That's (Not Exactly) Amore

by Tracey Bateman

  My radar kicks in as I swallow my first bite. Is she buttering me up for something? I catch her gaze. “Everything okay, Mom?”

  “Of course. Why would you ask?”

  “Making breakfast casserole at five thirty in the morning, singing hymns . . . What’s going on?”

  She blushes. “Well, I wasn’t planning to tell you like this, but Aaron has asked me to marry him.”

  I laugh. “I bet you gave him a good piece of your mind.”

  She doesn’t crack a smile. “Actually, I said yes.”

  I lose my grip on the fork and it clatters against the plate. “You what?”

  “I’ve accepted his proposal.”

  “Ma! For crying out loud. You hardly know the guy.”

  Her lips tip slightly. “I only knew your father two weeks before we married. And I think you’ll agree that worked out pretty well for over twenty years.”

  I’m speechless. I mean, I knew about my parents, but for her to throw that back in my face as an excuse to rush into marriage . . . “Are you sure you’re not just over-romanticizing this thing with Aaron? I mean, what are the chances of love at first sight happening twice in one lifetime?”

  “I don’t know how it happened twice, Elaine. But it has and I’m grateful.”

  Anger shoots through me. How can she sit there, wearing my dad’s robe, and talk about falling in love with another man? A man whose bed she’ll be sleeping in. Or . . . I gasp. “Mom. He’s not moving in here, is he?”

  A scowl twists her face. “Of course not. We’re selling his house and will buy a small house of our own.”

  I suppose that means she’ll sell this house too. “Sounds like you have it all worked out.” I push back my plate. Who can eat?

  The right thing to do, of course, is to walk around the table, hug my mom, kiss her cheek, and congratulate her. So I do precisely that, although I admit I’m fighting back tears.

  Mom rises to her feet and gathers me close. “You’ll see. Aaron is a wonderful man. He’s not taking your father’s place.”

  “I know.” I mean, goodness gracious. I’m not six. “Well, my cab will be here any time, so I have to grab my stuff.”

  I’m a popular gal on the train ride back to Manhattan. Even cold, my baked goods smell wonderful. Good thing for me I’m in a sour mood. Otherwise, I’d probably give away half my hard work to the commuters who are staring at me like hungry wolves at a flock of sheep.

  But like I said, I’ve had a lousy morning and I’m not in the mood to share. This is the second day in a row that has started off great and then plunged into disappointment. I might just stay in bed all day tomorrow.

  11

  I don’t understand Italian, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the angry voices shaking the walls outside Joe’s office are not reciting nursery rhymes.

  “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” The counter boy looks at me wide-eyed and positively trembling. “Frankie Pantalone is in there.”

  “Oh. You mean Nick’s brother?”

  “Yeah, otherwise known as Joe’s dad.”

  “What are they yelling about?”

  Brandon gives a shrug. “I’m not sure. I forgot to learn Italian on the way to work today.”

  “Wise guy.”

  “We’ll get the permits.” Joe’s muffled growl slides through the door. Finally some English.

  Another man’s voice shouts in Italian and the door flies open. I jump back. A tall, thick-chested man wearing an impeccable suit that I know cost at least three grand thunders out. He barely gives me a glance as he sweeps past. “I’ll be in the car, Mama. You talk some sense into the boy.”

  Mama?

  I peek inside the office. Joe is frowning after the man. An elderly woman steps up behind Joe and places a hand on his shoulder. His face softens and he turns. He lifts her hand to his lips. “It’s okay, Nana. It’ll all work out.”

  “You listen to your papa, Joseph Pantalone. He is good man.”

  And then it’s as if Joe remembers seeing me from the corner of his eye, because he turns to me, slips his arm about his grandmother, and walks her forward.

  “Laini, I’d like you to meet my nana. Cecelia Pantalone. Nana, this is the girl I told you about.”

  He told his grandma about me? Pleasure slides through me like a warm river of rich honey. I reach forward to take her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  I wait for her to slide her wrinkly, cold hand into mine, but she snubs me! She gives me a haughty perusal. When her gaze takes in my hair, she actually sneers. Sneers! Like her gray hair is better than my red? And what’s that grunt as she takes in my figure? The woman weighs two hundred pounds if she weighs an ounce.

