Once Upon a Moonlight Night (The Bella Novella Collection Book 1)

by Janice Thompson

  Twila crossed her arms at her chest. “Problem is, you can’t predict the outcome.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re used to looking ahead and seeing how things are going to be with the weather, and when it comes to stuff like this—the situation with your parents and the other woman—you can’t see the outcome.”

  “Never thought about that, but I guess you’re right. Maybe I don’t want to see what’s coming with my dad. He’s been so awful to my mom this past year. And I’ll be honest. . .he’s been so unpredictable. All of this is out of character for him. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Irrational behavior, if you ask me. If Didi comes it’ll be awful for everyone involved…except my dad and Didi, and even then I have to question her motives for wanting to be there.”

  “Then you have your answer,” Twila said. “It’s better if she doesn’t come. You have to tell your dad that.”

  “Yeah.” Justine sighed. “I’m not used to telling my dad what to do.”

  “But this is your special day, Justine, and you deserve to be at peace,” Bonnie Sue rested her hand on Justine’s shoulder. “That means, he has to play nice.”

  “Playing nice is not what he does, at least not lately.”

  “Then we’ll pray that he sees things your way.” Bonnie Sue smiled and clasped her hands together, as if heading into a prayer meeting at this very moment. If so, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen the Splendora sisters in action. They were prayer warriors, for sure. Still, I wondered how Justine would respond.

  The bride-to-be paused and looked at the three ladies, tiny wrinkles forming on her forehead. “You people talk a lot about praying.”

  “Yes Ma’am, we do.” Twila gave her a serious look. “You know how you predict the weather?”

  “Right.” Justine nodded.

  “We don’t have the ability to predict what’s coming next in the real world.” Twila said. “So, we have to trust that God knows all of that. We pray and ask for his direction in the moment because we won’t be able to know what to do, otherwise.”

  Sometimes I act like I have it all together, like I know what’s coming, when—in reality—I’m just hoping. Guessing.” Justine shrugged. “Is that awful?”

  Twila reached over to squeeze the bride-to-be’s hand. “Promise me you’ll think about what I said earlier, about asking the Lord to be your boss. You’ll never regret that decision.”

  “I’ll think about it, for sure.” Justine, God bless her, gave Twila a bright smile followed by a nod. “And in the meantime, let’s stop talking about Didi, if you don’t mind? Let’s switch to something pleasant. Something less destructive.”

  Everyone responded with a resounding, “Okay.”

  Justine’s eyes sparkled. “Good. Now, I have a proposition for you ladies, one I think you’ll love.”

  “Name it, kiddo.” Twila put her hands on her ample hips and grinned. “What can we do for you?”

  “I want to invite the three of you to sing Stormy Weather on the six o’clock news.” A playful smile turned up the edges of Justine’s lips. “My final day at work is on Friday night, December 11th. After that I have three weeks off for the wedding and honeymoon. Wouldn’t it be just perfect—I mean, wouldn’t it be great—if you ladies crooned a tune my final night on the job? It would be quite the send-off. People wouldn’t forget it.”

  No, indeed, they would not. If the Splendora sisters appeared on the evening news, I had a feeling folks would be talking about it for years to come.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Polka Dots and Moonbeams

  “The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house. All that cold, cold, wet day.”

  ― Dr. Seuss, The Cat in the Hat

  On the day after meeting with Justine and the Splendora sisters I dove back into my work. My ever-growing “to do” list kept me going all morning, but by early afternoon I needed a break. Mama and Sophia agreed to watch the kids so that I could spend a couple of hours at our local Wal-Mart looking at Christmas presents for the kids. With only three weeks until my favorite holiday—and a good chunk of that time taken up with wedding planning—I needed to be proactive.

  I browsed the aisles, my thoughts tumbling. I wanted to focus on the kids. Of course I did. But with phone calls and text messages coming in from brides at such a rapid pace, who had time to think about Tonka trucks and La-La-Loopsy dolls?

  Just as I landed on the electronics aisle, my phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway.

  “Is this Bella Neeley?” A young woman’s voice greeted me.

