That Lucky Old Sun (The Bella Novella Collection Book 4)

by Janice Thompson

  “Who is that?” D.J. asked. “Does anyone know? She seems to know us.”

  I gave him an incredulous look. “D.J., that’s Twila.”

  “Twila?” He looked at her, as if not quite believing it. “Our Twila? From Splendora?”

  “Well, of course. You don’t recognize the bouffant hairdo?” I glanced her way and noticed the hair had fallen. . .a lot. Probably the humidity. And something else about her seemed very, very odd.

  D.J. squinted and gave her another look. “Bella, she’s. . .orange.”

  “Um, yeah. Very orange.”

  “I’ve never seen a human being that color before.”

  “Me either, actually.”

  At that very moment Twila took notice of us. She gave us a big wave and began to saunter toward us. The closer she got, the stranger she looked.

  “I’m guessing she used some sort of tanning product or spent an hour too long in the tanning bed.” I kept my voice low, as to avoid being overheard as she drew closer. “That’s the only thing I can imagine.”

  “She’ll be getting her money back, I hope.” D.J. whispered.

  Mama approached, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Bella, did you see?”

  “I’d have to be blind not to,” I whispered in response as our friend kept walking toward us. “Twila’s probably humiliated.”

  “Well, yes, but I’m not talking about Twila. Did you see that Mrs. Nguyen and Mrs. Pappas are arguing?” She gestured across the street.

  “About what?” I squinted and tried to make them out through the bright afternoon sunlight.

  “The wedding. Something about the details of the ceremony. I can hear them all the way from across The Strand. Don’t you think you should go over to Super Gyros and calm things down?”

  “I’m a wedding planner, not a psychologist.” A little sigh worked its way up. Okay, I’d become something of a psychologist over the years. All wedding planners were, to some extent. Still, to intervene in an argument between two incoming mothers-in-law? Who would want to risk their life doing that?

  Me. I would risk my life doing that.

  Twila stepped into the spot next to me. Before I could say, “Why in the world are you orange?” she started clucking her tongue. “I dare say those folks over there are going to spontaneously combust if someone doesn’t pour water on them. Do you happen to have a fire hose handy, Bella?”

  “Not a literal one, but that won’t stop me. I’m going in. Pray for me.”

  “It’s what I do, honey.” Twila gave me a pat on the back. “It’s what I do.”

  With D.J. taking charge of the kiddos, I braved the heat—both external and internal—and headed across The Strand toward the ladies. And though I had not offered an invitation, Twila tagged along on my heels. When I got within twenty feet of the ladies I picked up on the quarreling. Cassia stood in the center of the fray, doing her best to calm them, but they would not be calmed.

  “It’s customary at Greek weddings for a bride and groom to open with a betrothal ceremony,” Mrs. Pappas said, her voice a bit too shrill as she addressed Mrs. Nguyen. “It begins at the door of the church. The priest blesses the rings and then he puts them on the fingers of the couple three times.”

  “This. Is. Not. A. Greek. Wedding.” Mrs. Nguyen put her hands on her hips. “And there’s no door at the beach.”

  “Well, I know that, of course,” Mrs. Pappas countered. “I’m simply saying that—”

  “Vietnamese custom calls for the receiving of the bride in her home. The groom arrives with his groomsmen early in the day and offers a gift, then receives his bride. It will not be a proper Vietnamese ceremony unless he receives her.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Mrs. Pappas fanned herself. “And besides, Darian can’t receive her at your house. The groom isn’t supposed to see the bride before the ceremony. And remember, the wedding’s at our house, not yours.”

  “Do. You. Have. To. Rub. It. In?” Mrs. Nguyen’s voice rose to a shrill level.

  “Mama, please,” Cassia begged. “You’re not making this better.”

  The noise must’ve raised Mr. Pappas’s antennae. He bounded out of Super Gyros, still wearing his apron covered in tzatziki sauce, and joined in the chatter.

  Before I could intervene the bride bounded our way—all one hundred pounds of her. She started scolding her mother in Vietnamese.

  Mrs. Pappas looked my way, clearly dumbfounded by their native tongue. “Bella, help me. I can’t understand a word they’re saying.”