  Slowly, I lower my hand and hide it behind my back. I’ve never been so insulted.

  “I go now,” Cecelia says to Joe. “You listen to your papa. It is the right thing to let him help.”

  She gives me another unflattering once-over and brushes past.

  Joe tosses me an apologetic glance and squeezes my elbow as he follows her. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Right back” turns out to be fifteen minutes later. I settle into my booth with a white chocolate latte and pretend interest in the Times that was left on the table by the previous customer.

  Joe slams into the coffee shop, anger splashed across his face and storming in his brown eyes. He stomps toward the counter, then seems to remember me and detours. “Thank you for bringing in the new rolls and the rest of the stuff.”

  “My pleasure. I’m just glad they sell so well for you.” I probably don’t need to state the obvious, but I’m not great at small talk.

  “Be sure to stop by my office on your way out and I’ll cut you a check.”

  Deflated, I take a sip of my latte, thus preventing my need to speak. But I do have to swallow, I suppose. And Joe seems to be waiting for an answer. “Actually, I’m ready to go now. I have a class tonight I have to study for.”

  “You walking home from the subway tonight like the other night?”

  I nod. “Same class. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

  “You didn’t mention that you do it three times a week.”

  “It never occurred to me that I might need to give you my schedule.”

  He gives me something of a bewildered frown.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s been a rotten couple of days.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You want to join me for a latte?” I ask him with uncharacteristic boldness.

  He hesitates and I feel ridiculous. Is he actually trying to figure out a way to let me down easy?

  Then just like that, he nods. His face seems to relax for the first time since I arrived. “I’ll be back.”

  And this time he is. A couple of minutes later he returns with his own steaming cup of regular coffee.

  He takes the seat across from me and inclines his head.

  “Your nana seems nice.” Why do people lie about the obvious? His brow goes skyward and I grin.

  A chuckle rumbles his chest. “What can I say about Nana? She has her days of niceness, but today wasn’t one of them. So let me apologize for her not-so-niceness to you. I assure you it wasn’t personal.”

  Oh, yeah? It felt personal.

  “It was more about me than you. She’s been on me about finding a nice Italian girl and settling down. I told you, she’s been trying to get me interested in Nancy since we were kids.”

  I feel my claws unsheathing. If she wants a fight . . .

  Joe shrugs. “Let’s not talk about her anymore.” He sips his coffee. “So, tell me about your rotten day.”

  I sigh and launch into the tale of my confusing day. All about my mom. How she’s been in a state of grief and depression for twelve years and all of a sudden she’s singing hymns and smiling with her eyes and letting light from the sun into the house. I’ve always wanted my mom to find the silver lining in life. But there was no transition. No time for ad
justment. Not for me anyway. Ma knows how I hate change. Couldn’t she have sort of eased me into this new romance of hers?

  I sit back when I’m done, expecting, oh, I don’t know, some sort of validation of my feelings. I mean, he’s the one who asked, right? So why is he giving me that idiotic boy-grin? “I’m not sure I understand the problem. Well, except the part about the oven going out. That was inconvenient. Don’t you want your mom humming and letting in the light?”

  “But what about the flowers and Aaron?”

  “Isn’t she entitled to a little happiness?”

  I stare at him. Have I been talking to myself here? “How can you not understand why I’m upset? My mother is a completely different woman. Church and flowers and picnics in February. I think she might be getting Alzheimer’s or something.”

  A grin spreads across Joe’s face. “You sure this isn’t about you not being ready to let her go?”

  “Well, if you mean I should be happy she’s probably having a nervous breakdown, then I guess you just don’t get it.”

  His gaze narrows and he leans forward in his seat. “My mom died when I was ten. My dad was dating again less than a month after he buried her. I still resent him for not loving her enough to be heartbroken over her death.” He shrugs. “Your mom grieved for twelve years. Now she’s ready to move on. Be happy for her and let her enjoy the rest of her life.”

