Cozy Christmas Shorts

by Halliday, Gemma

  I stared into her coke-bottle-lens-enlarged eyes. "Never mind that now. I'm taking you home, so gather up your things."

  She dug in her heels, barring the doorway with her five-foot frame. "Is-a Bradley here?"

  I gasped as a light bulb—make that a blinding flash—went off in my head. "So that's why you did this! You wanted Bradley and me to come home for Christmas."

  She shrugged. "And-a so?"

  I sighed and shook my head. When it came to scheming, my nonna could give Machiavelli a run for his money.

  "Well-a?" she pressed.

  "He's at the house with mom," I ground out. "But how did you know that Bradley would come too? I didn't even know that."

  "Let's just-a say, he pass-a the test-a." She moved to the side, making way for me to enter.

  After clenching and unclenching my fists a few times, I stepped into the room and saw the man in black sitting in a chair. I jumped and yelled, "You!"

  The man didn't move a muscle, but his eyes flickered to me and then back to the TV.

  "You know Secondino?" Nonna asked, pointing to the man.

  I put my hands on my hips. "No, but I thought he'd abducted you! I was scared to death."

  "He's-a Mrs. Petricola's son," she explained. "He's a nice-a boy."

  Secondino was neither nice nor a boy. He looked to be around sixty, and he had the manners of a rock. "That reminds me, Mr. Petricola. Someone reported that you might be armed. Is that true?"

  "That's BS-a!" Nonna exclaimed with a wave of her hand. "Who say-a that?"

  "None of your business," I replied. I couldn't tell her that my informant was Father Ryan. Selling out a priest was a sin, right?

  Nonna scowled and took a seat on the king-sized bed.

  I turned to Secondino, who was sitting in his chair like a stump. "Are you armed, Mr. Petricola?"

  "It's a salami," he replied, patting the right side of his jacket.

  "Oh, okay," I said, satisfied. It was perfectly logical for an Italian man to pat his salami. They were extremely protective of their deli meats. "Is that the salami you took from the deli, Nonna?"

  "What's-a the problem?" she asked, throwing her hands in the air. "He wanted some-a salame, so I save-a some money and-a get it from-a the deli."

  This from a woman who'd just dropped a small fortune at the mall. "So, do you think that taking twenty dollar bills from the register qualifies as saving money too?"

  "Well, I had-a to eat!" she cried. "I can't eat-a no salame from-a Genova."

  I crossed my arms. "By the way, what on earth did you spend four thousand dollars on at The Galleria?"

  "I tell-a you later," she said, assuming a mysterious air. "Secondino, you can-a go now."

  "Don't you want to watch the end of Golden Girls?" he protested, finally showing some signs of life.

  Nonna turned to me and tried her weak-old-woman pleading look, slumping her shoulders, hanging her head, and turning down the corners of her mouth. "It's a maratona of-a the Christmas episodes."

  I rolled my eyes. The Golden Girls was her all-time favorite show. But she said all the characters were idiote except for one—the elderly Sicilian, Sophia Petrillo. Go figure. I pulled an Anthony and said, "Fuggedaboutit."

  While Nonna and Secondino looked on, I began collecting her shopping bags. "We need to get going." To light a fire under them, I added, "After Dad saw his credit card bill, he said he was going to call the police and tell them to come to the hotel."

  At the mention of the cops, Secondino sprinted from the room faster than Usain Bolt on uppers, no doubt taking the emergency exit.

  "'Nice-a boy,' my behind," I said, giving Nonna a reproachful look.

  She shot me a sideways glance and said nothing.

  As we rode down the elevator, Nonna was silent. As always, she clutched her worn black purse to her chest.

  Ever since my brothers and I were kids, we'd theorized about what she carried in that purse. Our guess was a rosary, her life savings, and Kleenex. But we knew that she also had something hard in there because we'd once seen her use her purse to hit a guy upside the head—he'd made the (near-fatal) mistake of offering to help her with her groceries—and the thud had been resounding. I was convinced that the offending object was a Catholic Bible, but my brothers swore it was a statuette of the Virgin Mary.

