The Devil Served Desire

by Shirley Jump

  "Are you okay?" Rebecca asked, laying a hand over Maria's.

  "Sure I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Uh, because you just ordered the manicotti and the lasagna."

  "Not to mention, you also preordered dessert," Candace added. "I know the signs, Maria. I've been there myself. I have the Hershey's wrappers in the bottom of my purse to prove it."

  Maria laughed. "You were different. You were marrying Mr. Wrong. I just..."

  When she didn't finish, Rebecca touched her hand again. "Just what?"

  "Fell for Mr. Wrong."

  "Antonio?"

  "No." She shook her head. "Guess I haven't been sharing much in the way of details lately." She told them about Dante and the multiple orgasm marathon they'd had two nights ago. "He's left me a couple messages. Well, more than a couple. And sent me flowers."

  "And you've ignored him."

  "I do that pretty well when I want to." She stirred her virgin pina colada and took a sip. No way was she going to drink alcohol again. All it created was bad situations.

  "I don't get it. I met Dante and he seemed like a normal, non-homicidal man. With a good job and a really cute butt. What's there not to like?"

  Maria sighed. "Nothing."

  "So why are you depressed about it?"

  "Because he's all wrong for me."

  "He's not gay, and he doesn't have a hamster fetish." Rebecca squeezed some lemon into her water. "And you find him very attractive, I gather. So... why the hesitation?"

  Maria let out another sigh. "He's everything my mother wants for me."

  "Oh..." Rebecca said, nodding. "And that's the problem?"

  "Yeah."

  "He's too traditional?" Candace asked.

  "More than Martha Stewart at Christmas." Maria pushed the drink to the side. "He believes in falling in love. And getting married."

  "Dump him. He's definitely dangerous." Rebecca grinned.

  "What's so wrong with getting married?" Candace asked. "I've been thinking about it myself."

  "Has Michael asked?"

  "No, not yet. But he's been hinting around at it. Asked me how busy the shop is in June and if I was doing anything special next Saturday night."

  "All good signs." Rebecca nodded. "You do already have the dress. And the guy. All you need is the ring."

  Candace smiled and sipped at her Diet Coke. "Maybe I should ask him. Turn the tables. Keep him on his toes."

  Maria laughed. "Now that would be the new Candace."

  "So why not you, Maria?" Rebecca leaned forward. "Come on over to the dark side. Get married."

  Maria chuckled. "No. It's not for me."

  "Are you still thinking of..." Rebecca's voice trailed off.

  "What? Go ahead and say it. I know you want to."

  Rebecca let out a breath. "David. You laughed the whole thing off when it happened, but you seemed pretty hurt underneath it all. And, well, ever since then, you haven't really been the same."

  "David was a jerk." Maria took another sip.

  "A jerk who said he wanted to marry you." Candace set her empty salad plate to the side of the table.

  "And then cheated on you. On your own dining room table, no less." Rebecca's face softened with sympathy.

  Maria played with the toy sword holding her dice of pineapple. "I was stupid."

  "No, he was," Rebecca said. "Any guy who doesn't see what a great person you are is an idiot who doesn't deserve you."

  "You're just saying that because I'm your friend. And you need my help packing those baskets tomorrow."

  "I’d say it even if you didn't own a third of the company." Rebecca smiled.

  Candace reached for a slice of bread from the bowl in the center. She buttered it in neat, precise strokes. "Not all men are like David, you know."

  Maria sighed. "I know that in my head. But then a little part of me wonders how I'll ever know the difference. How can I trust a guy? I mean, usually I'm the one who's smart. Who ends the relationship before I get hurt. But that time"—she toyed with her straw—"I was blind to everything."

  "No, he was blinded by Bambi the Stripper's butt."

  Maria laughed. "Yeah, he was."

  "You used to be quite the workaholic before you met David." Rebecca stirred her drink. "Then once he mentioned marriage, you went the other way, sort of a—"

  "Bride-a-holic?" Maria finished. "I'm Italian, what can I say? I do things in extremes."

  "A little moderation..." Candace began gently.