  “This is she.” I shifted my phone to the other ear, my gaze shifting to a video game I knew Tres would love. Unfortunately, it was locked away behind a sliding glass door. Hmm.

  “My name is Victoria Brierley. I heard all about you from Gabi Delgado, the dress designer.”

  “Yes, I know Gabi. We’re good friends.”

  “Awesome. She’s designing a gown for me, as we speak. Anyway, she gave me your contact information. My fiancé Beau and I are getting married in February. We want to do sort of a Victorian tea-party theme. Get it?”

  I didn’t, but couldn’t respond because a lady shoved past me with her cart, nearly knocking me down.

  “My name’s Victoria,” the woman on the phone said. “And I want a Victorian wedding.” A little giggle followed.

  “Ah. Got it. Cute.”

  “Valentine’s Day is on a Sunday, which is a weird day for a wedding, but I figured you guys might not be booked on a Sunday. . .so I thought I’d asked. Is Club Wed available?”

  “We have a Saturday morning ceremony and a Saturday evening one, as well. Nothing on Sunday.” But boy, will my feet ever be killing me if I say Yes to you.

  “Oh, please say we can have that slot.” She laughed. “I just have to get married at Club Wed. I went to your website and just fell in love with the place. And from what Gabi has told me, it’s even better in person.”

  “Oh, it is,” I said. “The pictures don’t do it justice.”

  “I think it’ll be great for Valentine’s Day. So, go ahead and put our names down, okay? I’ll mail you a deposit check.”

  A beep sounded from my phone, a text message coming through. I carried on with the conversation with Victoria, then ended the call. I pulled the phone away from my ear, glanced down and groaned as I read the incoming text message from Justine:

  “You available to talk?” Really? I wanted to respond with: “I’m off the clock, girl.” Instead, I opted with the obvious, “Call me.” Which, she did.

  We spent the next half hour talking about her concerns over the layout of the gazebo and chairs At some point I realized I’d been strolling the aisles of the toy department for ages without picking out one thing for the kids. I pulled the phone away from my ear and groaned when I saw the time: four o’clock. Had I been on the phone that long?

  Without purchasing one gift, I left the store. Standing in front of Wal-Mart, I shifted the phone to my other ear. Justine kept on talking, oblivious. I heard a text message come through and pulled the phone away from my ear to read it.

  “Almost done shopping? I need your input regarding tonight’s dinner.”

  Mama.

  I wanted to respond, of course, but Justine kept on going.

  Mama’s next text, “Call me as soon as you can,” gave me the excuse I needed to end the call with Justine. Had something happened to one of the kids?

  “Justine, I have to go.”

  “W-what? But I was right in the middle of—”

  “Just got a text from my mom. She needs me to call her. She’s watching the kids. Something must’ve gone wrong.”

  “Of course. But call me tomorrow morning, okay? I really need to figure this out before I go crazy.”

  One of us was sure to go crazy, but I wasn’t sure it would be Justine. Not the way things were headed. I needed a break. A chance to just be me. . .no weddings, no planning, no
stars, no gazebos. I needed. . .a vacation. Truly. I needed a getaway from the madness. But first, I needed to call my mother. These days, it seemed I hardly talked to her. She was always so busy at the opera house and I was. . .well, always so busy. Period. I punched in her number and waited.

  “H-hello?” Sniffles from Mama’s end of the line clued me in to the fact that something must’ve gone terribly wrong.

  “Mama? What happened? Is it Pop?”

  “No, you’re father’s fine. So far.”

  “Who, then?” I did my best to keep my voice steady. “Oh, no. Please don’t tell me it’s Rosie. I know she tried to stick one of your hairpins into an electrical outlet last time I left her there. Tell me she’s—”

  “She’s fine, Bella. All the kids are fine. Sophia’s got them watching a movie on TV.”

  “Then. . .what?’ Are you ill?”

  “No.” Mama paused and the sniffles intensified. “I. . .I’m incapable.”

  “You’re what?”

  Her voice grew muffled. “I stink at cooking.” She sighed, and, for a moment, I could picture her taking the spatula and flinging it across the room.

