“Eric.” Suzanna turned toward her husband. “You always seem to come up with something that makes everyone happy. Don’t you have any ideas?”
“I do have one suggestion,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”
“Miles, Ray, be careful with that!” Virginia called from the unit in Mr. Clancy’s Courtyard that used to be Rio’s dance studio. The boys were carrying the new sign that was to hang over the door. Christopher had made it, and he had been very secretive about it. The sign looked like it was about the size of a surfboard but it was completely wrapped up in brown paper so no one could see it before the great unveiling.
Ray and Miles carefully guided the draped sign into the studio. The Wolf women, as well as Lizzy, Dymphna, Ray, Miles, Winnie, Mr. Clancy, Bernard, and several loyal tea-shop patrons were standing by to see the new studio’s name. Ray and Miles held the sign while Donell did a sage blessing on the space. Then it was time for Christopher to rip off the paper for the reveal.
Carved into the sign were goofy-looking rabbits climbing up the lettering. Some of them, wearing ballet slippers, danced above the letters. To one side, a friendly wolf held a movie slate.
The sign read:
The Rollicking Annex . . .
Yarn and Yarns created here.
Please dance in.
Everyone cheered. Champagne was opened and everyone in Venice seemed to have a toast to offer.
“Thank God we got away from that awful Great Feets name,” Erinn whispered to Suzanna. “I’m so happy Eric ran with my idea.”
Moments later, Virginia refilled Suzanna’s glass with champagne and said, “Eric really is a genius. I am so relieved he tossed that horrible Wolf and Rabbit story and saw things my way.”
Suzanna looked over at her husband. He was in an animated conversation with the Grumpy Old Men. He seemed to sense her gaze and looked right back at her. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the room. At the moment, Suzanna couldn’t imagine ever needing a Get Out of Jail Free card.
The studio suddenly filled with pulsing music. Miles and Winnie, those two sullen kids who were now glowing with purpose, dragged Virginia, Suzanna, and Erinn into the center of a circle of jubilant, spontaneous celebrants. The Wolf women reacted true to form: a hopeful Suzanna, a grateful Virginia, and an embarrassed Erinn. The three joined hands.
Everyone sang.
The music said it all.
We Are Family.
MOTHER’S CHICKEN AND APPLES
Serves 4
Ingredients
2 large skinless, boneless chicken breasts
1 cup chopped apple
1 tablespoon chopped walnuts
3 tablespoons shredded mozzarella cheese
1½ tablespoons Italian-style dried bread crumbs
1 tablespoon butter or margarine
½ cup dry white wine
¼ cup water
1 tablespoon water
1½ teaspoons cornstarch
Directions
Flatten chicken breasts.
Combine apple, walnuts, cheese, and bread crumbs.
Divide apple mixture between chicken breasts and spread evenly on each breast before rolling. Roll up each breast. Secure with cooking twine.
Melt butter or margarine in a skillet over medium heat. Brown stuffed chicken breasts. Add wine and ¼ cup water. Cover. Simmer until chicken is no longer pink, about 20 minutes.
Transfer chicken to warmed platter or plates.
Pour juices from pan into small saucepan. Combine 1 tablespoon water and cornstarch—add to juices. Cook and stir until thickened. Pour over chicken.
Serve.
MOTHER’S MACARONI AND CHEESE
Serves 8
Ingredients
1 pound of elbow macaroni
1 pound extra-sharp cheddar cheese cut into small pieces (Virginia sometimes switches off and uses Pepper Jack or Swiss. Pick your favorite cheese or mix them all together.)
¼ pound butter
4 cups of milk
2 teaspoons salt
Fresh ground black pepper to taste
Potato chips
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
Cook pasta according to package directions until al dente.
While the pasta is cooking, heat the cheese and the butter in the milk and stir fairly regularly until it blends. (This is not a necessary step. You can just add the cheese pieces to the cooked pasta, but Virginia finds that the smooth sauce distributes more easily.)
Add salt and pepper and pour entire mixture into a large, buttered casserole dish.
Sprinkle crushed potato chips across the top and bake for 30 minutes.
MOTHER’S CHOCOLATE MARSHMALLOW FUDGE
Serves 12
Ingredients
1 small can (5 ounces) evaporated milk
4 tablespoons butter (I use unsalted)
2 cups granulated white sugar
¼ teaspoon salt (I leave this out if anyone has a health issue. But if they are eating fudge, how bad can things be?)
1 7.5-ounce jar Marshmallow Fluff
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips (make it butterscotch fudge by using butterscotch chips instead)
2 tablespoons pure vanilla extract (Don’t give in to imitation vanilla—it will ruin everything.)
Directions
Line the bottom and sides of a 9 x 9 x 2-inch pan with aluminum foil.
Mix the milk, butter, sugar, salt, and marshmallow into a heavy-duty saucepan and place on stove over medium heat. Using a wooden spoon (preferably), stir constantly till the mixture boils. Lower the heat a bit and continue stirring for five more minutes. If you are working with a candy thermometer it should read between 230 and 234 degrees.
