Love in a Victorian
Page 8
She might have chosen architecture herself, but Jamie had always preferred the hands-on work of construction.
Her parents had thought for sure she was going to be born a boy. Weird, because it had been one of the rare times Stella’s intuition had failed her. Maybe raging pregnancy hormones had unbalanced her second sight. In any case, Jameson’s desire to name their firstborn after himself didn’t deter him when Jamie surprised them both with her female gender.
She was christened Jamie Ann, and her father dubbed her his little apprentice. From the moment she’d been strong enough to wield Grampy Kearly’s old hammer, he had begun teaching her the proper way to handle tools.
A promotion to architect would put Dylan on equal standing with her on a jobsite. It wasn’t that Jamie disliked the guy, she just wasn’t sure how she felt about her dad being so fond of him.
As though reading her thoughts, her dad reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. He smiled warmly into her eyes before releasing her to grab a crostini.
“Dylan’s unattached. He’s been having a hard time getting over a recent breakup,” he said between bites. “Your mother and I have known his family for years. You and he are about the same age. You’re both into historic architecture and renovation. I figured maybe you kids might enjoy getting to know each other a little better … outside of work.”
Matt turned away too late to disguise his amusement.
Jamie absorbed the shock with a mental shake. This wasn’t about Dylan. It was about her. About fixing her up!
Her mom and dad were playing matchmaker for opposing teams.
“Oh, Dad, tell me you haven’t actually hired Dylan to get me a date.”
Matt removed the cocktail toothpick he’d been chewing on and laughed.
Her father, on the other hand, started to choke on his crostini. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he managed hoarsely. “I’d never do such a thing.”
“Sure you would. Dylan’s the right age with the right background, and he’s graduated from a prestigious architectural school with good prospects. You’ve done your research from his family background to his resumé, and now you’ve stuck him under your nose — or shall I say thumb? — where you can keep an eye on him while you hook him up with your only daughter.”
Her father was not amused to have been found out. But what did he expect? He frowned at her over his cider as he took a sip to clear his throat.
Lowering the mug, he shot a worried glance at Stella. “It wasn’t nearly that calculated, Jamie. Your mother worries I’ve made a tomboy out of you. She says I push you too hard in a man’s field. She thinks you’re too immersed in your work. That you don’t allow yourself time to go out with friends, have fun … date.”
Jamie shook her head. Pathetic. Stella’s rich, throaty laughter carried across the dining room to them, and she spared her mother a glance. “She doesn’t look too worried to me, Dad.”
Jamie grabbed another crostini, crunching thoughtfully. “I love what I do. So I work hard and sometimes long hours. What’s wrong with ambition and pride in a job well done?”
Her father bestowed her his bright, dimpled smile. “Absolutely nothing. Those were your mother’s words, not mine. She forgets that when she was your age she worked all hours here at the restaurant, helping your grandfather get the business started, and with two babies to care for. We had to buy an extra crib and playpen for her office.
“But she does have a point,” he added. “It’s okay to take time for yourself once in a while. You’re still my little girl, sweetheart, and, believe me, I’m not ready to walk you down the aisle, but then again, I don’t see the harm in a friendship with Dylan. I do have him ‘under my thumb’ as you say.” He gave her a wink. “And at the very least, you’ll be helping me score points with your mother.”
“I wouldn’t count on scoring any points, Dad.” Ma has her own agenda you know nothing about.
Jamie savored another swallow from her mug. Maybe an association with Dylan could work in her favor. The relaxing effects of the deliciously hot cider and getting some food into her empty stomach were helping to ease her embarrassment. Jamie thought, perhaps, if she were to show interest in a man, someone attractive and closer to her own age, her mother might abandon her ridiculous belief that somehow she and Rick were meant for each other.
“Okay. It’s all right, Dad,” she said with smile. “Let’s go eat.”
