Tiramisu After Midnight

by Mark David Campbell

  “How long do you think he’s been snorting?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s not sleeping at night, and as you said he’s getting weirder every day.”

  “We’ve got to do something before it’s too late.” Jessy shot his hands outward as if he were grasping for an answer in the air. It was the first time Maggie had ever seen Jessy looking lost and desperate.

  “If I can get him away for a few weeks, I’m sure I can reason with him,” Maggie said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “OKAY, ARE you ready?” Fabrizio said.

  “Ready for what?” Enrico eyed his brother suspiciously.

  “I posted our website last night.” Fabrizio held his hands up.

  “But the pictures and description of the house don’t exactly match reality!”

  “Did you just fall off the vegetable wagon?” Fabrizio jabbed his elbow into Enrico’s ribs. “That’s why they call it virtual reality! Everybody knows the internet is a bullshit. Nobody expects a B&B to actually look like the pictures on the site. Besides, we’ve already got a booking.” Fabrizio gestured toward the screen.

  “A booking!”

  “Yeah, some American guy and his wife.”

  “Oh, Mother of God, let me see.” Enrico plunked down next to his brother and swiveled the laptop toward him. “How do you know they are husband and wife?”

  “Because they booked separate bedrooms.” Fabrizio curled his lip. “Who travels with their girlfriend and books a separate bedroom?”

  “Got a point.” Enrico nodded.

  “And if they give us a good review, we’re all set!” Fabrizio said.

  Enrico stood up and grabbed hold of his hair. “We are so fucked.”

  Fabrizio jumped up, wrapped his arms around his brother’s waist, and lifted him off his feet. “Fucked? We’re going to be rich!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “OKAY, PACK your bags!” Maggie said as she burst into Owen’s bedroom.

  “What?” Owen didn’t look up from the Excel chart on his screen.

  “Our trip to Italy!” Maggie was beaming. “I hope you haven’t changed your mind and want to go Germany instead? Those leather shorts look like they chafe, and sausages give me gas.”

  “What are you talking about?” Owen turned his head sideways toward Maggie.

  “Owen. You promised me if….”

  Owen’s phone rang and he held his finger up to Maggie and looked at the screen. “It’s the bakery.” He spoke into the phone. “Yes, of course there are two grooms. It’s a gay wedding!” He tilted the phone away and mouthed the words, they’re idiots. “Well then buy two bride and groom statue sets and keep the two brides for your next lesbian wedding!” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Good, send me a photo when the cake’s ready.” He hung up. “Surely this can’t be their first gay wedding. It’s two grooms! How hard can the concept be! Sorry, honey. What were you saying?”

  “As I was saying, you promised me if I could secure the Landmark Theater, we’d go to Italy.” Maggie had her hands propped on her hips.

  “Maggie, I can’t possibly leave right now.” Owen looked back at his flow chart.

  “Look, I had to use every connection my dad had, and I even had to flirt with that greasy booking agent.”

  “The theater may be booked, but we still have to pull the wedding off, and I’m swamped.” Owen stood up and breathed in deeply.

  “The Dally-Burman wedding is the second-to-last weekend in June, just before Pride. Everything is on schedule.” Maggie used that same flat, stern tone she used when a subcontractor phoned with an excuse. “Owen, we had a deal!”

  “Maggie, I can’t.” Owen walked toward the door. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  “You can’t imagine how much you sound exactly like a straight guy when you say that,” she growled.

  Owen’s phone rang again. “Ask Jessy,” he said as he pressed it against his face to answer.

  “Jessy’s going to LA. Or did you forget that too!” Maggie said.

  I’ll call you later. He mouthed the words and blew her a kiss.

  “Don’t worry, everything is going as planned,” Owen said into the phone “Oh, listen. I found a white 1960 Mustang convertible we can rent for the big day. I thought you might prefer that to a hardtop.” He stepped out of his bedroom and into the living room, leaving Maggie standing in front of his computer desk.

  Maggie threw her hands in the air and stomped out of his bedroom, past him, and into the kitchen.

