A LITTLE BIT OF SUGAR

by Lindsey Brookes

  “Thanks,” Anthony replied and much to my surprise seemed almost embarrassed by the compliment.

  I suppose it was because he had grown up without ever having the praise of a father. I couldn’t imagine not having my father around, even if he did drive me crazy more often than not.

  “I’ll bet the restaurant is jam-packed with customers today,” I said, wanting to distract my father from any more thoughts of inviting Anthony to join us for lunch.

  Let’s face it, I still hadn’t forgiven Anthony for nominating me, and didn’t intend to for a very long time. Maybe even for the rest of my life. Or at least until I could come up with some way to get back at him. ‘Friendly revenge’ was an ongoing thing between us.

  “More customers than tables,” my father said, his face lighting up with the excitement of it all. “Now be sure and stop by.”

  “We─”

  I stabbed Anthony’s foot with the heel of my shoe, cutting him off. This time my smile was genuine. “I will, Dad.”

  “Great. Oh, and Gina,” he said, looking my direction, “I meant what I said. You made me very proud today.”

  I smiled. No matter how humiliating it had been to be paraded through town as the Sausage Queen, it really was worth any misery I had suffered to see my father beaming with happiness the way he was.

  “Oh, and don’t forget to swing by the cook-off tent,” he added. “You can wish your momma luck before you go home.”

  “I will.”

  My mother had entered the Little Florence sausage cook-off with her secret sauce recipe. Not one passed down through generations, but one she’d discovered by accident. A few years ago, my father had knocked the spice rack off the back of the stove, spilling several of them into the sauce she was cooking that day. As it turned out, the combination of spilt spices made a sauce their restaurant clientele went nutso over.

  “Tony...”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Be sure to tell your mother we said hello. We haven’t seen much of her lately.”

  Anthony nodded. “I will.”

  “Back to work,” my father said and then walked away with a happy little skip, one my being crowned Sausage Queen had brought about. One thing I’d learned growing up in Little Florence was that Italian men were very proud men. Even in the case of my pseudo-Italian father.

  That warm, fuzzy, I’ve done my father proud kind of feeling lasted for all of about three seconds. Then Anthony opened his big mouth.

  “So what do you say we go grab a bite to eat and then you can go home and change into those cute little Daisy Dukes of yours and help me wash those windows?”

  “Wouldn’t you just love that?” I replied as I looked up into his big, sexy grin. Okay, so maybe I could help him wash a few...

  “There she is!” my best friend, Mia, squealed behind me, saving me from any more embarrassment.

  I’d nearly caved to that Carboni grin - again. Heck, there weren’t even any windows that needed to be cleaned. I’d made all of that up.

  Why couldn’t Anthony have stayed that scrawny, voice-hitching at odd moments, older kid that I adored while growing up? No, he had to go and turn into this guy with that I-got-in-too-late-the-night-before kind of voice. And chances were he had, knowing Anthony Carboni as I did.

  His voice wasn’t the only thing that had changed, I thought to myself as I took in those broad shoulders and muscular arms. Nope, there was nothing scrawny about Anthony Carboni anymore. The guy could wear a snug-fitting T-shirt and wear it well. Heck, any shirt for that matter.

  Forcing my thoughts from Anthony’s bulging biceps, I turned to find Mia and my two other best friends, Carlina and Alisa, weaving their way toward us through the float-filled parking lot.

  The four of us had been best friends ever since our first day of kindergarten. Mia and Alisa already knew each other having grown up next door to one another. They were the perfect pair. Mia’s outgoing personality balancing out Alisa’s tendency toward shying away from social situations. In fact, it was Mia who put our little group together that first day of school, asking me and Carlina if we wanted to be their friends. I’d never regretted saying yes that day.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the rest of the spaghetti slingers,” Anthony called out to my girls as they moved toward us.

  My friends had been my accomplices in the spaghetti-tossing incident Anthony was punishing me for. None of them liked Lucia. She treated other girls like they were nothing more than a pile of dog doo waiting to stick to the bottom of her four inch ‘ho’ heels. So when we looked out my bedroom window and saw Anthony cozying up to the town bimbo on his mom’s lawn swing, we decided he needed rescued. That’s when the four of us ambushed them with heaping handfuls of wet, stringy spaghetti that had been left over from dinner that night.

  “Hey, Tiger,” Carlina replied.

  Tiger was the nickname Anthony’s friends had given him when they were kids and into Frosted Flakes. The name stuck. And Tiger seemed to fit him perfectly, but for far different reasons now than it had when he was younger.

  “Almost didn’t recognize you without the spaghetti,” Mia taunted with a grin.

  Alisa simply averted her gaze to the sausage float beside us, muffling her laughter.

