft. He acts a little sheepish and pats his head. “Stupid hair net keeps slipping.”
“Hey, you’re an assistant chef now. I don’t want the health department on my ass.” I signal to the bartender, who’s polishing a beer mug. “Joe. Unleash the . . . you know what.”
He pushes the crate out and opens up the front gate, and out comes a male yellow Labrador, floppy ears, tail swishing. Around his trunk is a vest stitched with “service dog.”
Chris’s eyes widen, his mouth’s open in a smile. He runs his hands over the mutt’s trunk and then fingers the dog’s ears. “How did you get him? There’s a waiting list.”
“I pulled some strings.”
“What’s his name? If it’s Lucky, I’m gonna hurl.”
I laugh. “No. It’s Gusto. As in go-for-the.”
The dog lovers among the waiting customers are saying aww. I spy one sour female face not so enamored of the dog. Either she’s a cat fan or doesn’t like animals. We’ve got to get Gusto out of here.
“Go get acquainted.” I hand him my SUV keys. “You see Elena yet?”
“No.” The dog’s pressed its head to Chris’s leg, already slobbering with love.
“Where’s your aunt? I thought she was stopping by.”
“At home,” Chris loops the leash handle around his fingers. “Something about her hands being sore.”
I haul up the stairs to the remodeled third-floor apartment. The fireplace works now, and she’s decorated it with garland and red poinsettias. A new dining table’s on its way, and it has an “Extend-O” leaf. Cos, Tiffany, and Isabella are visiting Christmas Eve, and of course, so are Chris and Auntie Rob.
Norman and Gusto are welcome, too. If I can make peace with Margie, there’s hope for other warring species.
Speaking of former adversaries, where the hell is Elena? She has to go see Miss Indigo.
She has to be home or just stepped out, because the fireplace is crackling. Elena wanted a real hearth, as she called it, and I had it restored. Not a phony fire but a wood burner. It’ll take maintenance and cleaning and care. Kind of how life is. Above the fireplace, dangling from a mantle, are two needlepoint stockings, the old-fashioned kind with our names stitched on them. Dad would call them hokey, but to me, they’re —cozy.
On one of the larger walls, she’s framed the napkin, our own Picasso, the bookstore sketch I’d drawn a long time ago, and her wolf cartoon addition. She drew a heart around the entire thing, and the felt marker bled feathery red into the paper fibers.
Then I spot her puffed hat on the kitchen counter. My heart pounds a little faster.
Elena emerges from the hallway, static electricity sending her dark hair every which way. She looks a little deranged. “I was just about to come down.”
“Miss Indigo and Margie from Spa Night are here. C’mon.” I hold out my hand. “We’ll go see them together.”
“Nick.” She isn’t moving.
“What?”
She lingers near the table where a box sits. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“Is that?” I squint, recognizing it. “Is that . . . “
She nods, a hint of a smile curving her lips. “Your Lost and Found.”
“No way.”
“Auntie Rob found it at the house, the original box of sin. Without the bra or shoe.”
That smile of hers. I’m pretty sure she’s done something illegal.
I narrow my eyes. “What did you put inside it, wife?”
“Oh. Something.”
I open up the cardboard flaps and push aside layers of holiday tissue paper. What the hell is my evil wife up to?
She can barely contain herself, rocking back and forth on her feet, hands pressed together. What I might describe as giddy.
Under the layers of tissue paper is an ultrasound printout.
I stare at it in shock and glance over.
Elena’s eyes are shiny.
Under more tissue layers are two baby booties.
Blue.
They’re blue.
I can’t breathe.
“Oh, Nick, I hope you’re not mad.”
“Mad?” I choke out.
“Oh, Nick, I’ve been dying to tell you, but I wanted to get through my first trimester first. Auntie Rob had a miscarriage and worried all the time that if I showed you the pregnancy test, we’d somehow jinx it. You know how she frets about jinxes.”
My wife is talking fast and I hear most of the words, but the words aren’t registering.
A son.
She laughs and brushes a knuckle under her eye, her mascara smearing. “Poor thing can’t move her thumbs.”
“What?” My voice croaks. I’m obviously discombobulated.
“Auntie Rob’s been knitting these all day.”
I take the booties into my hands. They’re so small, soft, a fuzzy cloud on my palms.
A son, Mama. I’m having a son. Your grandchild.
“In another month or so, we should be able to feel him move.”
“Him,” I whisper.
She nods and lifts her shirt to place my hand over her belly. Her pale flesh quivers under the pressure of my hand. It’s me, that tantalizing belly and the new life growing inside it.
On the mantle, there’s a stocking with my name stitched on it, Elena’s next to mine.
And I see. Clearly. The blue booties will look great hanging there.
I thank you, dear reader, for purchasing this book. I hope you enjoyed Nick’s and Elena’s love story. Years ago, Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre captivated me. Jane and Mr. Rochester are why I write romance.
We writers live two lives, the real one versus the one inside our heads. I’m grateful for those in my real life for putting up with this lunacy: my husband and sons, even my pooch, (“Promise. I’ll take you for a walk right after I complete this chapter.”) It might be corny but it’s true—my family gives my life meaning. I couldn’t do this without John.
Thanks also to my parents and sisters, especially to Lisa, who texts: “Did you finish yet?”
Can’t leave out my two dinner writer buddies, Elizabeth and Tory, and our honorary dining members, Nasreen (Horshack!) and Susy. Writing is not the sanest career path, and we keep each other going. While I’m expressing my gratitude for friendships, I’ll give a shout-out to my longtime writing chums, Jennifer and Laurie, and the generous Lisa Norman. Lessi is another precious inspiration, as well as all the lovely friends who’ve graced my days. (Jan, our three-hour conversations!)
Most of all, I credit God with all the blessings in my life, as well as the lessons, and all the joy and humbling along the way. Each loss I’ve had has made me appreciate every breath I take, and to cherish this wonderful green and blue orb we inhabit.
Sidney Ivens lives near Chicago with her husband, two sons, and Airedale terrier. “Hardest to Love” is her debut novel. If you enjoyed this book, check out her w
ebsite for future works: www.sidneyivens.com
Or reach her via email: [email protected]