  “Oh, just a moment! I’ll call you back later.” Owen hung up, ran back into his bedroom, and riffled through his drawers. Next, he dug into his jacket pockets. Nothing. “Shit,” he muttered. It was only five and he already wanted a little snort. He really had to stop before it got out of hand, but first there was the Dally-Burman wedding. He’d stop after that. Seriously.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE BOYS came up into the back garden from the lake carrying the paddles.

  “We can offer our guests a tour of the lake,” Fabrizio said.

  “Tomorrow I’ll take the boat over to the boatyard and get Dario to look at the engine. It sounds a little rough. Probably just needs a good grease job,” Enrico said.

  “Yeah, and maybe he can give you a good grease job too.” Fabrizio bobbed his eyebrows.

  “Pig!” Enrico bunted his brother with his shoulder. “Besides, I think that’s best left for my fantasies.”

  They laid the paddles down under the eaves of the garden house.

  “I’m starved.” Fabrizio trotted off toward the house with Enrico in close pursuit.

  “Hey, Tata,” they called as they burst in through the kitchen doorway. “What’s for lunch?”

  Standing in front of the stove staring into a large cauldron of boiling water, Tata remained motionless.

  “Tata, are you all right?” the boys said in unison.

  “Oh, yes, yes, fine.” Tata turned and kissed them on their cheeks. “Your sister and her husband are here in the living room.” Tata turned back toward the stove.

  “Oh great! We really need to talk with them,” Enrico said enthusiastically, and they bounded out of the kitchen.

  “You’re staying for lunch, right?” Fabrizio called out as they came into the living room. Francesca was standing in the center of the room pointing at one of the large impressionist paintings while Pietro photographed it.

  “No, we can’t possibly.” Francesca waved her hand behind her ear. “But Pietro did want to make a record of all of the paintings we have. Our dear great-uncle Donato Frisia has become quite notable in the past few years, and I wanted to be sure we have a complete record of the collection.”

  “Did you get the ones in the dining room too?” Fabrizio said.

  “Yes, yes, I got them all.” Pietro clicked the shot and put his phone in his pocket. “And the antique furniture, as well. A lot of these are pretty valuable, you know?”

  Francesca shot Pietro a disapproving look.

  “Actually,” Pietro continued, “we had some important business in Switzerland to do so we just dropped by to get your signatures on some documents.” He went over to the Versace briefcase that was open on the dining room table, took out a collection of official-looking papers and a Montblanc pen. He put the papers on the table and handed Fabrizio the pen. “Sign here.” He pressed his finger on a line at the bottom of the page.

  “What is it?” Fabrizio said.

  Enrico reached past his brother, took the document, and scanned the first page. “It’s all in legal language. I’d have to read it carefully.”

  “There’s no need to read it.” Pietro took hold of the top corner of the document and tugged it from Enrico’s hand. He placed it flat on the table in front of Fabrizio again and smoothed it. “It’s strictly for bureaucratic reasons. Of course you’re free to hire a lawyer first, but that will be costly and tie up things further.”

  Francesca cleared her throat. “It’s just a formality
to close our grandmother’s estate.” Francesca glanced in the mirror and fixed a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “As soon as you sign, we can deposit it with the notary in Milan,” Pietro said, waving the pen.

  Francesca flashed her big yellow teeth. “After that I can access my personal account and loan you the money you asked me for.”

  “We trust you.” Fabrizio took the pen from Pietro. “Where do I sign?”

  “Here, here, and here at the bottom.” Pietro pointed.

  Suddenly, Tata appeared behind Fabrizio and took hold of his wrist. “If you are going to be a responsible businessman you need to know what you’re signing first, don’t you?”

  Francesca shot an acidic glare at Tata.

  “Tata’s right,” Enrico said. “It’s time we take responsibility for our own finances. We can’t expect Francesca to always look after us.”