  When she realized that I was studying her purse, she pulled it closer, and I noticed a cut on her finger.

  "Nonna," I began, remembering the blood in the kitchen, "how did you cut yourself?"

  "On-a the thorns of-a some roses."

  "So, you bought the roses?" I asked, surprised.

  She nodded. "For the rosolio."

  "What's that?"

  Nonna grinned like a Cheshire cat. "You'll-a see."

  An uneasy feeling settled over me, and I pulled my purse close to my chest.

  * * *

  "Help-a me with-a the plates, Franki," Nonna said, rising from the dining room table.

  As I stood up in my new rose-petal red velvet cocktail dress from Gucci and matching Prada shoes, I felt like a 1950s Italian movie star. And when I leaned over Bradley to pick up his plate, he showed his appreciation for my sexy low cut look with a sharp intake of breath.

  I smiled and walked over to Anthony.

  "Yo, sis," he boomed, shielding his eyes from my bosom as I reached for his plate. "Covuh that up, will ya? We're tryin' ta eat heuh."

  I shot him a shut-it look. He had no idea how lucky he was that my hands were full with my mother's china and my feet were clad in thousand-dollar heels.

  "Now for the Christmas cannoli," my dad said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

  "And the cassata," my mother added, referring to her favorite Sicilian cake.

  I entered the kitchen and put the dirty dishes in the sink. Then I touched my diamond earrings from Tiffany's to make sure they were really there. I still couldn't believe that the four thousand dollars Nonna had spent at The Galleria was all for me. "Nonna," I whispered, "how did you convince dad to let me keep all these things?"

  "You gonna be thirty next-a year," she replied with a pointed look. "I tell-a him it's-a time to bring out-a the big-a guns."

  That explains the plunging neckline, I thought.

  Nonna reached into a cabinet and pulled out the dessert plates. "Now that-a Bradley has-a had the Feast of-a the Seven Fishes, it's-a time for the dolce."

  I smiled. "Nothing says Christmas like your cannoli and cassata."

  "And-a my minne di Sant'Agata," Nonna added.

  I froze in my tracks. Le minne di Sant'Agata, Italian for "Saint Agatha's tits," were small Sicilian cakes shaped like breasts with smooth white icing and half a maraschino cherry for the nipple. Normally they represented the severed breasts of Saint Agatha, but in this case I was quite sure they represented mine.

  "But, these aren't a Christmas dessert," I protested. "You always make them in February to celebrate Saint Agatha's feast day."

  "Eh, so we-a celebrate early," she said with a shrug. Then she pulled a tray of the glistening white breasts from the refrigerator and shoved it into my waist. "Now, go give a boob-a to Bradley."

  I entered the dining room and was grateful to find that Anthony had left the table. As I approached Bradley to serve him my figurative breasts on a platter, my whole body turned rose-petal red like my dress.

  Bradley's eyes momentarily grew wide, but then an amused smile formed at his lips. "These don't look like any cannoli I've ever had. Is this the cassata?"

  I cleared my throat. "No, they're…uh…"

  "Titty cakes!" Anthony shouted with a fist pump as he returned to the dining room.

  "Anthony!" my mother admonished.

  "What?" he asked, his arms raised in outrage.

  She leaned forward in her chair. "I will not have that kind of language in this house, mister."

  "It's-a okay, Antonio," Nonna said, waving her hand in the direction of my mother. "You mamma, she's a prude."

&nb
sp; My mother glowered at my nonna and crossed her arms. She knew better than to take on my father's "poor, helpless mamma" in his presence.

  I looked from my mother's brooding face to the clock hanging over the sideboard. We still had two hours before midnight mass. I hoped we could find a way to kill the time without killing one another.

  Nonna went to stand beside Bradley. "Take a bite of-a the titty."

  My knees buckled, and the room began to spin. But unfortunately, I didn't faint.

  Bradley obediently bit into his breast, his face now as red as the cherry nipple.

  "You like?" Nonna asked.

  "Um, Nonna," I interjected, "what about the digestivo?"

  "Ooh, sì, sì," she said, clasping her hands together in excitement. "You get-a the glasses."

