Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1)

by Liz Talley

  “You shouldn’t have,” he said.

  “You’re out of cleaner so I had to use a damp washcloth. No problem. It was the least I could do for showing up here blubbering like a baby.”

  He felt the words stick in his throat. “It’s okay. I’m glad . . .” He’d wanted to say he was glad to be there for her. That they were friends. Sort of. But he didn’t want to lead her on, so he snapped his mouth shut.

  “Thank you,” she said, walking to him and taking his hand. “Will you come to Aunt Ginny’s tonight? Everyone would love to see you and I already know your mother and father are bringing food. The wake’s tomorrow, so it’s just family and close friends tonight.”

  Angelina’s lips trembled as she studied him. The morning light slanted in, like an unwanted reality. Here was his world knocking at his door. His family would be there, and if he didn’t show, both families would take it as a mark of disrespect.

  So what could he say?

  That he had plans with another woman . . . a woman who was a temporary reprieve from his scheduled life? A woman who would be just a memory, leaving him here to live out the life already unfolding before him?

  He had little choice. His mouth tasted sour with regret as he said, “Sure. I’ll come by after work and pay my respects to your family.”

  “Thank you, Sal. You’re a good guy.” Angelina rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. He followed her out the door, stepping out behind her and locking up.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” Angelina said before clacking down the hall. Just as she turned to descend the steps, she gave him a tremulous smile, an I’m-so-brave-to-face-the-day smile that was a nail in the coffin of his familial obligation.

  Yeah. He was stuck.

  And it sucked. Because every hour, every minute was now precious to him.

  He pulled out his cell phone and sent Rosemary a text.

  Might not make tonight. Family obligation.

  Somehow that was the theme of his life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  If trudging up a five-story walk-up was challenging, then walking up a five-story walk-up while carrying a rented sewing machine was grueling.

  When Rosemary got to the top floor, she collapsed against the door and slid down, holding the precious (and expensive!) rented sewing machine in her lap. Beside her was a bag containing trim, spools of thread, and a Dr Pepper.

  The weird lady in 5D poked her head out and stared at her questioningly. “Do you need me to call 911?”

  “Uh, no. I”—pant, pant, pant—“think I will be okay.”

  The woman narrowed eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses that should have been chic, but the frizzy hair and patterned silk caftan said differently. “What are you doing with that sewing machine?”

  “Being crushed by it,” Rosemary joked, lifting the rented Singer off her. “Seriously, I’m going to piece together all the skin I’ve been saving from young boys and make myself into a man.”

  The woman drew back.

  Rosemary pressed a hand. “I’m joking. Silence of the Lambs? No?”

  The woman shook her head, still looking concerned. But then she stuck a cigarette into her mouth and lit it from a lighter in her pocket. “I worked for Karl Lagerfeld.”

  Rosemary struggled to rise, sliding the machine to the side. “The Karl Lagerfeld?”

  “Do you know any other Karl Lagerfelds someone would say they worked for?” she drawled with a raspy voice that held a trace of exotic accent. She opened the door a bit wider. “You’re Halle’s sister?”

  Rosemary shook her head. “Cousin.”

  “You want a cup of tea? I have chamomile.”

  Rosemary was intrigued. She’d seen the woman poke her head out a time or two, but Halle hadn’t said boo about her neighbors. Merely instructions for the two uppity creatures who liked to sharpen their claws on anything squishy. Like her stomach. “I’d love a cup of chamomile.”

  The woman jerked her head and opened the door wider.

  The place smelled like an ashtray, but it was wonderfully arrayed with bright colors and actual swaths of fabric. It was a feast of sensual delight, sans the cigarette smell. Huge beanbags resting on overlapping carpets surrounded by funky curved furniture and lamp shades with tassels. Rosemary didn’t know whether she’d entered a sultan’s harem or a decorator’s crime scene. “Wow.”

  “Eh, I like color.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Rosemary said, setting the machine and her bag on the industrial table holding three vases of various flowers. “But I love it.”

  “I’m Gilda Besson.”

  “Rosemary Reynolds.”