  “Of course, my dears.” Her voice was dripping with sweetness. “I will leave you a copy so you can study it at your leisure.” She held her wrist up and glanced at her gold Rolex. “It’s just we’re late, and if we are to make it to Switzerland before the bank closes, we’ll need your signatures right now.”

  “Like Pietro said, it’s just for bureaucratic reasons.” Fabrizio’s hand flinched, but Tata held it firmly.

  Enrico bit his lip. “I don’t want you to think that we don’t trust you.” He took the pen and the document from his brother’s hand. “But we need to study this first.”

  “Oh, my darlings. I would never think that.” Francesca took Enrico by the chin and kissed his cheek, then leaned over and kissed Fabrizio’s cheek.

  “I don’t have a second copy here with me,” Pietro snapped.

  “No worry,” Enrico said. “We can photograph this one.”

  “We really have to go,” Francesca blurted out.

  “It’ll just take a second.” Enrico held the paper flat on the table while Fabrizio dug for his phone.

  “Better I email you a copy when we get back to Milan.” Pietro snapped the document back, folded it, put it into the briefcase, and closed it shut. With a firm grip on the case, he took the Mont Blanc pen from Enrico. “We’ll be in touch.” His voice was as stern as his face.

  He leaned to kiss Tata’s cheek, but she turned and walked away. “I smell something burning in the kitchen.”

  Francesca glared at her through squinted eyes. “Come, Pietro.” She clicked her tongue. “We’ll just have to deal with the signatures another day. This will certainly slow down the process for everyone, but we must be on our way.” She threw a kissing sound toward the boys and walked out of the room with Pietro following closely.

  Chapter Twenty

  DURING THE weeks leading up to the Dally-Burman wedding, Owen had barely slept, attending to every detail, from making sure the chorus had practiced “Singing in the Rain” with umbrellas, just in case it rained, to color coordinating the toilet paper in the washroom. Maggie organized the crews of caterers and musicians with the precision and efficiency of a military operation.

  The big day, with all the sparkle and magic of a Broadway musical set in the spectacular Landmark Theater, was beyond what anyone could have imagined. After the reception in the lobby, the teary-eyed newlyweds, about to make their grand exit, paused to give Owen and Maggie their gratitude and a substantial check.

  “Holy shit,” Becky said loudly as she staggered away from the bar and out of the theater smelling of wine and packed into a dress that reminded Owen of an old expression about a silk purse and a sow’s ear. “That was sure the classiest fuck’n wedding I’ve ever been to.”

  As Tim and Neil emerged out the front doors of the theater and bounced down the outer steps, the chorus group burst into their song-and-dance routine with twirling umbrellas even though it was a glorious sunny afternoon. Just before they climbed into the Mustang convertible, Tim launched his bouquet of flowers at the expectant crowd, who leaped into the air like a squad of seasoned volleyball players. As soon as the newlyweds had driven off, the guests showered Owen and Maggie with accolades and asked for their business card.

  In the week that followed, Owen and Maggie barely had time to wrap up the accounts and pay the bills for the wedding before Pride was upon them.

  “Now comes the fun part, where we see if we have anything left over,” said Owen as he made a last entry on his Excel chart.

  “I just did our final balance and well…,” Maggie said as she completed a bank transfer to the florist and looked up from her screen.

  “Well what?” Owen leaned across the kitchen table.

  “We just made a killing on the Dally-Burman wedding! Look.” She swiveled her laptop around so Owen could see the screen.

  “Wow!” he said as he stared at the final balance. “Maggie, my dear woman, it’s time to celebrate!”

  “Let’s hope Pride is better this year than it was last year.” Maggie let her head flop backward with exhaustion. “I still can’t say the word T-shirt without cringing.”

  The previous year, Jessy had decided that they should make and sell T-shirts at Pride. When Jessy got an idea in his head, it was pretty hard to convince him otherwise.

  “This is our first Pride. Can’t we just dance behind one of the floats?” Owen whined.

  “C’mon, we need the money,” Jessy said.

  He produced a gothic black image of a man and woman and the words faggot and dyke printed in graffiti scroll across them.