  I'd never seen her get so worked up about an after-dinner drink, so I began to get a little worried, especially in light of the boob bomb she'd just dropped on me. I entered the kitchen and began putting cordial glasses on a silver tray. "What are you planning to serve?"

  "The rosolio," she said, pulling a bottle of red liquid from a bottom cabinet.

  "So, it's a liqueur made from roses?" I asked, relief washing over me like holy water from a font.

  She nodded. "At-a Christmas in Sicilia, we make it with-a the blood oranges. But I make-a the regular kind, instead."

  "How come?"

  "You'll-a see," she intoned.

  I was really starting to hate it when she said that. But against my better judgment, I followed her into the dining room and passed out the glasses.

  Nonna filled each glass and then raised hers to Bradley. "In Sicilia, we serve-a the rosolio made-a from the roses to important-a guests."

  Bradley raised his glass. "I'm honored to—"

  "It's a sign of-a buon augurio," she interrupted with a leading nod.

  I sunk into my chair. I didn't like the direction this toast was taking.

  "What's 'bwone awgoorio?'" Bradley asked.

  "It's like a good luck thing," I gushed before Nonna could offer her own translation.

  "Actually," my mom said, her voice unusually shrill, "it's more of a good omen." She smiled. "You know, for the future?"

  "Not an omen, Brenda," Nonna said. "It's-a more like a promise."

  I wanted to slide from my chair and die beneath the dining table. It was painfully obvious that not only my nonna but also my mother was angling for my engagement. Clearly, my mom was looking to get a good return on my father's four-thousand-dollar-outfit investment.

  Struggling to contain what looked like a smirk, Bradley again raised his rosolio. Then he looked at me with smoldering eyes that melted me on the spot. "I see wonderful things in the future," he said with a wink. "But all in due time, of course."

  I promptly drained my glass of rosolio down to the last drop. As the warmth of Bradley's words and the pure grain alcohol spread through my body, I was struck by a chilling memory—Father Nolan's pressing interest in that marriage proposal.

  "Nonna," I began, springing to my feet, "can you help me with these dessert plates?"

  As soon as we were out of sight I grabbed her by the elbow and said through clenched teeth, "Please tell me that you don't have a marriage ceremony lined up at mass tonight."

  She grinned from ear to ear. "I can't-a make-a you no guarantees."

  Oh, God, I thought, mentally kicking myself for finding her and bringing her home. Merry freakin' Christmas.

  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Traci Andrighetti is the author of the Franki Amato Mysteries. In her previous life, she was an award-winning literary translator and a Lecturer of Italian at the University of Texas at Austin, where she earned a PhD in Applied Linguistics. But then she got wise and ditched that academic stuff for a life of crime—writing, that is.

  If she's not hard at work on her next novel, Traci is probably watching her favorite Italian soap opera, eating Tex Mex, or sampling fruity cocktails, and maybe all at the same time. She lives in Austin with her husband, young son, and three treat-addicted dogs

  To learn more about Traci, visit her online at: www.traciandrighetti.com

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY TRACI ANDRIGHETTI

  Franki Amato Mysteries:

  Limoncello Yellow

  Prosecco Pink

  Rosolio Red (holiday short story)

  Amaretto Amber

  Danger Cove Hair Salon Mysteries

  Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai

  CHRISTMAS AL DENTE

  a Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries short story

  by

  JENNIFER L. HART

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  I thought I'd been having a bad day until I stumbled across my sous-chef crying in the pantry. Sure the holidays could be stressful, but this was ridiculous.

  I crouched low and put a hand on her shoulder. "Is everything all right, Mimi?"

  She glanced up at me, her big dark eyes full misery. "She's going to kill me."

  It was an off the cuff remark, but I shifted uneasily. There had been a murder not so long ago in our small town of Beaverton, N.C., and Mimi had been in the midst of it.

  "Who?" I asked. "Is someone threatening you?"

  Mimi shook her head. Her dark hair had grown out and reached her small, elfin chin. "Your aunt."

