It Had To Be You

by Janice Thompson

  As we made our way down Broadway, the island’s quaint thoroughfare, Francesca pointed to a banner on the side of the road. “What is this ‘Dickens on the Strand’?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s a wonderful Christmas festival the island hosts every year,” I explained. “People come from all over the state, dressed in Victorian costumes.” I went on to explain that vendors sold their wares and folks performed music from Dickens’s era.

  “We can get Dickens in Europe,” Francesca huffed. “Where are the cattle?”

  I sighed. Surely it would take some time to convince her that Texas—at least our corner of it—wasn’t exactly like the TV shows she’d seen. The closest thing she would see to anything Western this week was my fiancé. His boots and slow Southern drawl should be enough to give her hope, anyway. If I could get her quiet long enough to listen to him speak.

  As we pulled the cars into the driveway, we were met by Rosa standing on the veranda, waving. Thankfully, she’d donned a fresh dress and applied a little makeup. I had a feeling she was going to need it. Laz appeared beside her, and the two of them offered joyous shouts as we exited the vehicles. At first Rosa was too excited about seeing the twins and Deanna to pay much attention to Francesca, but soon enough the young woman caught her eye.

  “Who have we here?” Rosa asked in Italian, taking Francesca’s hand.

  “I am your future sister-in-law, Francesca Adriana Rossi.” The beauty queen slipped an arm around Emilio’s waist in case anyone had any further questions on the matter.

  The look on Rosa’s face was priceless.

  “W-what?” Laz looked at his younger brother, clearly stunned. “You’ve married, Emilio?”

  “I did.” He grinned. “Several weeks ago.”

  “It’s true, Laz,” my father said, entering the veranda with Francesca’s overnight bag in his hand. “Our brother is a confirmed bachelor no more. He finally did it. After all these years.”

  “Well, go figure.” Laz raked his fingers through his thinning hair and looked at Emilio with admiration on his face.

  Sophia joined us, looking back and forth between Rosa and Francesca. No doubt she had a lot of questions. So did I, actually.

  “We had the most beautiful wedding in all of Napoli,” Francesca crooned. She went on to describe it in great detail, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  I could see Rosa’s eyes narrowing and tried to imagine what she must be thinking. This was supposed to be her special week. No bride wanted to be outdone by another, even if that person happened to be a future sister-in-law. A gorgeous, young sister-in-law, to boot. Nope, this would not go over well with Rosa, I could tell.

  Laz slapped Emilio on the back. “You old dog!” he cried out. “I didn’t know you had it in you.” He approached Francesca and gave her a warm hug. “Welcome to the family, sister!”

  Francesca responded by kissing Uncle Laz on both cheeks and saying, “Ciao!”

  At this point, I thought Rosa was going to hyperventilate. Or punch Laz. One or the other. Instead, to her credit, she ushered everyone inside with the promise of the best tiramisu in the state of Texas. I saw her strategy at once. If she couldn’t win the crowd with her youth and beauty, she would get them with her cooking. Not a bad plan, really. She led the way, chattering all the while about her world-famous dessert. Sophia and I both chimed in, offering our support for Rosa’s cooking.

  Pop looked back at D.J. with a sigh. “Guess we’d better get busy with all that luggage.”

  “Oh yeah.” My honey stopped short of entering the house and turned back around. “Almost forgot.” He shrugged, a hint of a smile crossing his face.

  “So did I,” Pop said. “Looks like everyone else did too.”

  We headed back to D.J.’s truck and started to unload. Just as the last piece came out, a black stretch limo pulled up to the curb.

  “Expecting someone?” D.J. asked, giving me a curious glance.

  “Not to my knowledge. The last time I saw a limo like that was the day Guido …” I paused and then snapped my fingers. “The day Guido was delivered. Sal’s limo driver brought him all the way from Atlantic City in a black stretch limo that looked exactly like that.”

  “That’s gotta be Sal Lucci inside,” Pop said, his brow wrinkling in concern. “Didn’t think he was supposed to get here till tomorrow.”

  “Well, Sal was always one for surprises, right?” I elbowed my father, and he laughed.

  “To put it mildly. That’s what makes me nervous. We have enough to think about this week without adding fuel to the fire.”

