“Okay, I’ll never use it again.”
She laughed despite herself.
“Good. I like that. Laugh. Eat. Life’s short, my li’l figlia, trust me on that one. Today you’re sad about a job or what somebody did or said or how they crossed their eyes, then one day you look back and don’t remember the bad stuff all that well. But you do remember a tree swing at a friend’s house that was torn down long ago or how sweet someone’s perfume always smelled, and you yearn for what used to be— Where’d I put that bowl? Ah, there it is.”
As he banged about in the kitchen, she stared at the picture of Pope John Paul II, who her uncle considered to be a man of the people even if he wasn’t born in Italy. She vaguely recalled how that picture had hung in the dining room at her grandmother’s house in Philly. Those walls had been covered in grayish wallpaper dotted with clusters of white-and-blue flowers. When she was four, she’d gotten in trouble for coloring some of the white flowers bright red. She’d imagined her grandmother walking into the room and gasping with delight at the bright addition.
Instead Cammie learned that some surprises aren’t good things. Her grandmother had wanted to spank her, but Cammie’s mother intervened. Those were the good days. When her mother still had the wherewithal to deal with life’s ups and downs. The small ones, anyway.
She shifted her gaze to the Sinatra photo that hung next to the pope’s. The singer leaned against a wall, his fedora pushed back, tie loosened, a burning cigarette dangling between his fingertips. He smiled languidly at the camera as though staring into the eyes of his lover.
Ol’ Blue Eyes had been the perfect nickname for the famous singer. In color photographs, his eyes had been shockingly blue. Like Marc’s.
She imagined Marc in that photo, leaning against a wall, looking into her eyes. She thought to that night so long ago, dancing on the lawn outside the party, their lips touching...
“Buon appetite!” Her uncle set a steaming plate of spaghetti heaped with marinara sauce before her. He sprinkled cheese on the food. “I grilled steak at Delilah’s, so I’m not joining you. Will grab a glass of your fabuloso spiked limeade, however, and sit with you.” He kept sprinkling. “Say when.”
He knew her downfall was cheese. If she could live on bread and cheese alone, she would. She waited until the shaved Parmesan began to resemble a snowdrift before making a stop motion.
As he headed to the kitchen, she dug in, realizing she was famished. A moment later, Frankie returned with a wineglass filled with frothy green liquid and sat opposite her.
“Good?” he asked.
She nodded, her mouth full.
“You look better already. Got color in your cheeks.” He took a sip of the limeade as she spooned another bite. “So, yeah, Delilah and I, we grilled New Yorks. I made bruschetta. She whipped up a barley salad with those little baby corns. Corn on the cob for mice! She said they’re harvested mostly in Thailand. Who knew?”
Delilah cooked, tatted lace, decorated entire rooms with hand-printed wallpaper, carved intricate designs in pumpkins at Halloween...you name it. She and Martha Stewart were like twins separated at birth, except they looked nothing alike. Delilah, at sixty, looked more like the actress Lainie Kazan, who played the mother in the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Except Delilah wore enough gold jewelry to fund a small revolution, dyed her hair champagne-blond—“the best blond for my coloring, dear”—and wore clothes that never let the world forget she had cleavage.
Delilah’s and Frankie’s only arguments had been in the kitchen. That’s what happened when two food divas fell in love.
As Cammie finished her meal, her uncle asked, “So...you gonna tell me what happened? ʼCause if anybody gave you a bad time at that job, you tell your uncle Frankie about it and I’ll make sure the problem goes away.”
“Like you’re a wise guy.”
“Don’t need to be no wise guy to protect the ones you love. Or the ones you do business with.”
“This is how you treated problems when you owned your taxi businesses?”
“Sometimes people need a strong talking-to, that’s all. Then, after they understand the situation, the world is a beautiful place full of lollipops and rainbows.”
“You like to act tough, but I got your number. Deep down, you’re a softy.”
“Keep it to yourself or you’ll ruin my rep. Through with that?” He nudged his chin toward her plate.
“Yes.”
“There’s still a few bites left.”
She huffed a sigh. “I’ve gained seven pounds since I moved here.”
“And so you should! Don’t know what they were feeding you in Denver, but when you got here, you were skin and bones! A scrawny little string of vermicelli.” He wiggled his pinkie finger. “Now you look stronger, healthier...just not...” He got up, took her plate to the kitchen.
After he returned and sat, she asked, “Just not what?”
“Just not what, what?”
“You said I look healthier, just not...”
“Oh.” He took another sip, shrugged. “Just not so happy. Not only today, but in general. Except today more so.”
“I could blame you for that, you know.”
“Me?”
She decided Italian men were the only ones who could look grossly affronted and incredibly innocent at the same time. “You told Marc where I work.”
“Marc...the nice gentleman who called the house today asking for you?”
“The only gentleman who’s ever called the house asking for me, yes.”
“First of all, figlia, I knew who he was, even though he was polite enough to introduce himself—full name, very mannerly like—and explain he’d been your employer back in Denver. You’d just gotten that job when I left Denver, ʼmember? I’d call there off and on to talk to you when I couldn’t reach you on your cell. Even if I’d never heard of him, you talked about him when you first got here....”
