Ready for You (A San Francisco Brides Book)

by Juliano, Celia

  “Salad again, Mommy?” Max asked. “You eat a lot of salad.”

  “I like salad,” she said. “Well, it sounds like you want to go to Suzy’s tomorrow. Do you want me to come?”

  “Yes,” Max said.

  “Dad says Aunt La wants you to go to a party?” Danny said. “She might get lonely without you, but we’ll have Dad.”

  “Oh, okay,” Max said. He was usually swayed by his brother’s quiet pronouncements.

  “I’ll call her, then. If you’re sure.” The three nodded and went back to eating and chatting.

  Chiara called. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go. Rocco basically told her not to, unless she brought Phil and the boys. But if she and Phil were really going to split, she might as well grab what she could. But she wasn’t going to let Isabella know that.

  “You’ll go!” Isabella got excited easily.

  “Maybe. Or maybe I should go with Phil and the boys.”

  “And leave me by myself?”

  “There will be plenty of people there.”

  “True. Oh, I bet that cutie Rocco will be there. I could give my flirting skills an airing. ‘Course I could do better with you on wing. What can I do to get you there? How about I take you shopping in the morning? A new dress?”

  Chiara’s stomach knotted so tightly she felt she’d done that torturous new abs routine her Jazzercise instructor threw at them last week. No way would she let Isabella go alone now. “It’s a deal. What time?”

  “The party starts at two, so maybe 10:30? We can shop, have lunch, and we’ll still have time to beautify. It’ll be like the old days, when I’d help you get ready for a date.” Isabella laughed.

  Chiara smiled a tiny bit. Those were the days of giggling and too much makeup, whispered secrets and groaning over boys. Boys who turned out to not be worth the time or thought they’d innocently given. “Sounds good. See you then.”

  The next afternoon, Chiara followed Isabella to her car. “Thank goodness Phil and the boys are gone,” Chiara said. “If Phil saw me in this dress…I can’t believe I let you talk me into it.”

  “Your husband is a freak, and not in a good way, if he wouldn’t want to rip that dress off you. You look fantastic. Maybe you’re right, though. How am I going to get Rocco to look at me with those boobs peeking out?” Isabella laughed as they eased into the car.

  Chiara looked down and tried to pull the halter neckline over more, but it wasn’t budging, not that way. “He knows I’m married.”

  “Doesn’t stop a guy from looking.”

  “Why did I let you talk me into this?”

  “Because you know that dress looks great. Hot pink is one of your best colors. You’re like an Italian Marilyn Monroe.”

  “I’m dressed all wrong. This is a family birthday party. Turn around, I want to go home,” Chiara said as Isabella made a right onto Oak.

  “No way. I need you to keep Mom away from me. You know she’ll be all over me about Matt. Thirty and not married, she’ll say, when is he going to put a ring on that lovely finger? You know how she is.”

  “She’ll be too distracted by my hoochie mama dress to notice Matt’s absence.”

  Isabella laughed until tears sprang into her eyes.

  “Nice of you to laugh at my pain.”

  “Oh, come on, you’re used to it. At least Santo and Bitchy Bobbie won’t be there. Imagine what she’d say about your dress.” Isabella snickered.

  “And Santo would be right behind her with his raised eyebrow and disappointed head shake. Ugh. I’ll never be able to wear this again. What a waste.”

  “Yeah, I guess. You sure won’t be wearing it on your trip to the milquetoast in-laws next month. So much color and olive skin would burn their retinas. But, really, So, you know you love it and you know you look gorgeous. Celebrate, huh? Where’s that crazy girl you used to be? It’s okay to let her come out and play sometimes.”

  She died with Jenny. Or maybe she got buried alive and was still trying to claw her way out. “Is this medical advice or little sister teasing?” Chiara said as they parked down the street from the Buffones’.

  “Neither. Come on, there’s a party waiting for the Vitale sisters.”

  Chiara laughed and strode to the house, arm in arm with Isabella.

  Mrs. Buffone stood in the living room, surrounded by friends when they walked in. No male Buffones in sight; Chiara breathed in relief. They placed their gift bags on a small circular table in a corner, greeted Mrs. Buffone, who remarked how lovely they looked, and made the rounds in the living room. Chiara’s mom raised an eyebrow at her, but no comments yet, since they were chatting with a few old acquaintances. Directed by her grandma, Sabrina led Chiara and Isabella into the kitchen, where the men were working.

  “Grandpa, Grandma wants you to join her,” Sabrina said before walking back down the hall.

  Chiara’s palms prickled as Ray Junior, Rocco’s son Shawn, a smooth looking man in his sixties or seventies, Mr. Buffone, and Rocco turned to them. While they said their hellos, Rocco took her in with a flash in his eyes. He might as well have drawn her to him and kissed her because she felt the same pop in her stomach and deep pull as if he had. He was her favorite types rolled into one: Italian, construction worker, ball player, just the kind she used to get googly eyed over in her teens. The older man, his uncle Rob, took Chiara’s hand and kissed it, complimenting her. Rocco turned a twinkling eye on Isabella.

