by Dee Ernst
“So, what was the final total?”
“For guests? Just under one hundred.”
“What? Aunt Lily, there isn’t room for one hundred people in my backyard.”
“Carmella says there is, and she’s the expert. Besides, this all became rather complicated. Vinnie has lots of friends, and he doesn’t want anyone to feel slighted.”
No, I didn’t want that either. The last thing I needed was a disappointed mobster taking revenge on Vinnie in my backyard because I was getting finicky about square footage.
“By the way, she’ll be stopping by next week with someone who’s doing something with the tents. And heaters.”
“Heaters? In my backyard?”
“Well, what if it’s cold? Not to worry, Carmella has everything under control.”
I hung up the phone.
Carmella had everything under control. Of course she did.
Aunt Lily’s wedding to Vincent DeMatriano was beginning to look like something that normally took place around Buckingham Palace. The midnight electrician came and went, and my fountain was put back together. With less than month to go, Carmella went into that mythical sixth gear.
She kept hinting about replacing all my shrubs and plants with pre-blooming versions, but I was resistant. Then she mentioned power-washing my patio, driveway, and sidewalks. I was waiting for her to arrive with exterior paint colors for my house, and some ideas for changing out the banisters on my front porch.
Our conversations were all by phone, of course, and she was unfailingly polite and considerate, but all I could think of was her driving up to Maine, where Ben had been staying all alone in a cold, isolated cabin, starving for company and more than ready to accept her eight-armed embrace.
The truth was that Miranda had spoken to him, and he was staying in a very comfortable hotel in the middle of town, worked most nights until very late, and had become good friends with the general contractor, spending most of his spare time with him, his wife, and four kids. Miranda did not mention Carmella’s visit, but that might have been because Ben didn’t mention it. So I was left stewing, with my romance writer’s over imagination placing the two of them regularly in various erotic situations, often involving bearskin rugs and blizzards.
I kept telling myself it was no longer my concern. My self was not getting the message.
I spoke to a Realtor about putting my house up for sale. Since I’d lived there more than twenty years, of course I’d make some money off the sale. After all, a five-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath Craftsman on almost half an acre of landscaped lot, including a garage with living space (not to mention Lily’s amazing third-floor suite) in one of the most desirable neighborhoods in northern New Jersey was still worth a pretty penny. But the real estate market was on a fairly slow upswing, particularly in the price range I was looking at. Still, I kept all the information and would regularly look around, trying to decide which pieces of furniture I’d keep and which pieces I’d try to sell or give away. I kept telling myself I should wait until Lauren and Jessica had at least graduated. But I was haunted by the idea that if I still had that great big house when they got out of school, they might be tempted to return to living in it full time.
Carmella kept calling. Keeping me in the loop, she told me. After all, I was the matron of honor. A videographer had been engaged to preserve every precious detail of the ongoing plans. She warned me that she’d given him my address, and he might show up for some preliminary work.
“What kind of preliminary work could he do?” I asked her.
“Well, before and after shots, for one thing.”
“Before and after of my yard? Carmella, I don’t know what Brooklyn looks like, but it’s still winter here. My backyard is covered in snow.”
“Well, still. So don’t be surprised by a stranger walking around with a video camera.”
For Miranda’s wedding there had been a photographer, of course, and he had also taken lots of video. Carmella had also videotaped all sorts of vignettes to include in the final album or whatever. But for her father she had found a real pro. He first appeared in my yard when the fountain was turned back on, and the newly installed lighting was put through its paces. He stood next to Pasquale with a very official-looking camera perched on his shoulder and filmed the turning on, the various colors, then the turning off. He even filmed Pasquale getting back in the truck and driving away. Then he wandered around the yard, which was still partially frozen in most spots, with snowdrifts everywhere.
April in New Jersey could easily bring warm breezes, chirping birds, and outbursts of greenery and flowers. But there had been plenty of cold, snowy Easters in my memory. The wedding was the Saturday after Easter, the last April weekend, so odds were good that there would at least be no snow left on the ground.
I watched him and his camera as he wandered around my yard. He was, by the way, a very attractive man. Older, I guessed, close to sixty, with curly gray hair and a tall, lean body in jeans, boots, and a down vest. I finally grabbed my long coat—it was one of those sweatshirt-but-no-bra days—and went outside.
“Are you videoing anything specific,” I called, “or just casing the joint?”
He dropped the camera from his eye and laughed. “Carmella wants before and after. What can I say?”
I stood next to him and looked around. “Couldn’t you at least wait for the snow to melt? It won’t look quite so bad once the grass can be seen.”
He put his camera in the large leather bag hanging from his shoulder. “I just do as I’m told,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Alex.”
I shook it. It was strong and graceful. “Mona.”
“Oh? You’re Lily’s niece?”
I nodded and looked sideways at him. “You’ve met Lily?”
He threw back his head and let loose a long laugh. “Oh, my God,” he said at last. “That is one crazy old lady.”
I felt a smile. “Yes, she is.”
“She’s keeping old Vinnie on his toes; I’ll give her that. She may even get him to give up the game.”