Chapter Seven
Rick counted eight for dinner, but as he glanced over the spread, he figured there must be enough food for twenty with leftovers to spare.
Dishes were passed family style in a cheery confusion of oversized platters, reaching arms and unsteady serving utensils. He eyed a salad of heirloom tomatoes — thick, sweet, juicy ripe slices in red, purple, yellow and even an orange and gold striped variety, all layered between slices of mozzarella of that fresh, soft consistency that suggested it was homemade. The salad was topped with fresh basil leaves and drizzled in extra virgin olive oil.
“Auntie Angie,” at the head of the table to his right, nudged him with an elbow. She was a sweet woman with a pleasant face. “My brother Santo, God bless his green thumb, can grow anything. Those tomatoes are from his garden. Never does he buy plants. Santo harvests the seeds from his crop and saves them for next year, the way he learned from our old papa in Italy.”
Her expression earnest, she nodded, gazing deep into Rick’s eyes. “The best tomatoes you will taste … primo. And this,” she said, reaching for his plate, upon which she proceeded to heap mounds of linguine, leaving little room for anything else, “is my fresh pasta. This … this is special. I spend the day doing this and nothing else. Just the right way to work the dough by hand is the key. Always, I make enough for my husband and my son … the one still at home, unmarried,” she added with a roll of her eyes, “and enough to feed my Bellucci family here. I have six children, and every Sunday they come with their children to my home for dinner. When I go to be with my brother’s family, I leave them all behind. Time to myself, capisce?”
Rick chuckled. “I understand completely.” Although secretly he envied Angie her large, close family.
She handed him the pasta-laden dish. “Here, Rick. Mangiamo. Try it. You enjoy.”
“Grazie, this is a special treat,” he said, excited to dig in, worried anything less than cleaning his plate would be an insult when there were still a number of other dishes he would be expected to sample.
Opposite him came Jameson’s hearty rumble of laughter at Rick’s predicament. “How about one of my father-in-law’s famous meatballs to go with that pasta?” He passed a deep bowl with the smell of Italian herbs rising off the thick, rich sauce.
The aromatic steam infused Rick’s nasal passages until he could practically taste the tomato and oregano. “I’ve had a craving for these meatballs like you can’t imagine, Santo.” He scooped first one and then another onto his plate. “Not too long ago I was given one of your subs. It was more of a bribe, actually,” he added with a pointed look at Jamie, seated across the table next to one of her construction crew.
She flashed him a glare before continuing to fill her own plate from a platter of succulent roast pork tenderloin seasoned with garlic and rosemary.
Hard to believe he’d once mistaken her for a boy. He still reeled from the shock of that day. The Jamie Kearly he’d expected to find was a towering, masculine, Celtic blond. Instead, he’d discovered his Victorian being restored by a dark, fined-boned, Italian beauty who looked nothing like her namesake.
Tonight, her long brown hair fell free of its usual ponytail in relaxed waves that framed her long neck and slim shoulders. Her face was fresh and delicate, with a light, glowing complexion, and yet for all that softness, Rick found her brown eyes to be intense and sultry by contrast. He swallowed with no conscious awareness he was staring until, with a slight nudge, Stella passed him a serving dish of sautéed broccoli rabe greens, and the strong scent of garlic nearly made his eyes water.
“What!?” Matt protested. “That’s a lot of work.”
Stella sighed. “My son hasn’t found himself yet, Papa. Children must be allowed to follow their own dreams.”
“Aay,” Santo muttered disgustedly.
Matt frowned thoughtfully as he speared a large stuffed pepper and added it to his dinner plate. “Well, I have been giving the restaurant some thought, and I think we should expand with more vegetarian offerings. We should add stuffed artichokes to the menu. I bet they’d be a big hit. And I have ideas for some new seasonal specials. A roasted cauliflower salad — some baby arugula, roasted hazelnuts, fresh pear, a good cheese. And a butternut squash risotto made with Amarone wine.”