Now, take the saucepan off the heat and mix in chocolate bits and the vanilla. Pour immediately into the prepared pan. Let the fudge cool to room temperature before putting it in the fridge.
Acknowledgments
This book is about family.
To my brothers and your fabulous spouses: Thank you for being weird. The inspiration never ends.
Without my mother’s guidance, nothing would get written—or at least edited. I love you, Mom. To my aunt, A. Jacqueline Steck: I miss you every day, but especially when I was writing this book. I will love you forever.
To my father, Joseph Bonaduce: You made writing look easy. I wish you were around so you could tell me how you did that. I am grateful for everything you taught me. I’m sure my editor appreciates the fact that you drilled “never miss a deadline” into me at a young age. I love you, I miss you—and thank you.
To my sprawling, supportive, fantastic family by marriage, what can I say except: There is never a dull moment.
To Patti, your generosity in accepting my family as your own makes me want to cry. To Liz, my partner in crime, thanks for always listening. To Anne, I’m constantly surprised you aren’t my biological sister! To Clare, my kickstarter, where would this writing adventure be without you? And to Mary, thanks for introducing me to your brother.
To my husband’s brothers: When I’m writing the good guys, if they are not my husband, they are one of you.
It’s been said that you can’t choose your family but you can choose your friends. I have made sterling choices. While I may have doubted myself on this road to authordom, my friends Nancy Barney, Melinda Wunsch-Dilger, Elle Fournier, Lisa Insana, Vivien Aladjem-Mudgett, and Patricia Rogerson never wavered in their faith. Thank you.
My friend and mentor Jodi Thomas says there are no stupid questions. There are. I asked them. Thank you, Jodi, for always answering with a straight face and for years of encouragement.
Many thanks to Charmaine Lorelli, for your time and kind words. To Jaidis Shaw, your thoughtful guidance has been invaluable. To Bruce Hsiao, thank you for sharing your amazing story.
To Amanda Spitzer, Beth Kinsolving, and Evelyn Dolphin, my proofreaders; Sharon Bowers, my agent at Miller Bowers Griffin Literary Management; and M
artin Biro, my editor at Kensington Books; thank you for allowing me use of the possessive when speaking of you.
Finally and always: to the man who defines family for three generations, my husband, Billy—you raise me up.
If you enjoy the lives and loves of the Wolf sisters, be sure not to miss Celia Bonaduce’s
A COMEDY OF ERINN
Erinn Wolf needs to reinvent herself. A once-celebrated playwright turned photographer, she’s almost broke, a little lonely, and tired of her sister’s constant worry. When a job on a reality TV show falls into her lap, she’s thrilled to be making a paycheck—and when a hot Italian actor named Massimo rents her guesthouse, she’s certain her life is getting a romantic subplot. But with the director—brash, gorgeous young Jude—dogging her every step, she can’t help but look at herself through his lens—and wonder if she’s been reading the wrong script all along....
An eKensington e-book on sale now!
CHAPTER 1
Erinn Elizabeth Wolf leaned on the fence that kept visitors from sliding down the bluff into the ocean. She glowered at the young couple snuggling on her bench—in her park. The young man and woman occasionally looked at the water, but spent most of their time sinking into each other’s eyes.
The sun was just dipping into the water. The world was suddenly filled with coral, russet, violet, periwinkle, and cornflower. Erinn was getting impatient, very impatient. She decided to take matters into her own hands.
She joined the couple on the bench. Nudging the young woman aside with her hip, she heaved her oversized bag onto the bench and hunkered down.
“Look at that sunset,” Erinn heard the young woman sigh softly. “God’s masterpiece.”
Erinn snorted.
“God wouldn’t have a prayer creating a sunset like that,” she said. “This is a masterpiece only city smog could produce.”
The couple ignored her. It was obvious Erinn was going to have to crank up the annoyance factor. She studied the couple. Gauging that they were liberal arts students from one of the local universities, Erinn formulated a plan. With a quick prayer, asking forgiveness from her beloved Democratic Party, Erinn said, “Since he’s now out of office, I think Dick Cheney is really coming into his own, don’t you?”
The couple left their spot on the bench—he frowning, she beaming with politically correct good will.
That’s one way to get your bench back.
Erinn glanced at the rapidly advancing sunset and realized she had not a moment to spare. She reached into her bag and pulled out a battered, hand-held video camera. She quickly and expertly adjusted her settings and started panning steadily over the horizon. She was getting pretty good at her camera work—if she did say so herself.
The view at Palisades Park in Santa Monica, California, was the billion-dollar vista featured in movies since cinema’s golden era. Although Erinn had lived in Santa Monica for nine years, she never got used to the incredible beauty the park offered.
Whenever Erinn was shooting, she was nimble—and confident in her movements. But as soon as she shut the camera off, a transformation took place. She suddenly appeared heavier and slower, as if gravity had taken hold of her—as if she were rooted to the earth. When the sun had gone, Erinn stowed her camera and made her way home. She didn’t walk far, as she was the owner of another masterpiece—one of the few remaining Victorian houses on Santa Monica’s main drag.