  Anthony arched a dark brow in warning. “Watch it, Mia. You know what they say about paybacks.”

  I know I did. I’d just been the recipient of Anthony’s kind of payback. My gaze slid back to the ‘weenie float’ that would be forever associated with my name and another saying came to mind – ‘What goes around, comes around’.

  “You look so sexy when you do that thing with your brow,” Mia said with a grin, not the least bit phased by Anthony’s warning. She was a lot like Anthony, a natural born flirt through and through.

  He grinned right back at her. “I know. It drives Gina crazy. So much so she can barely keep her hands off me when I do it.”

  I swung my gaze back to him with a gasp. “You are such a liar, Anthony Carboni.”

  “Okay,” he admitted with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “So she just thinks about putting her hands on me when I do that.”

  With a frustrated groan, I grabbed my purse from the backseat of his car and turned to my friends. “The shit’s getting deeper here by the minute. Let’s leave Anthony to his fantasies and go grab a bite to eat.”

  “Hey, what about our lunch date?” he called after me as I walked away with my friends.

  “When pigs fly,” I said with a wave as my friends and I walked away, Anthony’s husky laughter following us across the parking lot.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rescued by my friends. No wonder I loved them so much. A few more minutes with Anthony and I would have either killed him or... Once again, kissing him came to mind.

  What was wrong with me? I knew better. The last thing I wanted to do was join the ever-growing Anthony Carboni all-female fan club.

  “Okay, Gina,” Mia said as we moved along the sidewalk filled with parade goers, “out with it.”

  I turned to her. “Out with what?”

  She thumbed back in the direction of the parking lot we’d just left. “Anthony so has the hots for you and you keep blowing the guy off. What’s up with that?”

  “He just likes trying to get a reaction from me,” I argued as we weaved around the scattered tables. “You know, it’s kind of like a game we play with each other.”

  “What I wouldn’t give to have a guy as hot as Anthony playing games with me,” Carlina said with a sigh.

  “I think Mia’s right,” Alisa joined in. “Anthony’s got a thing for you.”

  “You guys,” I said with a groan. “You couldn’t be more wrong. There’s nothing going on between Anthony and me. Besides, I’m not even his type.”

  Mia looked at me like I was crazy. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on, Gina,” Mia replied, her dark brown curls bouncing around her shoulders as she walked. “Let�
��s face it. You’re every guy’s type.”

  Alisa nodded in agreement. “Mia’s right. You’re perfect. Tall and thin, and definitely not lacking in the boob department.”

  “And you have hair most of the girls I know would kill to have,” Carlina added as she reached out to pluck a stray bobby pin from my hair.

  I touched my hairspray lacquered curls. “They’d kill for this hair?” Hair I had always thought made me stick out like a sore thumb among all my dark-haired friends.

  Mia laughed. “You’re kidding us, right?”

  I wasn’t. They all had such beautiful dark hair. Hair I would kill for. I shook my head.

  “Let me put it this way,” Carlina explained with a smile. “We go out, three brunettes and a redhead. Who do you think guys are going to notice first? You.”

  Alisa sighed softly. “Why couldn’t I have been born Scottish? Maybe I should dye my hair red…”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “It’s weird enough living with a family who thinks they’re Italian when they’re not. I don’t need to add a friend who wants to be Scottish to the mix.”

  My friends laughed.

  “Come on, Gina,” Alisa said. “You know everyone in Little Florence considers your family honorary Italians. Your dad even sounds Italian - most of the time.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

  It was bad enough I had to listen to my father’s fake accent at home, but he used it everywhere else he went, too. Even when we went on vacation to Williamsburg the summer after I graduated from high school. You should have seen some of the looks we got there.

  We made our way through town, but not without getting stopped several times by people who wanted to congratulate me on my Sausage Queen status or compliment me on my dress.

  “I feel like we’re with royalty,” Mia teased.

  “Shut up,” I muttered. “I feel like an idiot. A very hungry idiot.” I knew people were just trying to be nice, but I was starving. I’d rather them stop me to give me a slice of pizza or something. No such luck.

  “Hold on,” I said when we reached the large green and white canopy tent that had been set up in the parking lot between Datillio’s Hardware and Crazy Eights, the billiard hall Carlina’s uncle owned.

  “What’s wrong?” Carlina asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just that I promised my father I’d stop in to see how my mother’s doing in the cook-off.”

  “I’ve eaten her cooking,” Mia said as we stepped in through the open tent flaps. “She’s got this competition in the bag.”

  I sure hoped so. I knew how much winning this contest would mean to my mother.

  “It sure smells good,” Alisa said, licking her lips.

  And I thought I was hungry before. That was nothing compared to how I felt now with all those rich, spicy, tempting aromas of tomato, garlic and basil hanging in the air around us.