  Gilda went into the small galley kitchen and put a kettle on. “So tell me what you’re doing with a sewing machine. You a designer, too?”

  “No,” Rosemary said, eyeing the huge canvas that covered a good three-fourths of the far wall. She had no clue what it was, but the patterns were mesmerizing. “Well, not really. I have a fabric shop in Mississippi and I like to make pillows with vintage fabrics. Thought I’d piece a few together while I’m here.”

  Gilda arched a thin brow. “Hmm.”

  Rosemary spotted the workstation then. Beside the very small bed was a table holding a sewing machine. Shelves holding boxes of what looked like notions. “You still do design work?”

  “I’m a milliner,” Gilda said. “Of course, I’ve been lazy about it these few months. Had I known you were renting a sewing machine, I would have loaned you mine. It’s gathering dust.”

  And then Rosemary noticed the high shelf that extended around the entire room filled with mannequin heads holding fantastical hats and fascinators. “Oh, look at that,” she breathed spinning around. “I’d say you have good reason to be lazy. What a collection. Do you sell them?”

  “I have a website,” Gilda said, pulling down cups. “But I’m not interested in me. I’m interested in you. Tell me about Mississippi and these pillows you make.”

  Rosemary joined Gilda in the kitchen. She’d been sorely disappointed that she might not see Sal tonight, so she’d decided to plunge herself into another goal for the time she was in NYC. Designing pillows had always been a rewarding, stress-reducing task and she loved the results, as did her customers, who bought them for gifts. She’d gone out and scoured more secondhand shops for old pillowcases, sheets, and remnants so she could ship the materials back to Morning Glory. But that afternoon, she’d gotten an itch. The rented sewing machine would help her scratch it. “I love taking old fabric relegated to thrift shops and repurposing it.”

  “And you plan to make pillows while you’re here?”

  “Maybe a few,” Rosemary said, accepting the thin bone china teacup. “But I’m not here for that. I’m doing other things while I’m here, too.”

  “Like that hunk?”

  Rosemary felt her cheeks heat. “Uh, him, too.”

  “You have good taste in men,” Gilda said, cracking a smile. The woman had a face that belied her age—she might be fifty or seventy-five years old. Hard to tell. Yet her youthful blue eyes sparkled with good humor.

  Rosemary gave a self-deprecating laugh. “There’s not much to choose from back home in Morning Glory, so I’m having a little romantic fun while I’m here.”

  “Is that why you came to the city?” Gilda asked, sinking onto a stool sitting beside the concrete counter. Something about Gilda was sage-like. As if the woman could be her Obi-Wan Kenobi.

  “Good question,” Rosemary said, taking the adjoining stool, feeling immediate kinship with the woman. Which was odd since they were nothing alike. Gilda had a horrible dye job and jewels sparkling on every finger. And Rosemary . . . didn’t and never would. “Actually, I came because my best friend died.”

  Gilda’s eyebrows rose but she didn’t mutter any condolence. Just listened.

  “I know that sounds weird, but Lacy wanted to see the world. She was full of life and had so many dreams. But sickness won. It wasn’t fair.”

  “Life rarely i
s,” Gilda said, glancing toward the sheer curtains muddling the sight of the outside world.

  “That’s so true,” Rosemary said, contemplating the tea leaves swirling in the bottom of the cup. “So Lacy left me a letter essentially calling me out. She said I was in a rut, treading water, locked in a too-comfortable room of my choosing. And she reminded me of all the things I’d said I wanted to do . . . and so I’m doing them. Well, not all of them. But I grabbed an opportunity and I’m focused on being open to what life has to offer.”

  “Hmm,” Gilda said.

  Okay, so maybe Gilda was a poor substitute for Obi-Wan. No insight, no wise words. Just a hmm.

  Rosemary shrugged. “So I’m in New York City all by myself. I’m going dancing with handsome Italians, having sex in showers—”

  “You’ve never had sex in a shower before?”

  “Nope. And I’ve never dated a guy with a tattoo or taken a subway—or a cab, for that matter. And I’ve never entered a fascinating stranger’s apartment for tea. You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

  “Ha. You’re the one making suits out of boys,” Gilda said with a smile.