I stopped smiling. “Game?”
He noticed the change in my tone and looked apologetic. “No, listen. Vinnie has been square for a long time now. But he still likes to play the horses, you know?”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t know.”
He started laughing again. “Well, Lily didn’t know either, and boy, was she pissed off when she found out.”
Who was this guy? “Are you…related?”
“Sort of. My younger brother was married to Carmella.”
“What!” Oh, gosh—the one who ended up in a river. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “Thank you.”
“So. You’re a photographer?”
He shook his head. “Not really. I’m retired now, but I was a producer. I made documentaries for National Geographic. I still freelance now and then. Usually not weddings, but Carmella asked, so…here I am.”
“You’re a good ex-brother-in-law.”
“And I can use the money. Carmella has opened her father’s coffers pretty big for this thing. She was always very good at spending other people’s money.”
I shivered. “Want some coffee?” I could use a second cup, and I could also use company. I was starting to have long conversations with the cat.
He nodded. “Thanks.” He followed me into the house, where I was reminded, as he took off his vest, that under my coat I looked like the suburban version of the Little Match Girl. I’m not one of those types who need to look glam at all times, but an attractive man in my kitchen called for at least a bra and hair that wasn’t bunched up in the back. Even if I never dated another man again in my life, I didn’t want to become one of those women who didn’t care about her appearance. So I excused myself as I shrugged out of my coat, ran upstairs, threw on a bra and jeans that fit, then combed my hair with my fingers as I raced back downstairs. I eased into the kitchen just as the machine was finished with his cup of coffee. A new world’s re
cord, I was sure.
“Cream?”
He smiled “No, just black, thanks.”
I slid the coffee mug across the counter. I felt a little nervous being in the company of a strange man for the first time in a very long time. An attractive, appropriately aged man who, despite a tenuous connection to Carmella, Vinnie, and the entire assorted DeMatriano family, was also an interesting guy whose job had been to make elephant movies. I mean, how cool was that? Besides, his eyes were big and dark, with very nice laugh lines, and his eyebrows weren’t all wonky and gray. He also had a sexy smile. Since I still thought about Ben most of my waking days, I knew I wasn’t ready to start seeing anyone else, but it was nice to practice—keep the skills sharp, you know?
“You’re a writer?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Lonely work?”
“Very. Of course, I have lots of imaginary friends, so that helps.”
He grinned. His teeth were large and slightly crooked. “Of course.”
“So, what was the scariest thing you filmed?”
He thought a moment. “There was this spider in Guatemala.”
I held up my hand. “Enough said.”
“Exactly. But to do what I did for as long as I did it, you had to be a bit of an adrenaline junkie. I really loved the scary. And the dangerous. And unpredictable.”
“Well, you’re at the right wedding then.”
He nodded. “Oh, yes. You seem almost normal, though.”
I had made myself coffee as well and stirred in sugar. “I’d like to think I’m mysterious and fascinating, but normal is probably closer to the mark. And the older I get, the happier I am with that.”
“Are you married?”
I shook my head. “Not anymore.” Not even remotely attached. I found myself having to concentrate on keeping my voice light and even. “You?”
“No. Never. It’s hard to commit to one person if you’re going to spend half a year in exotic places, surrounded by young and nubile women who think that because you’re a producer, you can cast them in Justin Timberlake’s latest video.”
“Ah. You’re a hound.”
“I was a hound. Now I’m just a tired, lonely old dog.”
I smiled and sipped my coffee. There was a nice, comfortable silence.
Since Ben had left, I had thrown all of my love, anger, passion, and pain into my newest character, Maria Demerest. Ria was my age, divorced, and had inherited a two-hundred-year-old farm with its own cemetery. She’d moved up there with her two teen daughters and discovered that all the women in her family had a special gift—they could talk to the dead. Only the dead in their particular cemetery, but hey—pretty cool, right? Ria was falling in love with Walden Moore, who had died in 1965 when his motorcycle crashed into a nearby tree. No one at the time knew who he was, and he had no identification, so the family just buried him next to all their departed loved ones. He was charming and funny, and they began to talk regularly. In daylight, his spirit could not leave the confines of the cemetery. This brought a whole new meaning to the phrase “long-distance relationship.” But although Ria and Walden could not touch, when she slept he could enter her subconscious. Ria was having lots of great sex, but only in her dreams.
Which was exactly my situation. Sometimes I woke up from dreaming of Ben and found myself embarrassed.
Alex smiled at me, and I felt the sudden urge to brush my teeth and shave my legs.
“Where to from here?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Who knows?”
“She may want you to check out the tents,” I suggested.
“Yes. All rolled up in a warehouse somewhere.”
“Or chairs. The before—folded up—and after.”
He laughed again. “How about the flowers? I’m sure there’s a vast field of unpicked roses somewhere that I could get on tape.”
“And the band? Catching them in their homes?”
He grinned. “And here,” he said, his tone perfectly hushed and announcer-like, “we have the elusive bongo player, roaming his natural habitat of Queens.”
I giggled.
