by Donna Ball
There was a time when the sound of an American accent would have made her heart soar, but now it just annoyed her. All the Americans ever wanted to do when they came in here was take up her time gushing about how authentic the place was, and how did she like living here and what was she doing here and did she know any good places for dinner, and then they’d leave her a fifty cent euro for a tip—like they actually thought the big 50 on the coin meant something other than fifty cents—or sometimes they’d walk off with nothing but a friendly wave. They were big, they were loud, they were pushy, and most of the time they made her embarrassed to be from the same country. She had even less patience for the Americans than she did the Italians.
So she shouted back, without even bothering to turn around, “McDonald’s is down the street!”
That usually got rid of them, but this one was determined to be a pain in the ass. He returned, “Is that the way you talk to a customer, dollface?”
Dollface? She abandoned her struggle with the stubborn machine and turned around to give him the death stare. She saw a chestnut-haired young man in a yellow Polo shirt making his way toward the bar. He pushed his sunglasses into his hair and smiled at her.
“Kevin!”
Lori scrambled over the bar, pushing cups and canisters and outraged customers out of her way, and launched herself into his arms. He caught her up, laughing and staggering backwards, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck and covered his face with kisses. “Kevin! Kevin, it’s you, it’s you, it’s really you! What are you doing here? How did you find me? I can’t believe it’s you!”
Then she jumped onto the floor again and gave him a hard punch on the arm, staring at him suspiciously. “What are you doing here?” she demanded again. “Did my mother send you to check up on me?”
“Hey!” he rubbed his bruised arm, scowling. “Give a fellow a chance, will you?”
The owner of the café shoved his way through the crowd, and he did not look as though he was in the mood to give anyone a chance. His jowls were swinging and his beet-red face was sweating and he was yelling at Lori at the top of his considerable lungs. Lori, who had had enough for one day, shot back every Italian curse she knew. He looked momentarily startled, but when the customers nearest him started to grin and even chuckle, he gave a roar of rage that made even Lori shrink back. Kevin let forth a stream of Italian that ended with the belligerent chin-flipping gesture that, until she moved to Italy, Lori thought had been invented by the Sopranos. Then, not waiting for a reply or a reaction, Kevin gripped her arm hard and dragged her out of the café.
“Wow,” said Lori, when they were far enough down the street that the café owner’s furious threats were only background noise, “I didn’t know you spoke Italian.”
Kevin dropped her arm, gazed at her for a moment, and then deliberately lowered his sunglasses down over his eyes. He started walking again. “I hope you didn’t like your job.”
“Hated it. Why?”
“Because you’re fired.”
“Fired?” She looked outraged. “Just for a little argument? What did you say to him?”
“Me? You’re the one who called him a penis-face and invited him to go make love to a pig.”
Lori slowed down, grinning. “I did?”
“God, Lori, you’re living and working in Italy and you can’t even be bothered to learn the language?”
“It’s not that I can’t be bothered!” She frowned a little, shoving her hands into her pockets as she walked beside him. “I’m trying. I’m just not very good at it. Turns out I’m not very good at a lot of things,” she added, so lowly it was almost inaudible.
She could feel Kevin’s glance, but she did not look up. They walked in silence for a while, strolling with tourists who gawked at the crumbling architecture and colorful storefronts, dodging the purposeful strides of the natives with their cell phones and intense expressions. In a moment Lori said, “So? Did my mother send you?”
“Not exactly,” he said, then admitted, “My mother did. Of course …” He slid a glance at her. “You’re not exactly where they thought you were, are you?”
Lori chose not to reply to that.
Kevin said, “Mom also sent cookies.”
Lori’s eyes lit up. “Really? What kind?”
“Chocolate chip, with nuts. I ate most of them on the way over, though.”
And when her expression grew stormy again he grinned, and nodded toward a kiosk just ahead. “Come on, I’ll buy you a gelato. And maybe you can tell me how you went from living in a castle at one of the most prestigious wineries in the region to serving coffee for tips with a penis-face for your boss.”