  I frowned. "Aunt Cecily? She thinks the world of you. Why she's practically adopted you into the family."

  Though my words were meant to comfort, Mimi just cried harder.

  Crud muffins. "It's okay, I swear the insanity is genetic, not contagious." The Buckland-Rosetti family tree was full of nuts, and we're not talking chestnuts here. But though my great aunt could be scary at times, she truly did appreciate Mimi. She never would have let her work in our family's pasta shop, the Bowtie Angel, otherwise. Which made this whole crying jag even more bizarre.

  The door separating the kitchen from the small pasta shop eatery swung open, and

  Malcolm Jones, my current beau, entered the small space. Strains of Michael Bublé's rendition of "Silent Night" crooned from the speakers, a harsh contrast to Jones's dark countenance.

  "Andrea, you can't just run away in the middle of a disagreement. I wasn't finished—"

  He stopped when he saw Mimi's tear-stained face. "What the devil? Is she all right?"

  Even though the man made my blood boil, I melted every time I heard his sexy New Zealand accent. Forcing myself to remember that he had just royally ticked me off, I cleared my throat. "She's not hurt. From what I can tell, she's afraid of Aunt Cecily."

  Jones made a derisive noise. "Who isn't?"

  He was full of it. Though he was always respectful of my great aunt, I was fairly sure Jones wasn't afraid of anything. It took a fearless man to take on a woman with as much baggage as I hauled around.

  Always the gentlemen, Jones handed Mimi a handkerchief and helped her off the floor. "Tell us what's wrong, Mimi."

  Mimi glanced up into Jones's face then looked to me. "It's all my fault."

  It was obvious she wanted to make that clear right from the get go. I nodded, not wanting to interrupt.

  Mimi's large eyes grew even wider, and before I could so much as phrase a question, she bolted.

  "What goes on here? No one makes the pasta?"

  I jumped. "Aunt Cecily, you scared the bejeesus out of me."

  My aunt didn't apologize. She merely put her tiny hands on her slim hips and waited for an explanation as to why no one was making pasta when we had dozens of orders and a shop full of people.

  I hurried over to a bubbling pot and poured rotini into it. "What did you say to Mimi?"

  "Eh?" Aunt Cecily's eyebrows were thin and spidery looking, a perfect mixture of salt and pepper.

  "She's scared to death of you."

  "Girls are foolish. Fretting about men when there is work to be done." She narrowed her eyes at Jones, as though accusing him of leading the kitchen staff astray.

 
He held up his hands in a defensive maneuver. "I can see you ladies are busy. I'll leave you to it."

  Courting Aunt Cecily's wrath, he made his way over to me, dropped a chaste kiss on my cheek, and took the opportunity to whisper, "We will finish our discussion later."

  I crinkled my nose. "Something to look forward to, like a tooth extraction."

  "Behave, or I'll be forced to restrain you." Jones swatted me playfully on the rump and exited the kitchen.

  "He will give you many fat babies," Aunt Cecily said with an approving nod. "You should marry him soon. Your eggs are already old. Soon they will shrivel and be useless."

  "Jeeze-a-lou," I yelped, hoping to the powers that be that Jones didn't hear that because he'd never let me live it down. "Can we talk about something else please? Like why Mimi ran out of here in tears? What did you say to her?"

  "I said nothing." Aunt Cecily, though she was supposed to be retired, bent and took the lasagna out of the oven.

  "But—"

  "Basta!" Aunt Cecily waved her hand in a sharp, slicing motion, indicating our discussion was at an end.

  Oh, rotten sugar plums. When she broke out the Italian, there was no reasoning with her. Not that there ever was, but Italian was the quintessential kiss of death. I drained the rotini and poured it into a bowl, taking it and the fresh loaves of Italian bread out front.

  The South loved their all-you-can-eat buffets, and it was gratifying to see the all-you-can-eat pasta bar packed with people. I refilled the rotini and cleared a few booths then spied my best friend Donna Muller and her two impish twin girls at a nearby table. With Mimi out of commission, I couldn't chat long, but I had to tell her what was up.

  "Jones wants me to spend Christmas with him and Lizzy."