“If we watch closely,” Alex continued, “we may chance to see him engaging with one of his fellow band mates—wait, is that a bass player? Could it be—yes. Let’s see how they interact.”
“You could so sell that,” I told him.
“Yes, I probably could. I hear YouTube calling as we speak.” He got up and walked over to the sink, putting his mug down. “Would you consider having coffee with me again? Maybe, you know, out somewhere?”
What? I don’t know what my face looked like, but apparently it scared him as much as the spider in Guatemala.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“No. Alex, I’m fine.” I cleared my throat. “I’m just, well, I’m wrapped up in this book right now. In the zone, so to speak. But you’ll be at the wedding?”
He nodded. “Yes. Although, I’ll see you much sooner than that.”
“Oh?”
He pulled on his vest. “Well, there’s the rehearsal dinner to be filmed, and if I know Carmella, she’ll want the whole transformation of your yard preserved for posterity. Not to mention all that pre-wedding bride-and-matron-of-honor stuff. By the time the actual wedding takes place, we’ll be old friends.”
“You’re probably right.”
He smiled and shut the door behind him.
Okay, then. A real live man just asked me out for coffee. He was not up in Maine. He was not haunting my dreams. And I would be seeing him again. Soon.
I kind of liked that idea.
When Anthony came up the stairs the next day, carrying a box of cupcakes from Crumbs, he took one look at me and almost dropped the whole half dozen. “You brushed your hair.”
“I brush my hair every day, Anthony.”
“Yes. But it’s usually stuck up on the top of your head like Pebbles Flintstone. You’ve been in a bit of a funk lately, remember?”
“So?”
He walked around to where I was sitting at the worktable, typing furiously. “And you’re wearing shoes instead of slippers.”
“It’s twenty-seven degrees outside.”
“That meant nothing to you before. What happened?”
“I think I have to call Sylvia. This needs to be a trilogy.” I stopped writing, hit save, and pushed myself away from the keyboard.
“Mona, you don’t do trilogies.”
“Maura didn’t do trilogies. I can do whatever I want.”
He got himself a cup of coffee, opened the box of cupcakes, and handed me a miniature red velvet. “I thought Walden was going to ask the witch to send him back for good.”
“No. Ria is going to meet someone else. A real person. And there’s going to be a triangle. Walden will always be her true love, but she’ll have to decide between loving what she can’t have, or trying to be happy with someone in the real world.”
“Oh, Mona. Who did you meet?”
I stuffed the entire cupcake into my mouth. That’s not as disgusting as it sounds, by the way. The mini cupcakes from Crumbs are the perfect size for me to do that without choking or looking too gross. “No one,” I said when I swallowed.
He raised his left eyebrow. “Try again, baby cakes.”
“Carmella sent her former brother-in-law out to video my yard for the Technicolor production that will be this damn wedding. He successfully captured the fountain changing colors before it was shut back off until the thaw. He’s a very nice man.”
“Is he, ah…”
“No. He’s not part of the DeMatriano family. He was a producer for National Geographic. He was an adrenaline junkie, never married, now retired. We’re going to meet up again on the next film-worthy event.”
“Why wait that long? Oh, was he ugly?”
“No. Think David Straithorn, but more Italian looking.”
“What’s his last name?” Anthony asked at the laptop, typing like crazy.
I
spelled it for him, very slowly. He was frowning in concentration.
“Okay. Alexander Ciavaglia, born 1953 in Nutley, New Jersey. He’s won awards! Lots of them. He’s practically famous, if you’re into wildlife filming and photography. And he’s kinda hot for a guy almost sixty. Good job, Mona.”
“He’s nice, Anthony. Don’t start.”
“Don’t start what? Just says one brother, deceased, no mention of the details of his demise. Well, we have a daughter, Hailey, from his relationship with former model—I’ve never heard of her. She was probably not pretty at all.”
“Anthony, stop.”
“Stop what?”
“I know how you get.”
“About what? Just passing on a little information here.”
I got up and looked over his shoulder. As a young man he had striking good looks. “The daughter is a knockout. Her mother was probably gorgeous.”
“Who cares? Out of the picture, right?”
“It doesn’t matter, Anthony.”
He turned away from the laptop and grabbed my hands with both of his. “Of course it does. Everything you do matters to me, Mona. Every person you meet matters.”
“Anthony, how sweet.”
“Besides, you need to move on and start having sex again. You’re always more generous when you’re getting some, and my birthday is coming up.”
“I love you too, Anthony.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SO FAR, MARCH HAD COME in like a lion and stayed there. The morning after the fifth snowfall of the month, Brian knocked on my front door. He stood on the porch, a scarf wrapped around his face, and asked to come in. I looked past him—no Dominique or Tyler following up the newly shoveled walk. I let him in, and he followed me into the kitchen.
“So, how are things?” I asked as I made him coffee.
“Great, just great. But I have a favor.”
“Sure.”
He took a long drink of coffee, leaned back, and smiled. He still had a charming smile, and for most of my adult life, when I looked at the smile anything I had was his. “Can I camp out here for a while?”
I looked down into my own coffee mug and ran the words over in my head a few times. “Is the house getting fumigated?”