While Erinn would never be mistaken for the stuff of fairy tales, the courtyard of her house looked like something out of Beauty and the Beast. The old climbing roses that crawled up the lacy wooden pillars also disguised layers of peeling paint on the porch. An uneven walkway curled quaintly toward the side yard.
She retrieved a large silver key from a keychain that looked like a medieval jailer’s and fitted it into the front door lock. The door squeaked open, and Erinn was home.
She shrugged off her coat, hung it on an old-fashioned hall tree, and carefully put her camera aside. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and rearranged a few bobby pins, hoping to control her wild, coarse hair. Even with her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, corkscrew tendrils tended to escape. Her hair was still mostly pepper, but now with a sprinkling of salt. Erinn had made no attempt to halt the aging process, which she knew was practically a sacrilege in Southern California—but she stood firm against useless vanity. Even so, without the weight of the camera bag on her shoulders, hints of the graceful young woman she used to be were still evident in her posture and the way she moved. Almost miraculously she had remained an extremely attractive woman.
Not that she cared.
Not that anybody cared.
The doorbell rang. She peered out. A man in ripped jeans, a tight T-shirt, and carrying a skateboard was trying to open the gate. Erinn instinctively stepped out of sight, but kept her eye on the man. He managed to get the latch open and headed up Erinn’s path. He marched up to the porch and knocked.
It suddenly occurred to Erinn that this must be someone who wanted to rent the guesthouse.
“Damn it, Suzanna,” she cursed under her breath.
Her younger sister, Suzanna, was worried that Erinn would lose the house if she didn’t generate some income. She had placed a rental ad on craigslist without Erinn’s knowledge or consent. Erinn balked when she heard about it, but promised her sister she’d keep an open mind and at least meet with a few people.
The man, in wraparound sunglasses, knocked on the door again.
She yanked open the heavy wood-beamed door.
“Hey there, how you doing?” asked the young man, as he removed his glasses. He put out his hand by way of introduction. “Craigslist.”
He had the casual gait of a man—Erinn would put him at about twenty-eight—at ease with himself. He was also extremely well built, with biceps peeking out from under the sleeves of his snug T-shirt.
“That’s an interesting mode of transportation,” Erinn said, indicating the skateboard.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but it’s a real chick magnet.”
“Pardon?”
“The babes really go for a guy on a skateboard.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, you’re not a . . .”
He propped his skateboard against the house and stepped inside, without invitation. Erinn followed him. He walked around, whistling appreciatively.
“Wow, this place is awesome,” he said.
He walked into the living room and started to pull open the curtains.
“Dude! You have an ocean view . . . why do you have the curtains shut?”
“If you must know, I like to keep to myself. I like the privacy,” Erinn said. “Besides, I find Southern Californians vastly overestimate sunshine.”
“Well, it’s a cool place anyway,” he said as Erinn closed the curtains. He squinted in the darkness. “You could do a spread in Better Caves and Gardens.”
The cat rubbed against the young man’s legs.
“Sweet! I love animals,” he said, scooping up the cat. “Whoa! This is one fat cat!”
Erinn reached out and patted the cat, a large, flat-faced, silver point Himalayan.
“His name is Caro,” she said.
“Hello, Car-ro,” he said, pronouncing two r’s.
“It’s pronounced with one r,” Erinn said. “Car-o. It’s Italian for ‘dear one.’ ”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“No . . . you said ‘Car-ro’ . . . that’s Spanish for ‘truck.’ ”
“Well, no offense, dude, but Truck’s a much better name for this guy,” said the young man as he put the cat down and headed toward the kitchen.
Erinn kept her face impassive. This boy was not winning her over. “And my name, in case you’re interested, is Erinn.”
“Wow, nice kitchen, Er . . . Do you mind if I call you ‘Er’?”
“Massively,” said Erinn.
“What about Rinn? Or Rin Tin Tin?”
Does he
want the guesthouse or did he just come here to insult me?
“Why would you call me Rin Tin Tin?”
“Just shortening the process, dude. That’s how nicknames are made. You start out with something that makes sense, like Rinn, and pretty soon you’re Rin Tin Tin. It’s totally random.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” Erinn said.
“Jude . . . Raphael.”
Common ground at last.
“Ah!” she said. “As in the artist!”
“As in the turtle,” Jude said. “Hey, let’s go check out my guesthouse!”
He stood and followed a stormy Erinn into the backyard.
If love could have kept the place up, Erinn would have had no worries. But like everything else about the Wolf residence, the yard was looking a little down-at-the-heels. The one-room guesthouse was nestled in a patch of large fig trees. It was a miniature Victorian, complete with a tiny porch and hanging swing. Its bright red door stood out from the greenish tone of the rest of the exterior, and its window boxes overflowed with geraniums.
“This is it,” she said, trying to hide the pride she felt in the place.
Jude stood back and looked the building over.
“Huh.”
Erinn turned on him.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Nah,” he said. “I’m just not really big on these gingerbready kind of places, ya know? They’re kinda gay.”
Much Ado About Mother Page 23