  "I know. I'm just afraid I can't balance both. Have a career and that. I know you have it Rebecca, but you don't understand Italian men. At least the ones I know want their women in the kitchen and not running a business."

  "Dante could be different. He's a business owner, too. Maybe your Mr. Wrong isn't really wrong." Rebecca gave Maria's free hand a quick squeeze. "Maybe you need to give him more of a chance."

  The waiter arrived with the food. Maria put both plates in front of her. The aroma wafted up to her nose, reawakening her stomach with a vengeance. "He can't be that good for me. He's got my appetite running like a car on high octane. Any man who makes me blow my diet is bad for my heart."

  "He might not be good for your waistline, but your heart could probably use a little of that Italian love." Rebecca smiled. "Try the other side of the menu. You might just like it."

  "No way," Maria said, diving into the manicotti. "I'm sticking to the one man I can depend on to always please me."

  "Who's that?"

  She held a bite of the luscious treat aloft. "Guido."

  Arnold's It’s-Not-Deprivation-It's-Love-on-a-Plate Salad

  1 head romaine lettuce

  2 tomatoes

  2 hard-boiled eggs, just like your determination to be a Thin Chum

  1 avocado

  2 ounces provolone cheese, cubed

  6 leaves fresh basil

  Juice of one lemon

  2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil (whew, sounds kind of sexy, don't it?)

  1 tablespoon good, flavorful mustard

  Salt and pepper

  Tear the lettuce and cut the tomatoes. Mix in a bowl. Easy as pie, but without the calories. Peel and chop the eggs, then the avocado. Add those, along with the cheese and basil, to the bowl. Simple and yummy. The best kind of meal for a Chum.

  Whisk together the lemon juice, oil and mustard, seasoning with the salt and pepper. Nature's dressing, without all that extra fat and calories. Serve on the side for dipping to reduce the calorie count.

  Think of every bite as love for your width and height. This is a meal that helps you stay on track, while a good Chum will help you pick up the diet slack. And remember—Chubby Chums can be as fruity as plums!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  On Saturday morning, Maria was redeemed. And she didn't even have to go to confession to be forgiven.

  Antonio called, his voice a low purr over the phone line. "I'm in Providence today, finishing up a trade show. What do you say I drive up tonight and see you?"

  Oh, damn.

  "I-I-I didn't know you'd be in town so soon," Maria mumbled around a Twinkie.

  "Do you have a cold? Your voice sounds funny."

  Cream filling dotted her fingertips but Antonio's voice held more power. She grabbed a napkin and swiped it off before it ended up accompanying the pound cake down her esophagus. "No, just, ah, finishing up some... painting on the walls. The fumes, you know."

  "Ah, yes. Well, back to tonight. Do you have any plans?"

  She glanced at her refrigerator calendar. On Saturday, she had penciled, "Mary Louise Zipparetto Bachelorette Party at Vita. Avoid at all costs."

  "No, not a one. Until you called."

  He chuckled. "That's my girl. I'll see you soon." Then he clicked off.

  * * *

  Mary Louise had the determination of a lioness hunting a wild boar. She had left three messages over the past week with the who-what-when-and-where of her "I'm getting married and you're not" party. Each time, s
he'd ended with additional begging for Maria to come. Probably wanted to make sure she had a full audience for bragging rights to the biggest diamond in the neighborhood.

  "It would be good for you to go. Maybe you'd meet a man," Mamma said Saturday during her daily lunchtime phone call when Maria mentioned Mary Louise's annoying invitational frequency.

  "You don't meet men at a bachelorette party, Mamma."

  "Cousin Carlotta met her Tony at a party for girls."

  "That was a birthday party for a five-year-old and Tony was the hired clown."

  "Same thing," Mamma said.

  "I'm still not going." Maria stabbed at her salad. Fat-free dressing, a pile of lettuce and a couple of lone cherry tomatoes. It wasn't a lunch. It was plate decor.

  But it was better than the Twinkies, which were permanently in the trash. She'd run down to Paulie's Grocery after talking to Antonio and raided the fresh vegetables, narrowly missing an offer of a pity date from Gerry as he put the tomatoes carefully atop the romaine in her paper sack.