Lori said glumly, “For that you’ll have to buy me dinner.”
He draped a companionable arm around her shoulders. “Let’s start with gelato and see how it goes.”
She smiled and leaned into him, just a little. She had never imagined how good it would be to see a face from home.
~*~
“At least you’re being a good sport about it.” Bridget set a platter piled high with sandwiches on the table while Cici replaced the vase of yellow daisies and purple asters with a pitcher of iced tea.
“I am not being a good sport,” Lindsay said grimly, bending her head over the papers that were spread out in front of her. “I am soldiering through.”
“Anyway, what has she got to be a good sport about?” Cici demanded. “I’m the one who had to spend two days without water in my bathroom.”
“It would have only been one day if you’d called a plumber in the first place,” Bridget pointed out.
Cici rolled her eyes, grabbed a sandwich, and sank into her chair.
The work on the soon-to-be master suite had been stalled for over a week, thanks not only to the broken water pipe but to the myriad of other wedding-prep details that were constantly pulling their focus. The gazebo had to be repainted, along with the shutters, the front door, and the trim. The vegetable garden, now that the last of its produce had been harvested, had to be plowed under and mulched, and Lindsay thought the fence surrounding it could use a fresh coat of paint, just for appearances’ sake. Even Cici was beginning to wonder whether tackling a major remodeling project this close to the wedding might have been a mistake.
But it was, of course, too late now.
Hand-lettered invitations fashioned on thick vellum paper supplied by Paul had gone out to family members and closest friends. Paul had shown them how to singe the edges of the paper for a weathered look, and Lindsay had sketched a stylized grapevine in gold ink on each one. Flyers advertising the burning of the vines and the wedding celebration had been printed up and left in shops and businesses all over town, pinned to bulletin boards and posted on the Ladybug Farm website. Bridget had had the idea to add “reservations suggested” and so far had taken almost fifty calls. And that was in addition to the usual business of running the farm: the fruit that had to be turned into jam before it spoiled, the dozens upon dozens of bags of corn and beans and squash that were sliced, blanched, and packed into their two freezers; the lawn that had to be mowed and the shrubs that had to be pruned and the flower beds that had to be raked clean of early falling leaves.
In the past ten days, Lindsay had stabbed herself with a fruit knife while helping Bridget prepare pears for the compote she wanted to serve at the reception, stepped on a rake and almost knocked herself out, and slammed the car door on her fingers. But her black eye was almost completely gone, and most of the time she walked without a limp.
She was using the lunch table—which, until cool weather drove them inside, would always be the round wicker table on the side porch that overlooked the flower gardens—to do her daily audit of the pre-wedding checklist. Dominic stopped by to grab a sandwich and a glass of sweet tea to take back to his office, and lingered just long enough to assure his fiancée that he had no intention of wearing the poet’s shirt and brocade vest Paul had decided on for groom’s attire. Lindsa
y nodded, marked it off her list, kissed him absently, and sent him on his way.
“Okay, we got the marriage license and delivered it to Reverend Holland,” Lindsay said, checking off a box. “It’s good for sixty days. Dominic asked his oldest son to be his best man. We’ve got the rings. The wedding bands are gorgeous, by the way; mine fits rights into the engagement ring like a single vine. Oh, and Paul sent out seventy-five save the date cards for the engagement party.” She had a sandwich in one hand and a pen in the other, and she glanced over the top of her reading glasses to check a notation on one of the papers as she spoke. “He said it’s great advertising for the B&B even if only half of them come.”
“It was sweet of them to go to so much trouble.”
“It sure was. At least I know one thing about this wedding is guaranteed to go right.”
“Hey,” Cici objected, “we give great parties.”
Lindsay glanced at her apologetically. “I know. And it’s not as though I don’t appreciate all you’re doing. It’s just that I only get one shot at this. I want it to be perfect. Or at least as perfect as I can afford.”
