My youngest sister, Connie, always makes sure to light scented candles when she arrives in the morning. “Ambience is key to selling,” is one of her favorite quotes. Connie is a New Age guru. She does yoga every morning at the crack of dawn, meditates before she goes to bed every night, and has recently become vegetarian—a fact that drives Ma absolutely insane since she can’t understand how anyone would give up her ragù, bracciole on skewers, or her famous sausage and peppers.
Connie had fought with us over adding bubbling fountains with rocks. But she was right. Several clients commented how much they liked them and how they added to the Zen-like atmosphere of the shop. Connie had downloaded her favorite New Age tunes onto a CD to play at Sposa Rosa. Of course, the irony didn’t escape any of us that we were aiming for serenity in a place that was fraught with loads of tension!
My job can be very rewarding, especially when I see the light flash in a customer’s eyes that this dress is “the one.” Almost always, the girls look to me as if to say, “How did you know?” Of course, it makes me feel special. And we’re all good at being able to tell which is the right dress for most of our clients. My mother and sisters have begun recently taking bets on how long it’ll take them to find the dress that the brides will say is “the one.” Of course, my mother with her seasoned skills beats us all. But last week, one of my clients chose the first design I’d sketched. She didn’t even want to look at the samples of dresses we’d created for other brides in the past or our portfolio. She wanted a custom dress that did not look like any of the other designers’ dresses that were currently on the market. A bride being satisfied with the first sketch we design never happens!
My mother was miffed about it. I’m sure she was scared I would usurp her place. Connie comes third at finding the right gown for clients. Rita takes being last in stride, saying, “What’s important is that I find the right dress for our client even if it takes a little longer. After all, we don’t want them walking out of here without leaving a deposit.”
Making my way to the back of the store, I place my cold cuts in the refrigerator we keep in the kitchen where we take our lunches and breaks. I leave the boxes with the Danish and biscotti on the square wooden table, which has been passed down the generations dating back to my great-grandmother. Then, I walk over to the alterations room. Taking the muslin off a mannequin, I stare at my dream come true—my perfect wedding dress. Tears come into my eyes. I still can’t believe that after ten years of making gowns for other brides-to-be, I’m finally the lucky girl.
With the wedding date fast approaching, I’m also anxious to finish the dress because I’ve been neglecting Michael. But after today, I can relax a bit and see Michael twice a week and the entire weekend, just as we’d been doing before I began working on my dress. Of course, Michael has been understanding, especially since he’s had to work late himself.
To make it up to me, Michael surprised me last night by taking me to Water’s Edge, a four-star restaurant in Long Island City with stunning views of Manhattan. Ever since I’d first heard of Water’s Edge in high school, I had fantasized about going there with someone special. As we dined and watched the lights around New York City go on one by one, I couldn’t help thinking how serene the whole night was. There was never any doubt in my mind of Michael’s love as he continually looked into my eyes.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“How do you always manage to look like a star? No matter what you’re wearing—a dress or jeans—there’s a certain glamour about you.”
I could feel my cheeks warming up. “Oh, Michael. You’re too good to me.”
Michael took my hand in his and stroked it. “It’s true, Vee. And you know what makes you more beautiful? You don’t even know it. That’s why I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, Michael.”
After dinner, Michael had a limo waiting for us outside. We crossed the 59th Street Bridge into Manhattan and went to a heliport, where we took a helicopter for a spectacular aerial view of the Big Apple at night. It was the most romantic night.
Buzz! Buzzzzzz!
I’m jolted from my thoughts by the sound of Sposa Rosa’s buzzer, signaling a customer. What’s the matter with me today? I can’t stop daydreaming.
“Valentina!”
My mother! I spring into action, quickly draping the muslin over my gown.
“I’ll be right out, Ma!”
“When are you going to let your sisters and me see that dress—the wedding day? You girls are all so secretive nowadays. I remember in my day a daughter shared everything with her mother.”
I’ve heard this lecture countless times. Having grown up poor in Sicily during World War II, Ma doesn’t understand the concept of privacy. Her feelings are instantly hurt if she discovers that one of the DeLuca girls has been keeping something from her. Rita had hidden the fact that she had a boyfriend when she was thirteen.
One day, Ma was sitting on a bench in Astoria Park, taking in the view of the magnificent Manhattan skyline as the sun set over the East River. She noticed a very young boy and girl standing by the water and hugging. When the girl turned around and kissed the boy full on the lips, Ma dropped the vanilla ice cream cone she’d just bought from Mister Softee right on her lap.
“Rita!” she screamed. “Che stai facendo? Disgraziata! Disgraziata !”