  “Neither can I.” But it was clear enough, no matter the language barrier.

  “They don’t sound happy.” These words came from Darian, who stepped into place alongside his parents. “What happened? Who got them riled up?”

  His mother released a little groan. “I guess I did. I mentioned something—just a little something—about the traditional Greek blessing of the rings.” She patted her son on the arm. “Now, I know you’re not doing a Greek ceremony, Darian, but surely you’ll have the blessing of the rings.”

  “Mama, tell me you didn’t.” Darian narrowed his gaze. “We talked about this. Simple ceremony. Pastor Lindsey. Nothing cultural.”

  “Well, yes, but I thought—mother-in-law to mother-in-law—I might be able to work out some sort of plan we could all agree on.”

  “Ling and I have already worked out a plan.” He then began to scold his mama. In Greek. Loudly.

  This got Mrs. Nguyen riled up. She waved her hand in his face and shouted at Darian about his lack of respect for women. Well, at least the part I could understand. Once she switched to Vietnamese, she lost me.

  To my left, Twila clucked her tongue. “I dare say, I can’t understand a word they’re saying.” She shook her head. “Do you think they’re speaking in tongues?”

  “Yes. The Vietnamese tongue.” I pointed to Mrs. Nguyen. “And the Greek tongue.” I gestured to the Pappases.

  “I don’t suppose we’ll have to call for an interpreter this time. It’s mighty plain what they’re saying.” Twila leaned against the pole supporting the front walkway of Super Gyros. As she did, the large Greek flag attached to the pole came loose.

  In that instant, the argument came to an abrupt halt as the Greek flag propelled itself through the air, headed straight for Mrs. Nguyen’s head. I let out a shriek and did what any cool-headed wedding planner would do. . .

  I ducked for cover.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Surfin’ Safari

  I watched in horror as the Greek flag, pole and all, sailed through the air, right for Mrs. Nguyen’s head. At the very last moment, Mr. Pappas leaped into the air and grabbed it. In doing so, he very nearly knocked Mrs. Nguyen to the ground. His elbow caught her in the side of the head and she let out a cry as she stumbled.

  Mr. Pappas didn’t seem to take notice. He raised the Greek flag in triumphant fashion and shouted, “Opa!”

  From the front of the confectionary I caught sight of the police chief. He came storming our way, still wearing his goggles and flippers. As he drew near, the angry fellow yanked off his goggles and swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. At this point I noticed just how red his face had grown.

  “Do you think it’s the heat?” I whispered to Cassia.

  “I don’t know. Never seen anything in that shade of red before,” she whispered back. “But if I had to guess, I’d say he looks more like Babbas does, right before he blows.”

  “Blows. . .what?” I whispered.

  “Blows. . .up!” She nudged me with her elbow as Mr. Nguyen thumped her father on the chest. “Uh-oh.”

  We all gathered around in a cluster as the drama unfolded.

  “You. Hurt. My. Wife.”

  Mr. Pappas’s face paled. “I did no such thing.”

  “I watched you raise a hand to her!” Nguyen’s ears turned redder still. “I was standing right across the street and saw it myself. You hurt my wife!”

  “No, the flag was falling. I reached o
ut to grab it.” Mr. Pappas raised the Greek flag once more, still appearing more triumphant than repentant. “Opa!”

  “It’s true,” Cassia, ever the voice of reason, chimed in. “He was trying to save her, not hurt her, but in the process bumped into her. An honest mistake.”

  “You raised your voice at my wife,” Nguyen gritted his teeth.

  I wanted to take him seriously, but with the flippers still on his feet, I found myself a bit distracted.

  “I might have shouted as I saved her life, yes,” Mr. Pappas countered. “But I often get emotional when I’m in life-saving mode. You’ll have to forgive me. And then thank me, of course, for saving her.”

  “She doesn’t speak Greek. You were shouting in Greek.”

  “If you were close enough to hear that I was speaking to her in Greek, then you were close enough to know that I was trying to help her, not hurt her.”