Amarone was a difficult wine to produce but worth its expense for its bold flavors of black cherry, brown sugar, and fig. Rick’s mouth watered.
This time Santo raised both hands in the air, his expression delighted. “See? Now you’re talking. Brava! Now you’re talking. I like how you think.”
Matt smiled, encouraged.
“Let me know when they hit the menu,” Rick said. “I’ll be there.”
“Count me in, too.” Jameson raised his glass. “Before we eat, I’d like to say a few words in honor of my beautiful wife.”
“No, cara, please… . ” Seated to Rick’s left, Stella raised a hand to stall him and said, “Let me.”
Kearly frowned at his wife, confused. “I was about to toast you.”
“I know, and this is why I must stop you. I have something to say about my birthday.”
He paused, surprised, then quickly recovered with a grin. “That’s the woman I married. Likes to do things for herself. Even her own birthday toast,” he told Rick before motioning to his wife. “Go ahead, Stella.”
She nodded and raised her glass. “To you all, I appreciate your good wishes,” she said, touching a hand to her heart. “But, for my day, it is I who wish to pray for others—for my family and for Rick, who joins us.” She turned to him with a smile. “I find him an intriguing man. He found success and adventure out in the world yet has chosen to return to his beginnings in Elm’s Corner. May he find what he is searching for.”
Turning away, she gestured across the table with her glass. “And to my daughter, Jamie. Life, it does not always go according to our plans. But may my girl not allow disappointment to prevent her from recognizing an opportunity. And now, Lord, bless this food and everyone here.”
“Amen,” everyone at the table responded.
But Stella wasn’t finished. “Tonight, it is my wish there be no talk of birthdays,” she said. “No mention of age, no toast to my years, no candles on a cake, but a happy occasion to gather my family around me. A night only to enjoy each other. A tavola non s’invecchia! Agreed?”
Rick grinned as he translated her words in his head. At the table, one never grows old.
He joined everyone in raising their glasses as Matt called out “Cent’anni!” a toast meaning, “May you live a hundred years.”
“Grazie,” Stella said, then added, “Ah, but, of course, gifts are always welcome.”
The meal commenced with a round of laughter. Rick had been touched by Stella’s kindness towards him, but what had prompted that mysterious speech about Jamie? What disappointment? What opportunity? As he glanced at Jamie, she turned away.
He couldn’t get over the mound of food on his plate and yet more dishes appeared — an asparagus and sausage pizza, a fresh beet salad, roasted potatoes, golden roasted fennel with parmesan. Stella asked him about his travels to Italy and for a while the conversation centered around their favorite places to visit.
When in Milan, he often made a point to go to the top of the famous Rinascimento department store for an espresso. The ceiling windows overlooked a magnificent view of the Duomo. And one of the finest restaurants in all of Italy could be found in the historic town of Piacenza, located between Milan and Florence. It was called the Antica Osteria Del Teatro.
Another bottle of wine was opened — a southern Italian red wine from the region of Campania — and Rick told them that, in his opinion, the best gelati in the world could be found in Lake Como in Bellagio. Just down the hill from the Villa D’Este lay the little town of Cernobbio with a beautiful, quaint church across the village common. And whenever he was in a daring mood and in the area, he would rent a car and drive the steep, narrow lanes of the Amalfi coast.
As he spoke, a part of Rick remained conscious of Jamie, carrying on her own conversation with Dylan. Did women really go for that breezy, beach bum type? Dylan wore his light hair in an unkempt longish style. No wonder he usually kept it covered with a cap. How did a member of the Kearly construction crew figure so personally into the family that he should have earned an invitation this evening?
Okay, so maybe Jamie had no interest in his travels — yet why not, when I thought we’d moved past a strictly professional relationship into a sort of, well, almost friendship? If Rick didn’t already know it to be absurd, he’d think she was trying to make him jealous. What he found especially annoying was that it seemed to be working, even though he had absolutely no business feeling anything resembling jealousy over her.