  I hate it when other people can be so nonchalant about things they obviously can’t identify with. In all fairness, I have to admit he’s right. And my mom does have a right to be happy after all these years. But again, let’s take it easy with life’s big changes, shall we? Some of us don’t adjust well to sudden movement. What can I say? I’m the jumpy type.

  Anyway, in the spirit of reciprocity, I take a swig of my neglected white chocolate latte and settle my attention on his brown, beautiful eyes. “Okay. Your turn. What was all that about with your dad and Nana?”

  Joe’s whole demeanor changes in an instant. I can see frustration build at the very thought of one or the other of his elders. I’m guessing his dad is the cause, but after meeting the old woman, I figure it could be either. He scowls. “It’s nothing.”

  “Oh, come on. I told you my problems. You tell me yours. You’re messing with a code of honor, here.”

  “It’s not the same. Trust me.”

  “Why?” I say, my voice flirtatious. “Is your dad trying to make you an offer you can’t refuse?”

  Tabby, Dancy, and I have always joked about Nick being a mobster. He looks like one and he is Italian. It was always a fun little fantasy. Only I guess Joe doesn’t think it’s very funny, because his expression remains sober.

  “He wants to use some of his influence with city hall to get our permits to go through quicker than normal.”

  I shrug. “That would be great. We could get started.”

  He scowls again. Fine, sheesh. I shrug. “Just a thought.”

  “You don’t understand, Laini. It’s better to go through proper channels just like anyone else.” He stands. “I’ll go get your check.”

  I watch him go, his shoulders drooping a little. I guess I should have left well enough alone.

  Meg Ryan stands on the wooden bridge panning the horizon on every side, looking for her NY152. We see a dog and hear an offscreen Tom Hanks call for Brinkley. And then we know. Well, we already knew. But now Meg starts to figure it out too. Tom Hanks comes into view and their eyes meet. It’s a magical moment. Made even more magical because of the knowledge that Tom Hanks won Meg’s heart even though he single-handedly forced her Shop Around the Corner out of business. Now that’s romance.

  Nancy and I are both dateless this Friday night and are truly fine with it. (Well, one of us is fine with it. One of us wonders why Joe bothered to say he’d call and ask me on a date if he wasn’t going to do it.) Anyway, what is a Friday night at home without a great chick flick? And that’s how I find myself watching Tom Hanks finally take Meg Ryan into his arms and seal the relationship while Brinkley jumps all over the two of them. That’s the only part I find annoying, but not enough to ruin my enjoyment of these two finally kissing. (They never actually did kiss in Sleepless in Seattle—I felt robbed.)

  Nancy gives a heavy sigh just like me. Her head is resting on the back of the sofa. She rolls her neck and turns her head to look at me. “Want to watch it again?”

  A friend after my own heart. I grin. “Yeah.”

  She stops the DVD mid-credits, just as her cell phone blasts out, “We welcome you to Munchkin Land . . .”

  Like any considerate roommate, I get up and go into the kitchen to make us a snack. I’m trying to drop a few pounds, and Nancy’s one of those women who naturally calculates every calorie, so I prepare each of us a dish of fresh strawberries, a dollop of light whipped cream, and a few chopped walnuts. Nancy shows up just as I’m loading a tray with cups of herbal tea and the dessert dishes.

  “That looks good,” she says. “You’re a regular artist when it comes to food.”

  I can’t help being pleased by the praise. “Thanks.”

  I follow as she takes the tray into the living room and sets it on the coffee table. “So,” she says. “You won’t believe it, but we got the permits.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For Nick’s.” She gives me a shrug.

  “You mean all the permits went through?” The thing is, we shouldn’t be able to start knocking down walls for at least two more months.

  Nancy averts her gaze. I know she does it on purpose.

  “What do you know that I don’t?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Nothing, really. I guess we get to start demolition as soon as Joe agrees to shut the place down for a few weeks.”

  “Wow. Lucky for us, huh?” I’m starting to put two and two together, but I’m not sure how it adds up.