  “Chien, calm down.” Mrs. Nguyen rubbed at the side of her head. “He wasn’t trying to hurt me.” Her face grew redder, but I had a feeling it had more to do with the heat than anything else. “He was just. . .just. . .” She shook her head and gazed at Twila. “Is that woman o-o-orange?”

  Before I could say, “You’re not seeing things. . .she really is orange,” Mrs. Nguyen dropped to the ground. The crowd let out a collective gasp as the poor woman landed with a thud on the sidewalk. We all gathered around her but Darian instructed us to move back, so we did, in haste. He slipped into the spot next to her on the sidewalk and checked her pulse. “Very high.” He leaned down to listen to her breathing. “Someone call 9-1-1.”

  In that moment, all squabbling seemed like a long-ago memory. We flew into action. Cassia had 9-1-1 on the phone before we could say, “What happened?”

  Mrs. Pappas started weeping. “Should we get her out of this heat or leave her here on the sidewalk? I don’t know what to do.”

  Cassia removed the phone from her ear to respond. “Talking to the paramedics now. They’re just around the corner. They said to put a wet towel behind her neck and turn a fan on her. Probably heat exhaustion.”

  No doubt. The heat had my stomach in a mess today, too. No doubt half of Galveston Island was dealing with the repercussions of the high temps.

  Mrs. Pappas ran inside the restaurant, her husband on her heels. Seconds later she reappeared with a couple of wet towels, which she wrung out and handed to Darian. He folded them and placed them behind Mrs. Nguyen’s neck. A minute or so later, Mr. Pappas appeared with an oscillating fan in hand. He plugged it into a nearby outlet and turned it on Mrs. Nguyen, who finally began to stir. At this very same moment, a very orange Twila knelt on the ground and began to pray. In tongues. Not Greek. Not Vietnamese. Some heavenly tongue I didn’t recognize.

  The ambulance arrived at the curb just as she switched to English and started commanding Satan to take a hike. Either she had the devil running scared or the wet towels and fan had done their trick. Mrs. Nguyen tried to sit up. She took one look at Twila’s orange face, clutched her head, and slumped back down on the towels again.

  “Coming through,” one of the paramedics hollered.

  We parted the waters and watched from a distance as they took Mrs. Nguyen’s vital signs and then loaded her into the ambulance.

  “Do you think she’s going to be okay?” D.J.’s voice sounded from behind me.

  I turned and flung myself into his arms. “I. . .I hope so.”

  “Bella, what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. She took a bump to the head, but I don’t think it was hard enough to cause any damage. Nothing permanent, anyway.”

  “Yeah, we saw that much from across the street. The whole Rossi clan is watching from inside Parma John’s. The little ones are pretty worked up.”

  I turned and caught a glimpse of our family’s pizzeria. Through the windows I saw my children’s precious faces pressed to the glass. I wanted to run to them, but decided I’d better stay put.

  “Don’t fret over the kids, Bella. Rosa’s watching them. You just do what you need to do here.”

  “That’s the problem,” I said. “I can’t fix this.”

  D.J. gave me a compassionate look. “Right, but the paramedics can. You can be a support to Ling and Darian. They’re going to need you now.”

  I spent the next several minutes doing just as my hubby suggested. Turned out, Mrs. Nguyen had, indeed, suffered an episode due to the extreme temperatures. No sign of concussion, though her head ached from being over-heated. We couldn’t seem to convince her that Twila was, indeed, orange. The poor woman still thought she was seeing things.

  The paramedics started an IV and then carted her off to the E.R. with Mr. Nguyen riding along in the ambulance. Ling and Darian followed behind them in Darian’s car. I remained with the Pappas family to sort out the mess. I’d never seen Mrs. Pappas in such a state. We all gathered inside Super Gyros to watch her cry. And then cry some more.

  Afterwards, she dried her tears with her apron and sighed. “This is my fault. I started it.”

  “It was the heat, Mama,” Cassia explained. “Not you.”

  “But I started the heat wave by insisting she do things my way.” Mrs. Pappas cleared her throat. “Or, rather, that Ling and Darian would do things my way.” Another sigh followed. “Why do I always feel like I have to have my own way?”

  “Because you’re human.” I took a seat on one of the barstools. “We all are.”