  Rosemary laughed. “Lack of oxygen makes me delusional.”

  Gilda’s lips twitched. And then they sat for several seconds sipping tea and enjoying what sounded like the indigenous music of New Zealand. Not that Rosemary knew what that sounded like. She just guessed.

  “I know you,” Gilda said, looking at her, eyes misty.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I was you. I’m from Minnesota.”

  Rosemary waited, because Gilda had a certain way of not explaining herself, it seemed.

  “I came to New York when I was seventeen. Told my ma and pa I wasn’t marrying no farmer. Met a costume designer and he took me to Paris. Taught me everything I knew. Wines, cheeses . . . and sex. All of it was intoxicating. I started hanging around designers and I learned how to make love, cry, wake up and wish I were dead . . . to fall in love. It was both painful and beautiful at the same time.”

  “And now?”

  Gilda laughed. “And now I’m an old woman. But I lived. I lived well.”

  “I guess you did,” Rosemary said, the chamomile tasting somehow more pronounced on her tongue. Something in Gilda’s eyes told a story of heartbreak, loss, and no regret. Whatever it was, it sat heavy in her gut. Maybe it was a sense of rightness, that Rosemary hadn’t been crazy as her mother suggested for coming to SoHo alone, for accepting Sal’s offer to go dancing . . . for taking tea with Halle’s odd neighbor.

  “I’d love to see your pillows when you’ve finished them.”

  “Oh,” Rosemary said, setting down the lukewarm tea. “Why?”

  Gilda blinked. “Because I want to. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’ve seen the work of giants in the fashion industry. My pillows are a hobby.”

  “So?”

  Rosemary shrugged. “I sent Halle a few for her birthday and I found them in the top of her closet. Guess the folksy, arts-and-crafts vibe didn’t work with her midcentury modern look.”

  “Go get them,” Gilda said.

  Rosemary had no clue why Gilda was so interested in her damn pillows. “When I finish my tea?”

  Gilda looked contrite. “Of course. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Ten minutes later, Rosemary handed Gilda the pillows she’d made Halle two years ago. A mixture of ticking and a gorgeous quilt she’d found in a shop on a Mississippi back road, the matching toss pillows had been pieced into a cross pattern, edged in tatting Rosemary had found in their great-grandmother’s hope chest.

  “These tell a story,” Gilda said, fingering the tatting. “Did you do the tatting?”

  “No, I found it in my great-grandmother Pearl’s trunk in the attic. It had been starched and wrapped around Coke bottles.”

  “Fascinating. May I keep these for a few days?”

  Rosemary didn’t know what to say. Though Halle didn’t seem to want the pillows, they did belong to her cousin. But then again, Rosemary would know where they were. “Uh, sure. I’m certain Halle wouldn’t mind.”

  “I don’t think she would,” Gilda said, stacking the pillows atop one of the beanbags. “Now, I’ll say good afternoon. My program is about to come on.”

  “Oh. Of course. It was lovely meeting you. Thanks for the tea,” Rosemary said, moving toward the door.

  Gilda showed her out and then proceeded to lock what sounded like Fort Knox. Made Halle’s dead bolt look like shoestring protection.

  Just as she stepped into the hallway, her cell phone rang.

  Her heart gave a leap as she imagined Sal on the other end telling her he was on his way. She pulled out her phone. Not Sal.

  Jess.

  “Hey, chickadee,” Jess said when Rosemary said hello.

  “Hi, I’m sorry I missed your call last night,” Rosemary said, setting the sewing machine by her cousin’s door.

  “I’m sure you have a good excuse, and according to Eden he has a six-pack. Go, Rose,” Jess said.

  Rosemary laughed. “Hold on a sec. I have to unlock the door and then I want to tell you about the carriage ride I took in Central Park.”

  “I already know about those. My mom took me when I was a kid.”

  “Oh no. You’ve never had one like this,” Rosemary drawled before pushing into the SoHo loft.

  “Really?” Jess returned with a drawl of her own and a laugh. “Do tell.”