Yes, she’d talked a lot about Marc when she’d first arrived, but had never, ever admitted that she’d had a thing for the guy. If her uncle had thought somebody had broken her heart, even if that someone had never known how she’d felt, he probably would have hopped the next flight to Denver to have a man-to-man talk about his figlia and how to treat her right. Make sure Marc understood the situation, although she doubted that would have resulted in her world being showered with lollipops and rainbows.
Funny how she suddenly had men in her life ready to hop flights between Denver and Vegas to have one-on-ones.
“So, of course, I figured you were friends,” Frankie said.
“Right,” she murmured.
His features softened. “You like this man.” It wasn’t a question.
“It’s not what you think.”
“I asked if you liked him, not what am I thinking.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s just not...you know.”
“Consummated?”
“Uncle Frankie, please! We’re not talking sex.”
“It tends to go hand in hand with love, y’know.” He clapped his hands together and gave them a shake.
Oh, this conversation was going so very well.
“I understand what you’re saying. I wasn’t born yesterday.” Oh, hell, this was a losing battle. She might as well talk about it...parts of it.
She straightened, looked her uncle square in the face. “Look, Marc’s a friend. And my former boss. He wasn’t very happy with how I conducted some research, something you and I have discussed in the past so no need to rehash it, and I ended up moving to Vegas, and you know the rest of my story after that. Can we consider this conversation over?”
“No.” He brushed at his shirt. “I want some explanation for your sniffling on my favorite Hawaiian shirt, then after that, there’s something else I’d
like to discuss with you.” The last two words sounded like wi-choo.
“What’s that?”
“No misdirecting the conversation. But first, I need some more liquid refreshment.” After setting the drink down, he leaned his forearms on the table and clasped his hands. “So...you like him, just not enough to have him visit you at work.”
“I wasn’t ready to...talk to him...especially at that dive—” She caught herself. “Dive doesn’t include Delilah’s gift store, of course.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” he said, gesturing to the heavens. “Tourists love that stuff—today she sold two of those little knitted Las Vegas rat-on-string sweaters. Seventy a pop.”
She let that sink in for a moment. “Seventy dollars for a hand-knitted sweater for a Yorkie or Chihuahua?”
“Yeah, and other small-like dogs. Maybe cats, too. Hey, how’s that stray?”
“Trazy’s still there. Thought she’d go home after a day or two.”
“Sorry you can’t bring her here.”
“You’re allergic to cats. No way. I’m going to make an appointment at a vet’s, see if Trazy has one of those chips. Have to at least try and find out who her owners are.” She thought of those little doggie sweaters. “Seventy bucks. That’s more than I’ve ever spent on a sweater for me.”
“But they’re hand-knitted. Sparkly thread the color of her hair...you know...”
“Champagne.”
“Yeah, champagne. She knits little pictures in them, too. Tiny dice. Martini glasses with olives. Girl dog sweaters have little faces of Marie knitted in them, too. Boy dog sweaters get her brother, what’s his name?”
“Donny.”
“Yeah.”
“She knits the faces of Donny and Marie in them?”
“Tiny faces, but they’re good, y’know. Big toothy smiles an’ everything. That Delilah, she’s talented. Has lots of plans...” He flashed Cammie an expectant look.
“Like what?”
“You’re misdirecting the subject.”
“I think you did.”
“Then I’m going back to the other one. Okay, where was I...? Ah, right... Sounds like you’re bothered he saw you in that outfit, right?”
A rush of heat crawled up her chest as she thought of Marc this afternoon, seeing her in that cover-nothing getup. “Right,” she said quietly.
“Men who like women tend to really like them in outfits like that.”
“Uncle Frankie, he likes women, just not this woman in that way.” She flashed on Marc’s former fiancée Gwen, who liked to call herself “Swagtastic”—gag—and had that hot-bod, bad-girl Cameron Diaz thing going for her. Sometimes her spray-on skirts had been so high and tight, Cammie wondered if she’d accidentally worn her Spanx to work. Especially annoying was the baby talk and the way Gwen’s eyes would get all big and her fake lashes would flutter, and Marc would melt. How could he be so dumb to fall for such a cliché?
A thieving cliché, come to find out. Maybe that sexy act had been just that. An act to gain access to the firm’s money. If only Marc had allowed Cammie to finish her investigation...
“But he liked you, right? In that hotsy-totsy number.”
Took her a moment to realize her uncle was still talking about Marc seeing her at work. “I doubt it. You see, we had a disagreement.”
“In the casino?”
“Outside. On my break. Work stuff.”
“He flew out here to talk about work stuff? You left there over a year ago!”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly reopened them. “I love you, but I don’t think I can talk about this anymore. It’s just—” She swallowed, hard.
He paused, seemingly weighing the scenario. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t know it’d be that uncomfortable, his showing up at the casino and all—”
“No need to apologize.”
“So, wanna ask him over for dinner now that he’s in Vegas?”
“You’re incorrigible. No!”
“He could come over, see you in regular clothes.”