Cici nodded. “I totally get that. I wanted the same thing for Lori.”
Lindsay held out her glass, checking a box on one of the papers with her other hand. “More tea. Have you heard from her, by the way? Or Kevin?”
Cici leaned over the table to refill Lindsay’s glass. “Just the usual. ‘No time to write, must run.’”
“Kevin landed safely though,” Bridget said. “And he e-mailed to double-check the name of the place where Lori’s staying, so I’m sure he’ll let us know when he sees her.”
“I don’t know why you didn’t just tell Lori he was coming,” Lindsay said.
“He wanted to surprise her,” Cici said with a shrug. “Who knows why?”
“I know why,” Bridget said. “In case he got too busy to look her up. You know kids. They hate to be tied to a schedule.”
Cici finished her sandwich and sat back for a moment, sipping her tea. The day was one of a string of exceptionally warm ones for this time of year, and already the temperature on the porch was almost too high to be comfortable. The lawn looked crisp, the flower beds wilted, and even the mountains in the distance looked hot and dusty. The sky was the color of acid-washed denim, bleached and tired looking. “Indian summer,” she said, pressing the chilled glass briefly against her cheek. “How can it be hotter than real summer?”
“It’s not Indian summer,” Bridget said, beginning to gather up the dishes. “It can’t be Indian summer until after the first frost.”
“Terrific,” muttered Lindsay, “something else to worry about. I just ordered a custom-altered jacket to cover up my custom-altered strapless gown and with my luck it will be too hot to wear it.”
Cici shrugged. “So you’ll sweat.”
“Or I’ll have a hot flash while standing in ninety-degree sun and pass out and you’ll have to call the paramedics.” She frowned. “All things considered, it might not be a bad idea to have them standing by anyway, just in case.” She made a note on her list.
Bridget began to clear the table, and stacked Lindsay’s plate atop the others. “You know, there is such a thing as over-managing.”
Lindsay frowned without looking up. “I’m not over-managing. I’m just being careful.”
Cici’s eyebrows arched. “Which is why you have bandages on every finger and a big bruise on your forehead.”
Lindsay pulled self-consciously at the swath of hair that was supposed to be covering the bruise. “Those were accidents.”
“Because you’re making yourself so crazy about the wedding you’ve completely lost your ability to concentrate on anything else,” said Bridget. “Why don’t you just relax and try to enjoy it before you end up in a body cast?”
“Ha. Easy for you to say. You try planning the biggest day of your life while swimming through a menopausal brain fog and trying to fit into a dress that’s already two sizes too small, not to mention …”
She cut herself off so abruptly that both her friends stared at her. Lindsay focused intently on her spreadsheet.
“What?” prompted Bridget. “Not to mention what?”
“I just want everything to be perfect.” Lindsay glanced at them uncertainly. “I don’t want Dominic’s kids to think he’s making a mistake. I don’t want Dominic to think he’s making a mistake.”
“Ah,” said Bridget with soft understanding. “So that’s it.”
“What?” demanded Cici, looking confused. “What’s it?”
“The children,” explained Bridget patiently. She put the plates back on the table and sat down. “It’s always the children. It’s not the wedding she’s worried about, it’s that Dominic’s family will think she’s not good enough for him.”
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense at all,” Cici said. “His children are scattered all over the country. You’ll see them for a few days at the wedding and send cards at Christmas. What do you care what they think?”
“Well, of course she cares what they think,” Bridget said. “They’re his children. And she’ll be … well, their stepmother.”
Lindsay smothered a groan. “Cassie is only ten years younger than I am.”
Bridget hastened to add, “Not literally, of course, because they’re all grown up and living away from home, but still … it’s family.”
Cici looked at Lindsay thoughtfully. “And a step-grandmother,” she pointed out.
Lindsay looked at her.