  As Owen and Maggie stared at the design doing their best not to make sour faces, Jessy explained, “Everybody is sick and tired of those banal rainbow flag designs. What people really want is something edgy with a message.”

  “Are you sure people really want to wear a T-shirt that says that?” Owen pointed at the words.

  “Absolutely! Pride Day is all about asserting our identity and reappropriating words that hurt,” Jessy said.

  Owen and Maggie suspected Jessy of taking Queer rhetoric a little too literally but said nothing. They pooled their resources and came up with enough money for T-shirts, silk screening, and the kiosk fee at Pride.

  “I don’t think I have the courage to wear one of these, and I’m not even a lesbian,” Maggie confessed to Owen as they examined the T-shirts when they came back from the printers.

  On the day of Pride, the three of them, each sporting a T-shirt, set up their table in the park at the end of the march, along with the scores of other tables selling rainbow-colored products of every imaginable kind, from key chains and necklaces to underwear and sex toys. Maggie and Owen stood and watched as the throng of people shuffled by. A few people stopped and asked if they had any other designs. Jessy didn’t seem to notice. He was busy explaining the concept over and over again to numerous guys who seem much more interested in the vendor than the product. By the end of the day Jessy had sold twenty-five T-shirts to guys who only agreed to buy one if he gave them his telephone number. Maggie got propositioned by a biker woman, and Owen was lectured numerous times for the inappropriateness and insensitivity of his T-shirt.

  “That was the longest Pride Day of my life,” Owen said to Maggie as they packed up the boxes of unsold T-shirts and their table.

  “Honey, that was the first Pride Day of our lives,” Maggie said. “It can only get better after this!”

  “What are we going to do with all these horrible T-shirts?” Owen groaned.

  “I don’t care as long as I never see one again.” Maggie moaned.

  The boxes of T-shirts, which were piled up in Jessy’s mom’s basement for weeks, miraculously disappeared one day.

  With the grand success of the Dally-Burman wedding behind them, this year’s Pride would certainly be different. They started out on the gay swim team float and wound up dancing with the leather daddies. At the end of the parade they did their rounds past the promoters and vendors and watched the drag queens on stage. After a few hours of banal conversation and predictable gossip barely audible above the thump of the music, they wound up a
t the beach party. There, the afternoon melted away with the house beats, and evening washed in like the tide. By nightfall they were swept along with the crowd to the dance floor at the Rain Lounge. Maggie and Jessy kept a close eye on Owen for most of the evening, steering him away from anyone who might offer him nose candy. At some point Owen met up with his new boyfriend, Lane or Lance or something like that, and they disappeared.

  It was well after four in the morning when Maggie went back to the VIP corner near the DJ, to find Owen sprawled out on the sofa by himself. He looked exhausted.

  “This was a lot better than our last Pride!” Owen said into her ear over the throbbing bass as Maggie plunked down on the sofa beside him.

  “Don’t even mention that disaster with the T-shirts.” Maggie laughed.

  “I thought we agreed never to use that word again,” Owen said.

  “Where’s Lance?” Maggie couldn’t help but notice a little white dust along the edge of Owen’s nostril.

  “Lane. He went off with his friends.” Owen sounded as if he didn’t really care where he had gone.

  Good, Maggie thought as she pictured him surrounded by his club kid friends, bent over the bathroom sink with a straw up his nose, but she bit her lip and changed the subject.

  “Hey, do you remember our high school prom, and the principal told you that you couldn’t bring Jessy as a date?”

  Owen smiled and nodded. Maggie always got nostalgic in the early hours.

  She pressed in close against him. “Sharron-with-two-Rs and her anorexic band of evil cheerleaders just about pooed themselves when I walked into that rented ballroom in a full-length Versace gown with the captain of the swim team on my one arm and the top of the class on my other, both dressed in tuxedos—the two best-looking boys in school.”

  “Oh, they sound very sexy. Anybody I know?” Owen smiled and scrunched up his nose in that way that always made Maggie’s heart go ping.

  She stretched over and kissed him on the cheek.