  “Just don’t let Laz hear you saying that,” D.J. reminded him. “He’s looking at this week as an opportunity to minister to his friend.”

  “He’s right.” Pop nodded, gazing at the limo. “Salvadore Lucci always did travel in style. Just wonder if he realizes you can’t get through the pearly gates in a limo, even if you have your own driver.”

  “Speaking of drivers …” I nodded as the limo driver got out. He was tall and stately, dressed in a black tuxedo, white dress shirt, and black bow tie. “Yep, that’s the same guy. I even remember his name. Joe Barbini.”

  “That’s right.” Pop nodded. “Joe Barbini. Nice guy.”

  Joe tipped his cap to us, then opened the back door of the limo to let the passenger out. What happened next will be forever seared in my memory. Uncle Laz’s voice calling out from the veranda. The sight of Salvadore Lucci, five-foot-nothing, easing his weakened frame from the limousine and attempting to stand aright.

  I couldn’t help but gasp. The Sal I remembered was buff and tanned with a menacing face and a thick New-Jersey-meets-Old-Italy accent. This man was … elderly. Frail. Walked bent over. Had thin wisps of white hair. Wore tweed.

  Laz came running down the front steps of the house— running being a loose term, since there was a cane involved. Precious followed on his heels, yapping like a maniac. Laz drew near to Sal with tears in his eyes, greeting him in Italian. His words flowed like water. So did the tears, which stunned me. Laz planted a kiss on his old friend’s cheek—old being the key word, now that I’d seen him face-to-face.

  I could hardly believe this was the man who’d been the center of so many family stories over the past twenty-plus years. No longer did he look like the infamous tough guy I’d recalled from my childhood days. No, this guy looked more like someone you would see in a Geritol commercial. Soft wrinkles lined his eyes. Age spots covered his arms and face.

  “Salve, Salvadore!” Laz said, wrapping him in a tight embrace. “Come va?”

  “Hello to you too, my good friend,” Sal said in a frail voice as Laz stepped back and looked him in the eye. “And to answer your question, I’m … I’m doing fine, thank you. Recovering nicely. H-how are you?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Laz said with a wave of his hand. “I am fine.” He turned his attention to Sal once more. I could see the concern in my uncle’s eyes as he took in his friend’s appearance, but he flew into action, offering to help Joe with Sal’s bags.

  “No, my friend.” Sal put up a hand. “Let my limo driver handle it. Besides, I’m not staying here, remember? Joe will take my things to the Tremont while I am visiting with you.”

  Laz nodded. “All right then.” He grinned. “Come inside and meet my bride-to-be, Sal. I don’t think you ever met Rosa. Two of her sisters have just arrived from Napoli, along with my brother and his new wife. She’s quite a looker.”

  “Who’s a looker?” Sal asked with a spark of interest in his eyes. “Your bride-to-be or your brother’s new wife?”

  I could see the wheels turning in Laz’s head. To his credit, he gave just the right answer. “Both, actually.”

  “I remember meeting your brother briefly when you lived in Atlantic City,” Sal said with a brusque nod. “And it seems I heard Rosa’s name mentioned, but I don’t believe I ever met her. I will come inside to see these visions of loveliness myself.”

  Oh boy. This should be interesting. />
  Just then, Sal looked my way. “Ah. Who have we here?” His eyes narrowed to slits, and he shook his head. “Surely this is not Bella Bambina, the little girl with the lopsided head?”

  I groaned. Of all the things for him to remember!

  “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Lucci,” I said.

  “What’s with this Mr. Lucci stuff?” he said. “As I recall, you Rossis always called me Sallie, did you not? And you called me Uncle Sallie, Bella Bambina.”

  I couldn’t stop the grin. “You’re right. I did. Good to see you, Uncle Sallie.”

  D.J. was looking at me curiously, and I felt compelled to explain Sal’s earlier comment. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “I don’t think it’s hereditary, but when I was born, my head was slightly misshapen.”

  He laughed. “Good thing I found this out before we had kids. Should we consider adoption?”

  “No. We Rossis have great hair. Covers all our imperfections.” After a pause, I added, “Well, most, anyway.”