“Doesn’t Dominic’s oldest son have children?” she said.
Lindsay nodded mutely.
“What do you know about that?” Cici grinned. “You’ll be a grandmother before I am. Whoever would have thought?”
Lindsay sank down in her chair. “Oh, God.”
Bridget said sternly to Cici, “You are not helping.”
Lindsay blew out a soft breath. “I know I’ve been a maniac. And I’m not like this, really I’m not. You know that.” She looked at them with a note of pleading in her eyes and they nodded encouragement. “It’s just that … you remember in the spring, when we sat on this very porch and I knew I was falling in love with Dominic and it terrified me because I’d already found what I wanted. Here. With you guys. And I didn’t want anything to change. Well, now it’s changed. And there’s no going back. And I’m still terrified.”
Bridget smiled. So did Cici.
“Ah, Lindsay,” Bridget said, “we know that. I mean, seriously, look at what you’ve done to yourself. Every accident you’ve had has been because of us. You’ve literally been beating yourself up over us.”
“After all,” Cici went on, “Bridget gave you the black eye and I’m the reason you stubbed your toe, and if it hadn’t been for Ida Mae dropping the flour you wouldn’t have cut your foot.”
“And I did ask you to peel the pears,” Bridget said a little apologetically.
“And I’m the one who gave you the crowbar,” Cici said, but couldn’t help adding under her breath, “A mistake I’ll never make again.”
“You left the rake in the garden too,” Lindsay pointed out suspiciously.
“But you slammed your own fingers in the car door,” Bridget added.
Lindsay turned an accusing look on her. “While running errands for you.”
“Which were all related to your wedding,” Bridget said quickly.
“The point being,” Cici said, “that it’s pretty clear that what your subconscious is trying to tell you is that you’re afraid of losing us.”
Lindsay lifted an eyebrow. “Or maybe you’re afraid of losing me. After all, you’re the ones who are doing all the beating up.”
“Not on purpose,” Cici reminded her firmly.
“Lindsay,” Bridget said, reaching for her hand, “we’re family. Nothing can change that. Noah is family. Lori is family. When they moved in, everything changed, but we were still family, right? Now Dominic is family, and his children are family, and his childr
en’s children are family. But here,” she placed her hand firmly over her heart, “nothing has changed. Because the only rule about families is that there’s always room for more.”
Lindsay blinked, and her nose reddened. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Well, good.” Bridget released her hand and sat back. “Because I’ve got to tell you, you’ve made me want to cry more than once these past few days.”
The three of them laughed, and Cici got to her feet. “I’ve got to get back to work. Farley’s coming this afternoon to help me take down the rest of the wall.”
“Do you need any help?” Lindsay offered.
“No,” Cici said quickly, and when Lindsay looked insulted she added, managing a smile, “My wedding gift, remember?”
“I said I was sorry about the pipe,” Lindsay told her, looking something less than mollified.
“I know. Only … we just got the plumbing fixed and there are sharp instruments involved, so …” Cici put on her most persuasive face. “Menopausal brain fog, remember? So let’s not take any chances.”
Lindsay just frowned and turned back to her spreadsheet.
~*~
At the Hummingbird House
~*~
“Belly dancers!” declared Harmony. She burst into the office of the Hummingbird House with a flutter of scarves and a sound like tinkling bells, which, upon close examination, was produced by the pyramid of tiny discs she wore dripping from each ear and both wrists. Silk scarves were draped in layers around her shoulders and tied around her ample middle, and she had even arranged a bright pink scarf in a gypsy cap, tied with more jingling discs over one ear. Her feet were bare except for silver rings encircling each surprisingly slender toe. “We’ll have belly dancers and a drum ceremony! What could be more perfect? And …” She clasped her hands over her chest with a gasp of delight, “A fire-walking ceremony! Can you just imagine how glorious that will be by the light of the full moon? I know where we can get a dozen with practically no notice at all!”