  "Mary Louise's mamma said the party was going to be at Vita tonight," Mamma said. "Maybe Mary Louise will see Dante there."

  "I don't care. I'm not seeing Dante."

  But she'd yet to tell Dante that. He called and she didn't call back. He sent flowers, she ignored them. When had she lost her backbone? Why couldn't she just end it?

  He had too many ideas about futures and commitments. Those things suited her about as well as anchovies did ice cream.

  Still, she didn't want to hurt him. She'd begun to care about him. A lot.

  And that was the whole damned problem.

  "If you go to the party, you see him." Mamma's logic made perfect sense only to Mamma.

  Maria speared a piece of lettuce and ate it, thinking and avoiding an answer. One of these days, she thought, someone would actually create a diet that tasted like it was bad for you.

  "Mary Louise, I bet she like Dante. And his cooking," Mamma said.

  "She won't eat it She doesn't eat anything. I saw her grocery cart."

  "A girl who isn't busy eating will keep busy another way," Mamma mused.

  Maria toyed with a tomato, ignoring the flare of jealousy in her gut. She had no claims over Dante. "She's engaged, Mamma."

  "Not married. Yet."

  "Like I said, I don't care. Dante isn't my boyfriend."

  "No, no, of course he isn't." On the other end of the phone, Maria could hear Mamma rolling out pasta. "But that Mary Louise, she get her teeth in Dante, she not gonna let go."

  Maria stabbed at the tomato. It exploded under the force of the fork, squirting red juice everywhere. What if Size Two Mary Louise did wrap Dante around her bony finger?

  He'd hate a woman like that—one who didn't eat. Who had all the personality of bad wallpaper and who was only after a starter home and a Volvo. She'd ruin him. And leave the pickings for the vultures.

  Why did she care, anyway? Tonight Antonio was coming into town. She had a date with a gorgeous, no commitments guy. She didn't need any more complications than that.

  The empty feeling returned to her stomach. Damned salad. What she needed was some lasagna to make it taste better.

  That's all.

  "If you go and Mary Louise see you with Dante, I bet she be so jealous, she eat her ring."

  That idea held merit. Making Mary Louise Zipparetto jealous of her for once was something to consider. Antonio was in town. Convenient jealousy fodder.

  And if he showed up at Vita, she could take the coward's way out in ending things with Dante. Certainly not the way to be nominated for heroine of the year, but she had yet to come up with a way to tell him she couldn't see him anymore.

  Because every time she thought about doing that, her cravings for pasta intensified a hundredfold.

  "I'll go," Maria said.

  "Ah, I knew you would." She could practically hear Mamma grinning on the other end. "Mamma is always right. You listen to me about men and soon, there will be babies, too."

  Maria hung up the phone before her mother could start picking out colors for a grandchildren-to-come quilt. That was the last thing she needed right now.

  Mamma's The-Surprise-Inside Meatballs

  1 cup fresh bread crumbs

  1/3 cup milk

  4 tablespoons olive oil

  1 medium onion, finely chopped

  1/2 cup each ground beef, ground pork and ground veal

  1 egg, lightly beaten

  4 tablespoons freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano

  4 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

  3 tablespoons chopped fresh basil

  24 2-ounce fresh mozzarella balls

  Salt and pepper

  6 cups marinara sauce

  Even Mamma has a few surprises up her sleeve. She's not the boring old Mamma her daughter always thought. First, soak the bread crumbs in the milk for ten minutes. Meanwhile, heat the olive oil and cook the onion for a few minutes, then let cool.

  In a large bowl, combine the meats, soaked bread crumbs, onion, egg, Parmigiano, herbs and salt and pepper, just like they did in the Old Country. Use your hands. Get in there, mix well. Don't be afraid of it. Shape into 1-1/2-inch balls.

  Now for the twist of Mamma. Stuff a mozzarella ball into the center of each meatball, making sure none of them peek out and spoil the surprise.