  “I’m hopeless.” She groaned. Loudly. “Rosa and Laz always take care of everything. Your poor father is going to starve to death while they’re gone.” She paused. “How long can a man go without eating before he withers up and dies? I’m only asking out of curiosity.”

  “Jesus fasted for forty days and forty nights, Mama.”

  “Well, yes, but that’s hardly a fair comparison. Your father is a mere mortal. Oh, my poor Cosmo. I can see his ribs.”

  “Hardly. Trust me, he won’t starve. I have it on good authority he went to Parma John’s for lunch.”

  “Well, that buys me a few hours, anyway.” Mama’s words were tinged with relief. “But when he gets home and finds out that I couldn’t even piece together a decent lasagna, he’s going to flip. And when he sees this kitchen. . .”

  “I’ll help you clean the kitchen, Mama. I’m headed back now.”

  “But you’re so busy. Did you buy the Christmas presents for the kids?”

  I groaned and bit back the words “I’m incapable, too,” settling only for, “Well, there will always be another day.”

  “But that doesn’t solve the problem of what I’ll make for dinner. Unless. . .” Her words drifted off.

  “Unless what, Mama?”

  “Well, now that I think of it, I do have one thought in mind. Are you still at Wal-Mart, Bella-Bambina?”

  “Yes. Outside, but I’m still here.”

  “Can you run back inside and buy something for me? Please don’t judge me, okay?”

  “O-okay.”

  “You’ll have to double-bag it and sneak it in the back door. Make sure no one’s watching, promise?”

  “Sure, I promise. What do you want me to buy, Mama?”

  As she whispered the words frozen lasagna, I couldn’t help but gasp. Boy, oh boy. This wouldn’t go over well with the Rossi family. Never in a million, billion years. Still, I did as she asked and then double-bagged the evidence and headed home, ready to see how I could help.

  Ten minutes after leaving Wal-Mart I arrived at my childhood home to find things peaceful and still. No doubt Mama was busy cleaning the kitchen. I pulled my car into the driveway and reached for the bag with the frozen lasagna inside, then tiptoed to the back door. When I stepped inside the kitchen I found Mama in a puddle of tears. Wearing no makeup. Crazier still, her teal blouse did not coordinate with the navy slacks. Weird. My always-put-together-Mama had apparently slipped right over the edge.

  “Mama?” I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen her in such a frazzled state. Of course, her lip liner was tattooed on, and so was the eyeliner, but with the usual foundation, blush, eyeshadow and lipstick missing, she looked more like Aunt Rosa than herself. Odd.

  “Did you get it?” she whispered.

  I held up the bag. . .just as Sophia entered the room with her husband Tony at her side.

  “Oh, hey Bella. Didn’t realize you were back. Just wanted to tell Mama that Tony’s here after all, so set an extra place at the table. The kids are watching a movie. Did you get your shopping done?” She glanced at the bag in my hand. “What’s in the bag?”

  I shoved it behind my back. “Oh, it’s a surprise. I’ll be right out, okay?”

  “For me?” My sister’s eyes twinkled. “You shouldn’t have, Bella!” She gave me a little wink, then glanced at our mother, her eyes narrowing. No doubt my perfectly-put-together sister couldn’t figure out Mama’s attire or lack of makeup, either.

  Sophia reached inside the fridge for a soda, then headed back to the living room to join the kids, her husband at her side.

  Mama glanced my way, her eyes filled with tears. “You can’t tell a single, solitary soul. I’ll transfer the lasagna to a regular baking dish and no one will know. Promise you won’t breathe a word.”

  Oh, trust me. I won’t have to.

  They would know after one bite, of course. And there would be plenty of drama to follow. Still, I hated to burst Mama’s bubble, especially with her hopes so high. So, I helped her slide the frozen block of commercial lasagna from the foil pan to a glass one.

  “Do we have to thaw it out?” she asked. “Or just put it in the oven?”

  I turned the box over and read the instructions. “I guess we just put it in there and let it cook. But it takes two hours, Mama.”

  “Two hours?” We glanced at the kitchen clock in tandem. Four-thirty.