  “Where’s the boyfriend?” he asked her. “Is he real or did you make him up to keep the men away?”

  “Uncle Rob,” Shawn said, “Chiara’s husband is real, so lay off.”

  “You see what disrespect I have to endure from these young men?” Uncle Rob sighed. Chiara had to think of him that way, he was so like her own uncles. She laughed. He shrugged and followed his brother, Mr. Buffone, to the living room. Shawn and Ray went back to the stove.

  Isabella moved closer to Rocco and smiled. Did she just bat her eyelashes? Chiara ground her teeth.

  “I’m not telling,” Isabella purred.

  “Like mystery, huh?” Rocco said.

  “You know us Italian women, full of sultry intrigue.” She slid her hand onto his arm.

  Chiara dug her nails into her palm, slippery and hot.

  “You need a man who appreciates you,” he said in a low voice.

  Chiara swallowed the scream in her throat.

  “True. It’s too late for Chiara, but I’m free to do who…” Isabella coughed delicately. “What I want.”

  Rocco laughed, the same laugh he’d used on her. Chiara clasped her hands to keep from smacking Isabella, or belting that grin off Rocco’s face, or both.

  “Dad, we need to set up those drinks,” Shawn said. Rocco and Isabella followed him out.

  “Do you need any help?” Chiara asked Ray. “Seems you’ve been deserted.”

  “Thanks, most everything’s ready. I’ll catch him for dish duty later. That brother of mine, he doesn’t have much stick to it, except when it comes to unzipping, his mouth and…” He turned and his neck reddened, as if he’d just realized he wasn’t talking to one of the family.

  Chiara smiled in understanding, though her insides screamed in agony. “I hear you. Isabella’s the same. Younger siblings.” She shrugged.

  “Yeah. Oh, Sabrina,” he said as his niece ambled in. “Will you take Chiara around, maybe get her a drink?”

  “Sure,” she said. She led Chiara into the living area. Isabella hung on Rocco’s arm. He was smiling and charming her parents. Sabrina got them a couple of iced teas from the dining room sideboard.

  “I thought your sister was coming with her boyfriend,” she said.

  “They had a fight.”

  “I know how that goes,” Sabrina said.

  Chiara glanced at her, her cute features twisted in a grimace. “Guy trouble?”

  “Not lately, but my last boyfriend and I ended things in a bad way, you know? But I’ll meet new people in college, right?”

  �
��Definitely. You’ll have a blast.”

  “You never said which school you went to.”

  “USD, it’s the Catholic college up on the hill by Mission Bay.”

  “It’s beautiful. My friend Maddy’s going. I wanted to go too, but my grades weren’t good enough, and it’s expensive.”

  “You could always transfer, if you get your grades up. In my day, it wasn’t so competitive. Sixteen years ago.” Chiara ran a finger along her frosted glass.

  “Really? I thought…I mean, you’re old enough to be my mom?” Sabrina sounded surprised.

  “I’ll be thirty-five in November.” Old enough, if she’d been as dumb as her mom, having a baby at seventeen. Then again, a girl with Rocco, a beautiful, smart daughter…and, for all their fighting, Chiara knew her parents were still in love. Look at how they held hands, the way her dad glanced at her mom, a spark in his eye, or her mom smoothing his still black hair for him when a stray strand fell out of place. Chiara’s heart fell. No, it imploded.

  “I’m sorry,” Sabrina said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t. I am that old.” She smiled. “And anyone would be proud to have a daughter like you.”

  “Wish you could talk to my mom.”

  “Is she here?”

  “No, she and Grandma haven’t always been friends, if you know what I mean.” Chiara nodded and Sabrina laughed. “Grandma’s funny that way. With one hand, she tries to push my dad to settle down and with the other she ticks off all the reasons every woman isn’t good enough for him. Though your sister might fit her standards. An Italian American doctor. Education and family are very important to Grandma.”

  Chiara’s insides shriveled and curled inward, like she did after a bout of hysterics or a crying jag. “My parents too.”

  Mr. Buffone called everyone to the tables and Chiara sat near her parents while somehow Isabella managed to score the seat next to Rocco at the family table. Chiara fidgeted in her place at the second table, also covered in a large white damask cloth, but it was a folding table. The open floor plan allowed for such a gathering and Chiara suspected the Buffones always had people over, much as it had been at her own house growing up. Phil never wanted anyone over unless they called first and he liked formal, orderly parties, not the free for all get-togethers of Chiara’s youth. Besides, their house wasn’t really big enough for entertaining. Suzy’s was. She’d seen it when Suzy hosted an office party last year; one of those nineteen-nineties two story monstrosities, the modern tract home for the wealthy set.

  “I’m surprised Phil let you out of the house in that dress,” her mom whispered as Chiara took a bite of mixed greens salad. Her mom didn’t mean that in the “rip the dress off you” way Isabella had. Chiara chewed her food then took a sip of iced tea.