  Fry the meatballs in a little more olive oil until browned on all sides. Add the marinara sauce and simmer another ten, fifteen minutes. Serve them to a daughter who thinks she knows her mamma—

  But really doesn't.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Not only did she need something waterproof this time around, but she also needed to double the Wow factor on her next dress selection. It had to completely wipe out Antonio's memories of their last date and make her desirable again.

  Not an easy feat for a piece of material.

  Thanks to her three-day eating frenzy, she'd bumped herself back up into the twelve range. That afternoon, she'd stepped on her scale after getting naked, removing all jewelry, going to the bathroom and letting out all the air in her chest.

  The needle gleefully pinged upward again.

  Which meant she needed to move upward in the clothes closet, too.

  Maria walked up to Mamma's house and tried the door. Locked. No one home. She checked her watch and remembered it was Early Bird Potluck Bingo night at the Sons of Italy hall. Mamma wouldn't be back until she'd exhausted her red stamper and her pull-tab funds. Nonno had probably been smart enough to head down to the corner bar for a few pops before Nonna dragged him back home and chewed his ear off for getting drunk again.

  She unlocked the door with her key and headed up to her old bedroom. At the top of the stairs, the linen closet door was ajar. Maria went to shut it, in case the cat climbed in there and shed all over the towels, and noticed a box sticking out of the top shelf.

  Had it always been there? Plain cardboard, it sat there like a lonely Christmas gift, unwanted and unopened.

  Maria flicked on the hall light switch to read the writing on the side. Her mother's script, in Italian: Save for Maria.

  It was probably an early birthday gift. Except Maria's birthday was seven months away and Mamma never shopped early. She was one of those people who seemed to love the scattered rush of last-minute gifting, charging through the mall like an army commando with no intentions of failing his mission.

  She should shut the door. Leave it alone. Let Mamma tell her what it was in her own good time. With Maria's luck, it was probably an entire wedding trousseau.

  Except the box was too small. And something about the handwriting seemed ...

  Old. Like Mamma had packed that box years ago and set it away, with the intention of giving it to her daughter years down the road.

  Maria turned away, shutting the door. But it didn't quite latch. The skinny oak door drifted open again, as if inviting her in.

  She hesitated, then continued past the door and went into her old room. It too
k some searching, but she found a red wrap dress in a forgiving twelve that came to a daring V at the neck. A nice match for the Ferrari. And for her second date with Antonio.

  With the dress over her arm, Maria headed out of her room and past the linen closet again. Her gaze went to the box.

  Save for Maria.

  Save what? Probably Mamma's wedding veil. Or some handkerchief from a great aunt that had been handmade in the Old Country. Or maybe one of those roosters her mother collected, meant for Maria's-kitchen someday.

  She reached for the door handle. Shut the door. Don't look.

  She reached for the box instead. The dress slid to her shoulder, the hanger banging against her back. She slid the cardboard forward, now on her tiptoes. It wasn't a rooster. Too light to be anything ceramic.

  She pried back the lid.

  Staring back at her was a college degree with Biba Pagliano's name on it. A bachelor's degree in art history from UMass Boston, just a few T stops away on Morrissey Boulevard.

  Mamma? In college? After she'd married Papa?

  She'd never said a word. Never held a job at a museum. Never even bought a Picasso, not that there'd ever been money for something like that.

  The only collection Mamma had was those silly roosters. They'd become her hobby, her only thing outside Maria, the quilting club and bingo.

  Maria ran her ringer over her mother's name on the degree. She'd never known. Had no idea her mother had any ambitions at all. Instead, she'd always thought Biba had been pouring her own goals into Maria by pushing her to go to college, to finish her own dual degrees in business and marketing.

  "Cara? Is that you?" her mother's voice carried up the stairs. "I win the bingo!"

  Maria shoved the box back into the closet, shut the door and hurried down the stairs. "Mamma! I just stopped by to get a dress." She held up the evidence.

  "Ah, another date? With Dante?"

  "No. Antonio."

  Mamma pursed her lips. "I don't like him. He not treat you right when you know him before."

  "Mamma, that was years ago. He's a grown man now."