He couldn’t figure her out. With her committed and professional work ethic, he never would have thought Jamie the type to become involved with a member of her construction crew.
How could Kearly sit there and allow an obvious charmer like Dylan to chat up his daughter? Right in front of him. It was none of Rick’s business who Jamie socialized with. She didn’t need his protection. She could handle herself. She probably had lots of guys clamoring for her attention.
Jameson leaned forward and asked, “So, Rick, are you satisfied with progress on the Victorian?” jarring him out of his thoughts. “I plan on stopping in for an inspection sometime this week. If you’d like to be there, I’d be happy to arrange my schedule to your convenience. It would be a quick walk-through and a chance for you to point out any concerns, ask questions, or discuss any new thoughts you might have about the house.”
From Rick’s left came a gasp of delight. “Why don’t we all visit after dinner?” Stella turned to him with an imploring look in her bright Italian eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind, Rick. I saw your lovely Victorian only briefly the day you moved in. I would love a tour and a chance to see my daughter’s wonderful work in helping to make the house a home for you.”
Jamie turned from her flirting with Dylan to listen in, and at her mother’s request, her brown eyes widened in alarm.
“You’re all more than welcome to visit my home,” Rick announced.
Why do I get the impression Jamie doesn’t approve of me getting too close to her family? Rick didn’t understand why that should bother him, and yet his male pride stung at the thought of her being indifferent to him.
“I have to warn you, there’s not much to see,” he continued, “and it’s a far cry from being ready for entertaining. I’ve only moved in a few of pieces of furniture. But you’re all welcome to have a look. I can’t promise you a place to sit, but I can offer you one of the best cups of espresso you’ll ever taste.”
Stella beamed. “We will bring dessert and some folding chairs,” she said in a light tone as though posing a question to her husband.
Rick knew she wasn’t really asking for his permission.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he added. “No one here i
s allergic to cats, I hope.”
“I no care for cats to jump on me,” Auntie Angie announced. “What kind of cat do you have? Is it the kind that jumps?” She gave him a worried frown. “You don’t strike me as the sort of fellow who would have a cat.”
Rick hesitated to inform her that jumping was one of a cat’s favorite pastimes, but he knew Angie didn’t have anything to worry about. Her rounded shape didn’t allow for much of a lap. Before he could reassure her though, Dylan spoke up.
“His cat is named Boo Boo.”
Rick heard the chuckle in Dylan’s tone, but Auntie Angie was not amused. She frowned in disapproval. “Why such a name? What does it mean?”
“Boo Boo is adopted, Auntie.” Jamie said. “She came with the name, and Rick has been kind enough to give her a home.”
Jamie coming to his defense pleased him more than he cared to admit, and he couldn’t resist engaging with her. “I believe the more accurate term for the way I acquired Boo Boo would be extortion.”
She made a face that looked as though she was tempted to stick her tongue out at him.
Stella’s eyes twinkled watching their exchange, though Rick couldn’t figure out what about it had pleased her.
A couple hours later, back at his Victorian, in what was to become his billiard room, Rick was purposely hoping to please her. She sat on a folding chair beside Auntie Angie, his gift on her lap — a humble-looking package, wrapped in plain brown paper.
“Come, Rick,” she called. “Your turn. I open your gift now.”
“Be right there. I need to finish this last shot.”
Positioning his pool stick, he banked the eight ball, driving it towards a corner pocket. Boo Boo sat on the table’s edge, and as it rolled past, she swiped the ball with a paw before it dropped into the pocket to win the game.
“Hey! No fair,” Dylan said. “You trained that cat to cheat for you.”
Jamie gawked at Rick in awe. “How did you train her to do that?”
“She’s an intelligent cat, what can I say. Maybe it’s the company she keeps. But we didn’t cheat. She barely grazed the ball,” he said, handing his stick over to Jamie. “Sore losers.”