  “Let’s get inside and take a load off,” my uncle said, turning toward the door. “Rosa has made tiramisu. She’s the best cook on the island. Just wait and see!”

  D.J. turned my way again, clearly stunned at my uncle’s admission. In spite of Laz’s love for Rosa, we’d never actually heard him say she was the better cook. In fact, they’d feuded over who could cook the better meal for years.

  “Well, there you have it,” D.J. whispered.

  I nodded and smiled, following on Sal’s heels as we entered the house.

  No sooner did we arrive inside than we were greeted by Francesca, who greeted the men with a rehearsed pose. Sal’s eyes grew wide. “Mama mia is right!” He turned to Laz with a crooked grin. “Laz, your bride-to-be is exquisite. Don’t know what you ever did to deserve her.” He took Francesca’s hand and gave the back of it a kiss.

  She giggled and shared her thoughts in Italian. “I don’t know who you are, but I think I like you. You’ve got the wrong bride, though. I’m married to Laz’s brother Emilio.”

  “Ah, my apologies.” Sal shrugged and turned to Laz. “If she’s this pretty, I can hardly wait to see your Rosa!”

  D.J.’s eyes grew wide, and we all held our breath as Rosa entered the foyer. She’d slipped on an apron, stained with tomato sauce, of course. I gave her a quick glance, trying to see her through Sal’s eyes. Not bad. Still, not Sophia Loren.

  Rosa took one look at Sal and rushed toward him, arms extended. “Oh, you must be Sal! I’ve heard so much about you.” She began to gush over him in Italian, but the look of confusion on his face stopped her in her tracks. “Is—is everything okay, Sal?” She stared, obviously unsure of how to interpret his silence. The rest of us probably had it figured out.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, well, sorry. I’m just trying to figure out who you are. My first guess would be Bella’s mother, but I don’t think that’s right.”

  “No.” Rosa grinned. “I’m not Imelda, though I’m tickled you made that mistake. I can think of no greater compliment than to be confused with my sister.”

  “S-sister?” He looked more perplexed than ever.

  A smile lit her face. “Of course. I’m Rosa, Sal! Laz’s Rosa!” She leaned close to Uncle Laz, who planted a kiss on her cheek.

  The look on Sal’s face was Academy Award–worthy. If I had to choose three words to describe it, they would be: shocked, horrified, confused. Thank goodness, he shifted gears at once, and this look was replaced with what appeared to be a forced smile. Relief flooded over me as I realized Rosa was too busy nuzzling up to Uncle Lazarro to notice.

  “Well, we meet at last.” He took her hand and, with the flair of a true-blue Italian, kissed the back of it. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”

  “Oh, and I of you!” She took him by the hand and led him into the living room to meet the others. “Come. I’ve made tiramisu, and Laz has prepared some cappuccino. Take a seat and we’ll visit.” After helping Sal onto the sofa, she headed to the kitchen. As she left the room, I noticed Sal giving Laz a curious look. Likely they would talk later, but in that moment, I wanted to punch the man for the expression I’d seen on his face seconds earlier. Instead, I settled onto the loveseat, surrounded by loved ones who would kill me if I pummeled our guest in the first five minutes after his arrival, even if he didn’t think my aunt was a beauty queen like Francesca.

  Laz went around the room, making introductions. From the way he talked about Sal to the others, you would think the man had been canonized. By the time we got to Emilio, Sal offered an admiring nod.

  “Congratulations on your marriage, Emilio. You are a lucky man.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Emilio reached over and wrapped Francesca in his arms, then kissed her soundly on the lips. D.J. rolled his eyes and Pop turned his head, his cheeks flaming red.

  The womenfolk weren’t so quick to respond, at least not openly. I heard Mama clear her throat, and Aunt Bianca mentioned something about the weather. Deanna reached for her cell phone, claiming she had to make a call. To Italy. Something urgent had come up.

  Right.

  When Emilio and Francesca finally came up for air, a sound rang out from Pop’s office, just one room over. Guido. Singing “Amazing Grace.” Sal turned, albeit slowly, the expression on his face something to behold. “What in the world?” He looked at Laz. “Is that …”

  “Yes.” My uncle rose and led the way to the office. “It’s your old friend, Guido! Come with me.”