  I looked around, taking in the row of cafeteria-style tables that were set up along each side of the tent. They were lined with simmering pots of sauces awaiting the judges’ final decision.

  “Gina, honey!” My mom stepped out from behind her spot at one of the tables and came over to hug me and my friends. Then she stepped back and eyed my hair. “What happened to your tiara?”

  “It’s in my purse.”

  “But it looked so pretty on you.”

  Did I really have to explain how weird I felt wearing a tiara around? Unlike Mia I preferred not to stand out in a crowd.

  “I didn’t want it to get ruined,” I said when what I really wanted to do was throw it under a passing semi-truck.

  “I don’t blame you, honey. It’s a wonderful keepsake.”

  One I had no intention of keeping.

  “In fact,” my mother added, “your father mentioned wanting to display your tiara at the restaurant. Isn’t that a wonderful idea?”

  Oh, goody. Just what I wanted to see every time I went in to work. I guess I needed to put a little more effort into my post-graduation job search. With a degree in marketing, there were a lot of options out there for me. Problem was, I still hadn’t figured out what it really was that I wanted to do in life.

  “What a great idea!” Alisa exclaimed beside me.

  I shot her the ‘traitor’ look and then turned to my mom. “That would be nice, but there’s not really any place to display it.”

  The restaurant walls were filled with framed pictures of anything and everything that had to do with Italy. The Colosseum, St. Peter's, the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo's David, The Leaning Tower of Pisa, The Vineyards of Tuscany, you name it. So as far as my father finding a place to display my tiara, I was pretty safe.

  “I know I’m ruining his surprise, but your father has already ordered a display box for your tiara and will be hanging it on the wall above the cash register. That way everyone can see it on their way out.”

  I could only imagine what my expression looked like at that moment. “He didn’t have to do that,” I told her, trying desperately to come up with some kind of reason why my father couldn’t do that.

  “You know your father. He’s so proud of his girls and when one of you does something special he loves to boast about your accomplishment.”

  But I hadn’t accomplished anything to get crowned Sausage Queen. Unless you counted ruining Anthony’s date with Lucia which led to Anthony’s nominating me.

  My mom turned to my friends. “Didn’t she look good up there on back of Tony’s convertible?”

  The first reply to come to mind was, “You mean the one pulling the weenie mobile?” But I managed to keep that one to myself.

  My friends knew this was one discussion they were better off staying out of. They simply nodded their replies and smiled at my mom.

  “So where are you girls off to now?” my mother asked.

  “To the Casa di Pasta to grab a bite to eat,” I replied.

  “The restaurant has been packed all day. Can you believe how many people showed up for the festival today?” she said, glancing toward the tent’s entrance.

  “It’s insane out there.” I stepped over to my mom’s pot and inhaled, taking in the mouthwatering aroma of her secret sauce. “So how’s it going? Are they through with the judging yet?”

  She shook her head. “Still waiting to hear.”

  Alisa stepped up next to me. “Mmm...sure smells good.”

  “Let’s just hope the judges think it tastes as good as it smells.” My mom glanced across the room with a frown.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I just hope the judges will be fair.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, following her gaze across the tented room.

  “Ms. Gianbelli keeps flirting with Mr. Domiano,” she told us in a whisper.

  Mr. Domiano was a sixty something widower who owned one of the few remaining mom and pop supermarkets in Little Florence. The sausage festival committee had asked him to be one of the three official judges for that year’s sauce cook-off.

  “Mom, she’s got to be close to eighty. I doubt flirting is going to get her anywhere with Mr. Domiano.”

  “I don’t know,” Alisa said with a shrug. “Some men prefer older women.”

  I gave her an elbow in the side to shut her up. My mom worried enough on her own without Alisa making it worse. And Alisa was lucky Anthony wasn’t around to hear her say that. Men liking older women was a pretty sore subject with him. His mother had the hots for a guy not a whole lot older than Anthony.

  Tina Carboni, Anthony’s mom, met Lance Lance Hottie Pants, as Mia liked to call him, at the grocery store a few months before and things heated up between the two of them really fast. My friends and I decided that Lance must have been shopping for melons that day because Anthony’s mom definitely had a pair. She shocked us all about six months before, Anthony included, by getting a boob job. The next thing we know she’s dating Lance. My mom said it was one of those midlife crisis type of relationships and that Tina would get
over it soon enough.

  I could only imagine how hard it must be for Anthony to accept that relationship. It wasn’t that his mother didn’t deserve to be happy. It was just weird to see her dating. She hadn’t gone out with anyone since Anthony’s father died. Now suddenly she’s dating this younger guy and hanging out with him every weekend. Not only that, but judging by the way Anthony’s mom smiled whenever I saw her lately I’d have to say that Lance was definitely ‘parking’ in her garage.