“The answer is still no—”
“I’ll make my famous marinara sauce. Delilah can make a salad with those baby corn on the cobs. You can make your electric limeade. I mean, this stuff alone could make a guy fall in love.”
“He’s not falling—”
“That’s how I met Regina, you know.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “My buddy invited her over for dinner. My bachelor days ended the moment our eyes locked, God rest her soul.” He made the cross, touched his hand to his lips. “Twenty-six wonderful years.”
“You gave her a good life, Uncle Frankie. She had everything she wanted.”
“Except a baby.” He swiped at the air as though erasing the thought. “Enough looking back. Time to think about the present.” The expression on his face shifted, and she caught a funny, almost secretive smile. “I got a favor to ask.”
“As long as it has nothing to do with Marc and electric limeade, sure, anything.”
He paused. “You know Delilah and I are betrothed now. Took me a long time after losing Regina to lose my heart again. But now that I’ve lost it—” he slapped a hand over his chest “—it ain’t going anywhere, ever again. Anyway, I’m turning sixty-three next month, and Father Time is breathing down my back....”
“You’re a spring chicken, Uncle Frankie.”
He shrugged. “You’re a sweetheart, but I see what’s staring at me in the mirror every morning. And Delilah, she ain’t getting younger, either, although she’s one helluva good-looking woman for her age. Hell, for a woman half her age! So, what I’m trying to say is...it’s time for me to start living under the same roof with my lady. Delilah and I as man and wife proper. The way we see it, the sooner the better.”
“You’re eloping?”
“Sorta. We have a chapel in mind.” He glanced at the Sinatra picture.
Las Vegas was full of funky wedding chapels. At least a dozen that featured Sinatra impersonators. Some who were also ministers.
Oh, no.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting married by a minister dressed as Sinatra.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Good.”
“But you’re close.”
She could think of one infamous chapel that featured equally infamous impersonators, the kind that cropped up in all kinds of cheesy Vegas lounge acts.
“Please say it’s not the Elvis Chapel,” she whispered.
“Okay, I won’t say it.”
She scrunched her face. “No, not the Elvis Chapel.” Anybody who spent more than a day in Vegas was destined to see a billboard or TV ad for the place. “Where that skinny Elvis impersonator in a shiny gold jacket is the minister? Where people can get the dueling Elvis wedding package—” She caught a look on his face. “Uncle Frankie, you’re not getting married by dueling Elvises, right?”
“Actually, we’re thinking of the Burning Love package. Complimentary limousine, DVD of the ceremony, plus a live web cam for her relatives who can’t make it.”
This wedding was starting to sound uncomfortably like her job at the Cave. “Does the Elvis actually sing? Or is it lip-synced?”
“He sings. Several songs of our choice.”
She clamped shut her mouth before she said something she regretted.
It was so quiet in the room, she could hear the tick-tick of the kitchen clock. It took her a moment to adjust her attitude and see her uncle for what he was: a man in love. She remembered how sad and tired he’d looked during Regina’s long illness, and how disconsolate he’d been for months after she died. After meeting Delilah, he’d found happiness again. Some people spent a lifetime looking for that and never found it.
“Did you take a tour of the inside?”
she asked, sincere this time.
“It’s nice. Green plants. White columns like the Greeks had outside their homes, but these are inside, of course. We liked the chapel idea because it’s going to be a small wedding. She’s inviting some relatives from San Bernardino.”
“Sounds nice.”
“And...she’d like you to be her maid of honor.”
Cammie felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over her head. Her brain froze. Followed by her face, then her chest...all the way to her toes. After a few moments, her voice thawed enough to speak.
“Isn’t there somebody from San Bernardino...a sister, a niece?”
He shook his head. “There’s a niece, but Delilah isn’t very close to her. She wants you.”
Cammie blew out a puff of air. “I’m... This is...”
“Look, I know you hate these kind of formal affairs, but this would mean a lot to me, Camilla. I also know Delilah shoulda asked, but...I told her I’d like to do it, the pre-invitation. Because, deep down, this is really me asking you to stand up there on this important day...the most important in the last chapter of my life.”
She glanced toward the kitchen, wondering how much of that electric limeade was left.
Forget it. This was the time to think clearly.
Okay, her uncle had always been there for her. Those years when it had been so tough at home with her mom, he’d always been a phone call away. And when she died, he insisted Cammie move into his place, and he helped her get on her feet. Tried to talk her into being a lawyer, but she’d refused. When she’d decided to become a private investigator, he’d made one request. That she specialize in legal investigations. She’d never regretted that career path.
And then when everything had blown up in Denver with her job at Hamilton & Hamilton, he’d encouraged her to relocate to Vegas and move in with him until, again, she got back on her feet. He was right. Uncle Frankie was more a father than the one she’d never met.
The thought of walking down an aisle in the Elvis Chapel—oh, Lord, would “Burning Love” be playing over some boom box?—pained her. The primary thought shrieking through her brain was I’d rather have a root canal than wear one of those butt-ugly dresses with bows the size of Kansas, but what came out of her mouth was balanced, sane-sounding.
The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) Page 6