  “Should be just about right.” Mama shoved the pan of frozen lasagna—if that’s what one wanted to call it—into the oven. “Now, we have to burn the evidence.”

  “Burn it?”

  “Yes. Your father takes out the trash every night. He’ll see that box and know what I’ve done. We have to burn it. I’ve got a fire going in the fireplace. You put it in there for me?”

  “But. . .” I sighed as she pressed the box into my hands. I tore it into pieces and then shoved it into a paper bag I found in the pantry. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  I carried the bag into the living room where I found the kids and Sophia watching a Disney movie while Tony dozed in Pop’s recliner.

  “Mama!” Rosie jumped into my arms. The twins squealed from the Pack-and-Play, which caused Tony to stir in the chair.

  “Hey, babies. Did you miss me?” I asked.

  They giggled and carried on, but I still had to deal with the paper bag and its contents. I carried it over to the fireplace and set it on top of the flames. The bag caught fire and dissolved in an instant, leaving the frozen lasagna box in plain sight.

  “What are you doing, Bella?” Sophia gave me an inquisitive look from her spot on the sofa.

  “Oh, just stoking the fire.” I reached for the poker.

  “Stoking the fire?” Her gaze narrowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that expression before.”

  The weirdest chemical smell drifted up from the fireplace. Probably the plastic lining on the lasagna box.

  “What is that?” Sophia rose and took several quick steps toward the fireplace. I used the poker to shove the box deeper into the flames and the edges curled up as it began to melt.

  “Oh, just something Mama gave me.” I continued to poke at it. “Maybe they’re short on wood for the fireplace?”

  “It’s a fake log, Bella.” My sister pointed down and I pursed my lips as I realized she was right. “You don’t usually add stuff to it.”

  “Well, let’s watch the movie, okay?” I turned to face the TV. “Ooh, this is my favorite part.” I settled onto the sofa, doing my best to ignore the icky smell from the fireplace.

  Well, until Pop showed up a short while later.

  “What is that?” he asked. “Smells like something from one of the chemical plants in Pasadena.”

  “Something Bella put in the fireplace,” Sophia said and then groaned aloud. “I have no idea but it’s giving me a headache.”
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br />   “Bella?” My father glared at me and then took several steps toward the fireplace. “You put something in there? What was it?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Oh, just a paper bag with a little box inside. It’s okay, Pop. It’s all burned up now.” Except the plastic film on the box, which is slowly killing us.

  He coughed and waved his hand. “But it’s a fake log. We don’t—”

  “I know, Pop.” I did my best not to groan aloud. “Sorry. My bad.” I rose and sprinted to the kitchen to check on Mama. “How’s it going in here?” I asked.

  She peeked inside the oven and shook her head. “Still looks like a frozen blob. Help me, Bella? I bought some bread, but I really don’t know what to do with it.” Mama pulled out a loaf of French bread and plopped it on the counter.

  “Here, let me. I make this for D.J. all the time.” I slit the loaf from end to end, added liberal amounts of butter, then added garlic and mozzarella. I wrapped the whole thing in foil and stuck it in the oven alongside the lasagna, which was finally starting to soften up. Maybe Mama could pull this off. I hoped. At least she was giving it a valiant effort.

  I joined the kids once again, then returned to the kitchen a short while later to find Mama arguing with Pop about the salad.

  “But Rosa never buys her salad in a bag.” Pop pointed to the large plastic container of of salad mix Mama was emptying into a bowl.

  “I’m not Rosa, Cosmo.” My mother’s punctuated words carried a hint of anger. “Now, get out of my kitchen while I fix your dinner.”

  “Is that pasta you’re baking?” He reached to open the oven door and she slapped his hand with a dishcloth.

  “Get out of my kitchen or you won’t eat at all.”

  “Smells different.” He sniffed the air.

  “New recipe,” she muttered.

  A smile lit his face. “Well, good. I can’t wait to try it.”

  As soon as he left the kitchen, Mama’s shoulders slumped forward in obvious defeat.

  “Chin up, Mama,” I said. “You go upstairs and put on some makeup. Change into something fresh. I’ll finish the salad.”