Of course, there was no need for Ma to ask Rita what she was doing. It was plain to everyone at the park. She kept cursing at Rita until she caught up to her. Rita hadn’t even heard Ma until she was about five feet away from her. Ma grabbed Rita by the arm and pulled her away. But she stopped after taking two steps and turned around, looking menacingly at the boy Rita was with.
“You come near my daughter again, I kill you!” And then she made the famous Italian gesture of moving her hand across her throat as if she were slicing it.
On the way home, after Ma lectured Rita about being too young to have a boyfriend and her famous, “What if the neighbors had seen you?” line, which was uttered on a weekly basis to one of us, she said, “How could you have not told me you had a boyfriend? I’m your mother. You don’t keep secrets from your mother.”
Rita blurted, “Because I knew you’d act like the crazy lady I just saw in the park.”
“Crazy lady, huh? I show you crazy lady. You can’t go out with your friends for a year.”
Then there was the time Connie got a tattoo of a small angel on her lower back. That was only a year ago, and though Connie was in her twenties and shouldn’t have been afraid of my mother’s disapproval, she was. The only time she exposed her tattoo was when she was out with friends. And if the whole family was at the beach together, she wore a one-piece bathing suit instead of her usual teeny string bikinis to hide the tattoo from Ma. But the secret only lasted six months.
Connie had fainted while she was steaming a wedding dress on what was the hottest day in July last year. Our air conditioner was on the fritz and though we had fans blowing until the repairman could come, the heat was stifling. Connie fell face forward, knocking down the enormous tulle ball gown she was steaming. The dress’s super-poofy skirt seemed to swallow whole Connie’s petite figure. At least she had a good buffer to cushion her fall. Her shirt had ridden up her back, and she was wearing low-waisted jeans. When Ma ran over to help her, she immediately saw the tattoo. At first she thought it was a bug on Connie, especially since she’d left her reading glasses on the sewing machine. She swatted at it. But when it didn’t move, she took a step back to get a better view and spotted the little angel.
“Disgraziata!”
She then turned to me. “Did you know about this?”
My face colored, but I ignored her. “Ma, we have to revive Connie.”
We hoisted her up into a chair. Rita ran to the kitchen for vinegar. Connie came to after getting a whiff of the vinegar. Ma barely gave her time to recuperate from her fainting spell as she tore into her.
“What does t
he Bible say about marking the body? Eh? Eh? How many times I tell you and your sisters tattoos are not for ladies. Only puttanas have tattoos!”
Connie was too disoriented to try and lie. “You saw my angel?”
“Si, si. I saw your angel. Stupida! Stupida! You ruin yourself. What boy is going to want to marry you someday? Eh?”
I tried to defend poor Connie. “Ma, everyone has tattoos now. They’re not just for whores and men. Haven’t you noticed all the tattoo shops opening on Ditmars and Steinway Street? Even movie stars get them now.”
“Movie stars, they’re one step away from puttanas! On Monday, I make an appointment to have that tattoo removed from you.”
“But, Ma, I’m not a kid anymore! I’m in my twenties, for crying out loud! You can’t make me do something I don’t want to do!” Connie was screaming at the top of her lungs.
“If you don’t get that tattoo removed, I am taking your name off the will.”
“Go ahead! I don’t care!”
The two of them went at it for another fifteen minutes. Then Connie stormed out of the shop.
“Secrets. That’s all you girls know how to do. What about you, Valentina? What are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing.” I lowered my head.
Ma stared at me for what felt like an hour. Then she let out a long sigh and walked away, whispering to herself in Sicilian and shaking her head.
“Valentina! What is taking you so long to come out?”
My mother’s voice snaps me back to the present. I make my way to the front of the store and kiss her on the cheek.
“I have good news, Ma.”
“Oh no! You’re not pregnant already, are you? With just a few months to go before the wedding that would be the death of me!”
“I said good news, Ma. Why do you always have to think the worst?”
“I just like to be prepared for the worst so that when it happens I’m not so shocked.”
“Gloom and doom . . . gloom and doom. I should start calling you that!”
“Don’t be smart with your mother! Remember, I . . .”
“. . . know best. I’ve heard that since forever.” I roll my eyes.
“So what’s your good news?”
“I’ll wait until Rita and Connie get here.”
“Oh, now you’re going to make your mother wait. I’m your mother. You can tell me first. They’ll understand.”
I bite back a retort. She’s right. She does deserve priority. Ma has been my number one fan and my best friend. True, sometimes we get into horrible arguments. But no one can take the place of my mother.
“Okay. I’ll tell you. But let’s keep it a secret between you and me. I wouldn’t want to hurt my sisters’ feelings.”
Ma smiles. “Si, si. Now, out with it.”
“I finished the dress, and I’m ready to show it.”
“What are you waiting for? Let me see it!”