  “Um-hmm,” she replies around a bite. I don’t think she wants to talk about it. And really, I’m a little afraid of waking up to a big horse’s head on my pillow, so I’m not going there either. I shudder at the thought of Mr. Pantalone’s flashing eyes as he stormed out of Joe’s office two days ago. How could he possibly be Nick’s brother or Joe’s dad? I mean, yeah, Nick’s a tough guy and Joe is a little rough around the edges, but they’re both good-hearted and gentle when it counts. This guy looked more than rough around the edges; he looked downright mean. And he wasn’t even polite when he brushed right by me. It’s hard for me to imagine that beneath that surly exterior resides a fluffy teddy bear. I have a feeling he’s not a bit like Nick.

  Nancy and I look at each other with unspoken agreement and we both shrug. I point the remote toward the TV and we once again enter the innocent world of You’ve Got Mail. It seems easier than speculating on the world of a Tony Soprano wannabe.

  12

  Something good comes from the permit situation. For the first time since two weeks into the class, when I failed my first pop quiz, I’m able to smile with confidence at my professor as I walk into class. This guy never looks me in the eye. I’m guessing because he’s afraid I’m one D away from going postal on him.

  I walk with confidence to the small metal music stand he uses for a podium. He glances up nervously. “Miss Sullivan,” he says with a nod. I can tell he wishes the podium was bigger so he could hide. But too bad for him. Besides, I have good news for a change.

  I slide copies of the permits in front of him. “Just wanted to let you know our project is going forward.” As soon as we find the contractor. But that shouldn’t be too hard, should it? Especially if Joe’s dad railroads him on the contractor like he did on the permits.

  Mr. Brooks’s eyebrows go up in surprise as I toss him a grin and head to my seat.

  Jazz greets me with her twenty-three-year-old smile and scoots her legs out of the way so I can get by. “You should have seen his face when you walked away,” she says, laughing.

  “He can’t believe I did something right for a change.” I sit next to her
in the theater-style seats and look down on our bewildered professor. “Does he look disappointed?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  Sheesh. Aren’t teachers supposed to hope their students succeed? I thought that was a sign of a good teacher.

  “Hey, how in the heck did we get those permits so soon anyway?” Jazz opens her design book and flips her spiral notebook open, pen poised to take notes as Mr. Brooks (aka Mr. I-Want-My-Student-to-Fail) stands, clears his throat, and switches on the overhead projector.

  I shrug. “Who knows?”

  Mr. Brooks pierces us—and when I say “us,” I mean me—with a shut-up stare.

  Jazz leans in close and whispers, “I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. As long as we don’t get in trouble for anything they do.”

  Why does everyone assume there was something sinister involved? I write on my notebook to her: Maybe we just hit city hall during a slow time for permit requests.

  Jazz laughs and writes: Oh, sure. End of February? When everyone is gearing up for spring renovating?

  I lean in and whisper, “Fine. Point taken.”

  After class, we walk out into a rainy late-February night. I, of course, forgot my stupid umbrella. “Lucky for you,” Jazz says, popping her umbrella open, “I’m taking the subway tonight. I’ll share my umbrella if you carry it.”

  “Gladly,” I say with a laugh. “No yoga?”

  “Instructor is having a baby. I’ve been doing it by myself at home.” We dodge in and out of umbrellas as we hurry down the street to the subway station to catch the next train. We just make it.

  We both find a seat, which is rare. Jazz looks at me. “Maybe you have a fairy godmother.”

  “What?”

  “You know. The permits.” Only Jazz can leave a conversation for two hours and expect me to follow her train of thought when she picks it back up as though we never paused for a lecture on French furniture.

  “Oh. Maybe.”

  She snorts. “A fairy godmother named Vinnie.”

  I nudge her in the ribs. But part of me worries that she might be right.

  I dread stepping off the subway and walking up the steps into the pouring rain. Why didn’t I have the forethought to carry my umbrella? If Dancy and Tabby still lived in our apartment, one—or more likely both—of them would have walked down to the station with an umbrella. But that’s not going to happen. I’m faced with a decision. Do I cover my head with my $150 textbook, risk pneumonia by letting the rain soak me, or take the undignified approach and yank my coat up over my head? I choose option three. Even if it is a little risky because I can’t really pay close enough attention to my surroundings. And it is nighttime. In New York. And I am a woman alone.