  If Sal thought sitting at his parents’ dining room table jammed in next to Angelina was hell, then sitting at the Vitales’ dining room table between Cousin Butch and the Vietnamese lady who lived next door to the Vitales was like swimming in a fiery lake of hell where flames singed his balls and bubbled his skin.

  “Another cannoli, Sal?” Marianna Vitale, Angelina’s mother asked, passing a laden platter his way.

  “No, thank you. It’s getting late and I—”

  “Lou would have loved this,” Marinna said, tears flooding her eyes. “If only we would have done this when she was here, you know? She always said she loved when our families got together.”

  Sal nodded. “Again, I’m so sorry.”

  Mrs. Vitale blew her nose into a lace hankie she withdrew from her pocket. Her brittle shoulders shook. “I know, I know. I’m so glad you’re here though, Sal. Angie appreciates it so much. This has been so hard on her, being so fond of her aunt and all.”

  “Sure,” Sal said, catching his mother’s eye. She nodded at him, obviously pleased he had come.

  Of course she’d sent him a text that said, “If you’re not at the Vitales’ tonight, you can find a new family.” He’d like to think she didn’t mean it, but he wouldn’t put it past her. Natalie Genovese didn’t shoot marbles. And she didn’t put up with any of her children being disrespectful.

  He turned away from his mother’s direct stare because though he’d toed the line out of family loyalty, he wasn’t happy about it. And he wanted his mother to know that. He’d already stayed late at the restaurant so his father could go home and change, and he’d been at the Vitale’s house for at least forty-five minutes.

  He glanced at his phone then stood and pushed his chair in, intending on taking his leave.

  But Angelina appeared at his elbow, looking waiflike in a dress that covered all her assets for once. “Can I get you more coffee, Sal?”

  “I’m not going to be able to sleep as it is,” he said with a small smile. “I’ll pass.”

  Angelina placed her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s decaf.”

  “No, I’m good. I should probably—”

  “My cousin Bella wanted to say hello to you,” Angelina said, jerking her head toward a frizzy-headed woman who looked about forty pounds too heavy and twenty years past her prime. “Do you remember her from the YMCA? She was an aerobics instructor. Aunt Louisa loved aerobics.”

  Bella appeared with a wide smile. “So this is Sal?”

  That shaky feeling in h
is belly grew. What had Angelina been telling her friends and family about him? But he knew. God help him, he knew.

  “I’ve heard so much about you. Angelina positively glows when she talks about you and I see why,” Bella said, raking him with an appreciative glance. “Of course, I’ve known your mother for ages. We went to grammar school together.”

  Angelina shot Bella a look, giving a curt shake of her head. “I glow when I talk about lots of people, Bella. Sal’s just lucky he made the cut.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Bella,” Sal said as the older woman shot Angelina a questioning look.

  “And you. Terrible tragedy, but the upside is it brings people together.” Bella gave him a nudge. Literally a nudge toward Angelina.

  “Yeah,” Sal said, glancing at the cuckoo clock hanging in the kitchen, where his parents sat with Angelina’s father and siblings. Ten minutes past ten o’clock. It would take him at least thirty minutes to get to SoHo. Another five or ten minutes to walk to the block on Spring Street where Rosemary waited. It was foolish to keep her waiting. “Uh, I need to step out and make a call. Excuse me.”

  Sal nodded toward Bella and gave Angelina a tight smile before pushing past his brother holding his niece and slipping out the French doors that led to the small patio out back. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dialed the number he’d added to his contacts only a few days ago.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Sal,” Rosemary breathed. “Where are you? I thought you’d be here by now.”

  “I got hung up, baby. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you coming?

  “I could make a joke about that,” he teased.

  Her throaty laugh made his balls tighten. Christ, he got hard just hearing her voice.

  “Look, I’m going to be another hour or so. A family friend passed and I needed to be—”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. You have to stay. I can’t be that selfish,” Rosemary said, genuine anguish in her voice. “It’s important to be there for your family, for your friends. I know.”

  “But I can still—”

  “We can see each other tomorrow.”