  Everyone in the room took that as a cue. The whole group of us rose and followed him into the small office, where Guido’s cage stood in the corner near the window. Sal took one look at him and began to weep.

  “Guido! Oh, Guido!”

  He began to sing the bird’s praises in fluent Italian, and Guido responded by looking his way and hollering, “Go to the mattresses!”

  At this point, Bianca and Bertina stifled their laughter and disappeared back into the living room. I wanted to go with them, but Pop and Laz hung around, so I figured I should too. Thankfully, D.J. stuck by my side. I knew he was probably dying to know what Sal thought about the almost new and improved parrot he’d placed into my family’s care.

  Sal opened the door of the cage and extended a shaky hand inside. Guido took it as a sign and hopped aboard, squawking nonstop at his old friend. Sal stroked the bird with his free hand and then looked at my uncle, voice trembling. “Laz, I cannot thank you enough for watching Guido for me. I’ve missed him terribly. Guido and I are … well, we are old and dear friends.”

  The way Sal spoke about the bird, I could tell they really were old and dear friends. And I knew, having raised a spoiled little Yorkie-Poo, how important a pet could be in a person’s life.

  “We enjoyed having him,” Laz said. “He kept us entertained.”

  “And vice versa,” Pop threw in. “We kept him entertained too.”

  “Oh?” Sal looked at my father with a wrinkled brow. “How so?”

  “We, um, well, we taught him some new songs,” Laz explained. “He has quite a voice, this one.”

  “Yes, what was that he was singing when I came in the room?” Sal asked. “Sounded familiar.”

  “‘Amazing Grace.’” Laz began to repeat the lyrics, and Guido, who’d remained silent for the last couple minutes, dove in again, singing at the top of his lungs. He warbled out just enough to put a look of horror on Sal’s face.

  “What is happening here?” Sal turned to Laz, clearly upset. “You’ve converted my bird?”

  Laz paled but didn’t say a word.

  “Technically a bird doesn’t have a soul,” D.J. interjected. “So he’s not exactly converted, per se.”

  “We just …” Laz fumbled around, finally coming up with, “He’s just been gleaning from us. Learning a couple of songs.”

  At this point, Guido looked at Laz and began to quote his new favorite Scripture: “May the words of my mouth be acceptable. May the words of my mouth be acceptab
le.”

  Sal smacked himself in the head. “What next? Are you going to baptize him too?”

  “He sort of did,” D.J. whispered to me, then stifled a laugh.

  I knew what he was talking about, of course. Laz had doused the poor bird in anointing oil a few months back—oil he’d purchased from a televangelist. The gooey stuff had only served to irritate the parrot’s skin. He’d lost several feathers as a result, which Sal now seemed to notice.

  “Guido looks different than the last time I saw him,” Sal said, examining him from side to side, top to bottom.

  “O-oh?” Laz tried to play it cool, but beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead.

  “Yes. His colors were brighter,” Sal said. “It’s almost like something is missing.”

  Thank goodness, Rosa’s voice rang out. “Tiramisu, everyone! And coffees.” She popped her head in the door. “Laz, want to help me with the cappuccino? I know our guests are ready for a treat.” She smiled as she saw Guido perched on Sal’s hand. “Oh, what a happy sight! Aren’t you glad to see him again, Sal? Guido has missed you terribly.”

  “Yes, I am happy to see him. I missed Guido too.” He continued to stare at the bird, the creases between his brows deepening.

  Pop convinced Sal to put the parrot back in his cage so he could enjoy some coffee and dessert. However, I had a feeling we hadn’t heard the last of this. Once Sal figured out that Laz had made a concerted effort to train Guido as a missionary, he would not be happy. I could just sense it.

  Not that I objected to my uncle’s plan. Though it had seemed far-fetched at the time, it made sense to me now. And seeing Sal again made me realize just how much he needed the love of the Lord. At this stage of his life, he also needed the love and care of his friends. We would be those friends, even if only for a week or so. Even if his first reaction to seeing Rosa wasn’t all I’d hoped it would be.

  We headed back into the living room, the whole place now coming alive with laughter and the clinking of silverware as we dove into Rosa’s tiramisu. I saw the look of appreciation on Francesca’s face as she took her first bite.