  “He and the boys are out,” she said, knowing some response was safer than none.

  “When was the last time you two went out?”

  “Phil and I spend plenty of time together.”

  “Humph. You know your father and I are happy to watch the boys if you want to get out.”

  “Thanks.” Chiara glanced at Isabella and Rocco who had their heads almost touching as they laughed. Chiara faked a smile.

  “It’s Isabella you should be worried about. She and Matt had another fight.”

  “She looks happy enough. Rocco is a charming man and he comes from such a nice family.”

  That totally backfired. Chiara half listened as her mom talked about the Buffones, which somehow led to her favorite topic, Santo and his girls. Why had she driven over with Isabella? At this rate, she should cut her losses and call a cab rather than see Isabella drop her off and follow Rocco home. Chiara pushed her plate away an inch, unable to eat any more.

  “Chiara, you’ll waste away to nothing…unless, are you feeling well? Should I be congratulating you?” Chiara’s mom asked.

  Now she did feel sick. Another baby with Phil? That would be a huge mistake. But she glimpsed little Ava in Faith’s arms and the swell of longing she had buried scrabbled to the surface.

  “No, I’m fine,” Chiara hissed. “Excuse me.” She picked up her plate and went into the kitchen. She washed a few dishes before Brad, Faith’s husband, came in with another man-- Chiara couldn’t remember his name.

  “My mom in there will scold me something fierce if she saw you in here doing our work. Thanks, though, but why not go enjoy? I think she’s going to open her gifts soon,” Brad said.

  Chiara shrugged with a smile and slowly walked into the living room, where she stood pressed against the doorway. Dinner was winding down and Mrs. Buffone’s youngest grandson brought her presents to her. Chiara watched the proceedings, trying to quell the hurt and yearning aching in every limb, but she didn’t succeed.

  Everyone began to mingle again. Isabella and Rocco whispered together. Why was she so mad at Isabella? Her sister didn’t know what she and Rocco had shared, or what Chiara fooled herself into believing they did. He was the dog, coming onto her sister when he’d pursued her. Unless he was trying to punish her for being here. It was working. Isabella and Rocco went down the hall, toward the garage, Chiara deduced, since they carried empty wine bottles. She should confront him. Why should she suffer in silence?

  She treaded down the hall as quietly as she could. Opening the garage door, her head burst in pain and heat. In the dim, cool space Isabella, her hands on a grinning Rocco, stood near her. Chiara let the door bump shut behind her and pounced on her sister. She grabbed her hair, difficult to do with Isabella’s bobbed, fine hair, and jerked her back.

  “Hey!” Isabella half whined half choked out. Chiara shoved her and turned on Rocco.

  “You,” she spit out as he frowned at her. She threw at punch at his face, but he blocked her. She recovered and jabbed her fist with all her might into his stomach. He oofed forward slightly. Light weight training really paid off.

  “You’ve been cheating on Phil?” Isabella asked.

  “It’s not like that,” Chiara said. Her breathing came in little puffs. Rocco straightened himself and dropped his arms to his sides, still frowning.

  “What’s it like then?”

  “Like? Nothing. A meaningless flirtation.” Rocco’s ample brows creased together at her words.

  “Uh-huh. That’s why you went all crazy bitch on me?”

  “You know me.”

  “I thought I did. I’ll just take this wine in,” Isabella said, picking up some bottles from a shelf by the door and leaving.

  Rocco nodded, never taking his eyes off Chiara. She spun away from him, but he grabbed her arm.

  “You want me to lay you horizontal this time?” she said. She trembled with anger and intense attraction.

  “Damn right, but no need to be so rough about it,” he said. He took a step toward her.

  “You men, always whining and moaning about that.”

  Their breath mingled between them, hot and sharp.

  He pulled her into him. Their bodies fit together somehow, like the odd alchemy of a baseball in the right pitcher’s hand. Where one threw a slow ball, the other sped a ninety-five mile hour fastball straight over the heart of home plate. She smiled at him and he received her signal. He kissed her. Within moments, their hands circled through hair, over chests, around rears, down thighs. She giggled, a low, joyful sound and he half smiled at her.

  She parted her lips and went in for more. His breathing quickened and he picked her up, still standing, until her legs pressed against the cool metal of the washing machine on the back wall.

  A low sound stole out of her throat when he moved a hand under the light folds of fabric covering her breasts. She nipped his lip as he fingered her through her bra until her nipples became unbearably hard. She moaned and his other hand eased up her thigh and into her panties. She swelled and surged, already on the verge. When his fingers found her clit, he circled and rubbed. His other hand still worked on her breast and, in an agony of pleasure, he teased down her neck w
ith his tongue, finally finding her sweet spot, that sensitive little hollow at the base of her throat. She held onto his hair and moaned again, one second on fire and the next mellowing in warmth and release. He chuckled and kissed his way back to her mouth, letting his hands linger.

  “Who’s moaning, my dirty girl?” he said. Another spasm pulsed through her at his tone. And his words: she was his.