  “Yes, we are.” These words came from Mr. Pappas. “And look where it’s gotten us. I almost killed my son’s future mother-in-law.”

  “You did not, Babbas.” Cassia groaned. “You saved her life.”

  “And nearly killed her.”

  We are terrible, terrible people.” Mrs. Pappas took a seat on the barstool next to me. “And we must repent.”

  Twila decided to help them with that by offering to pray. Again. After a lengthy prayer and sobbing session, Mrs. Pappas finally calmed down.

  D.J. and I left Super Gyros and headed across the street—in the heat—to fetch our children from Parma John’s.

  My husband looked my way as we braved the crowd of people on both sides of The Strand.

  “You okay, Bella?”

  “I guess.” I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. “If I’d done a better job coordinating this wedding, none of this would’ve happened.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to take the blame, too. We have enough guilt going around already.”

  “Not the blame, really,” I said as we reached the sidewalk in front of Parma John’s. “Just feeling guilty that I couldn’t calm the waters when I first went over there.”

  “Those waters were boiling out of control. Far too hot to handle.” He swiped at the back of his neck. And speaking of hot, if we’re melting today, what’s it going to be like a week from now? They’ll be dropping like flies at that wedding.”

  I fought the temptation to slug him. “Stop. Mentioning. Bugs.”

  “Sorry.” He chuckled.

  “D.J., we’ve done everything we can to plan for the worst. We’ll have cooling stations. Besides, the storm should bring the temps down, don’t you think?”

  “Storm?”

  “Well, sure, D.J. I’ve been checking the weather every day for a week now. We’ve got a tropical disturbance in the Gulf right now. They don’t really expect it to materialize, but the breezes should bring the temps down during the week and things will mellow out by Thursday. That’s what I read online, anyone.”

  “And heaven knows, if you read it online it must be true.” He slipped his arm over my shoulders, but seconds later we were both sweating all over each other. Ugh. The heat was really getting to me.

  “Well, bring on the storm, then,” D.J. said. “Anything to cool things down.”

  “Yes. Bring on the storm.” The moment I spoke the words, they felt more like a curse than a blessing. Still, what could we do? The storm brewing between these two families was worse than any disturbance in the Gulf
of Mexico, anyway. Maybe I’d better hunker down and wait for the worst to pass. If I could just make it till next Saturday, anyway.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Warmth of the Sun

  On Tuesday evening, just a couple of days after Mrs. Nguyen’s trip to the E.R., the Pappas family invited the Nguyens to dinner. D.J. and I were asked to attend, as well. I did my best to decline, but Ling insisted that she and Darian had some big news I wouldn’t want to miss. She also wanted me to wrap up final plans with Pastor Lindsey, who planned to attend the dinner, as well.

  Frankly, I was just afraid of another brou-ha-ha between the two families. That, and I needed to keep my nose to the grindstone. I still had vendors to coordinate, a cake to check on, a wedding photographer with the stomach bug and a variety of other issues related to the Nguyen-Pappas shindig.

  But, I laid all of that down for one last dinner with the two families.

  Aunt Rosa offered to watch our children so that D.J. and I could have what she called a date night. I hesitated, in part because of the incoming storm. I didn’t want to get stuck too far away from my babies. And I highly doubted that D.J. would consider an evening with these two families as a ‘date night.’

  In the end common sense won out. D.J. decided it was safer to leave the kids with my family than to throw them into the middle of another squabble between the Pappases and the Nguyens. I had to agree.

  Still, something inside of me churned as I looked up at the skies over the Gulf as we drew near to West Beach.

  “What do you think, D.J.?” I pointed to ominous clouds in the distance. They hovered over us in menacing fashion.

  “I think they’re going to be upgrading this tropical storm to a Cat 1 hurricane. Or Cat 2. Not that I’m a weather forecaster, but that would be my guess.”

  “You really think so?”

  He turned on his signal as we approached the small street leading into the Pappas’s neighborhood. “Yeah. But I’m confused. I thought this thing was supposed to fly in over Freeport, to the west of us. Galveston isn’t supposed to take a direct hit.”