“I can’t. I know you’ll start crying once you see it, and then Rita and Connie will know something’s up.”
“Ahhhh!!! You are the death of me. Okay, okay. I’ll be patient. They should be getting here soon anyway. I’ll go make some espresso.” She pats my cheek as she walks by. “Have I ever told you . . .”
“. . . I’m a good daughter. Yes, Ma, you have. You’re a . . .”
“. . . wonderful mama. I know, fighita. I know.”
She winks at me and begins singing her favorite song, “Maledetta Primavera,” which means “Cursed Spring.” Even her choice in music and movies leans toward the cruel twists of fate life can have. But that’s Olivia DeLuca, and I learned a long time ago Ma is set in her ways.
2
Gloom and Doom
Olivia DeLuca opened a fresh pack of Café Bustelo. She loved everything about espresso, from the special espresso coffeepots, to the doll-like cups and teaspoons, to the aroma it gave off as it brewed. The only way to make espresso was in her espresso pot that she’d received as a gift for her wedding forty years ago. She’d already had a pot imported from Italy for Valentina’s bridal shower. She’d rather be struck dead than have her daughter use one of those modern dual coffee/espresso machines young brides today fancied. The espresso was as good as water when made in those bastardized American contraptions. And forget about getting a nice foamy froth when making a cappuccino in one of those. Merda! Total crap is what those coffeemakers were.
Olivia cut the twine off of the bakery box that held Valentina’s favorite Palline di Limone biscotti. She took a bite out of a lemon ball, savoring the intense citrus flavor. She still couldn’t get Hunchback, or bakery owner Antoniella, to reveal the secret of her lemon ball biscotti. Olivia had tried various recipes from Italian dessert cookbooks for years, hoping to replicate Antoniella’s or even to beat them, but none had come close. She’d tried in vain to convince the Hunchback that she’d still buy her biscotti. She just liked to experiment in the kitchen every now and then. If she ever did figure it out, she’d stop buying them from the Hunchback even though she’d assured her she wouldn’t. It would serve her right, after all the money Olivia had spent in that bakery. She shrugged her shoulders. Someday she’d get that recipe. As she chewed on another lemon ball, her thoughts turned to her daughter.
“Hmmm . . . gloom and doom.”
Valentina’s words stung a bit. Could she help it that she was a realist, after all she’d been through? Although Olivia knew she was her usual self, preaching about the realities of life, the truth was that the past few months had been some of the happiest in her life. Her oldest daughter, Valentina, had found a good man and would finally be getting married. She’d worried about her daughter for a long time. Ever since she was a young girl, Valentina had been a bit of a loner. She’d been too sweet and innocent for the tougher kids in their Queens neighborhood. Like wolves circling a lamb, the kids had sensed Valentina was easy to prey on. It was hard for her to make friends, and the one she had ended up backstabbing her. Thank God for Aldo, her best friend.
Valentina met Aldo her freshman year of high school. With a similar love of fashion and gabbing about celebrity gossip, Aldo was like a brother to Valentina. Aldo’s parents were from Naples, so he understood the DeLucas’ Italian culture. Olivia loved Aldo, but it hurt her that Valentina didn’t have a female best friend after all these years. She angrily shook her head. It was the fault of that puttana Tracy, who betrayed her when she needed friendship the most.
Olivia had often warned Valentina about Tracy, even when they first became friends at six years old. There was something about the girl Olivia did not trust. She knew it was crazy to be suspicious of a six-year-old child, but it was a feeling more than anything the girl did. And Olivia always trusted her feelings. Their friendship was strange, too. They spoke for hours on the phone every night and saw each other at school, but it wasn’t until junior high school that Mrs. Santana, Tracy’s mother, finally allowed her daughter to visit Valentina’s home.
Valentina always commented on how strict Mrs. Santana was. Olivia felt sorry for the girl after she learned that Tracy cooked her family’s dinner every night after her mother went to her night job. Tracy’s mother was from Argentina. Italian mothers could be strict, too, and Olivia remembered how harsh her own parents had been with her and her siblings when she was growing up in Sicily. But this was America. Things were different here, and it was a different time.
But Valentina would not listen and still chose to be friends with Tracy. Even Aldo had once told Olivia that Tracy often caused trouble for Valentina by lying to others about things she’d never said. Then, Olivia had heard from some of the other neighbors about Tracy’s reputation. The Mayor of 35th Street was the first one, of course, to inform Olivia of how popular Tracy was with the boys in town.
“If I were you, Signora DeLuca, I’d keep my daughter away from the likes of that girl. There’s nothing but trouble waiting around the corner where she’s involved.”
Olivia didn’t want to believe Paulie, since she kne
w how he exaggerated. But then, some of the other neighbors had also commented about Tracy’s questionable moral character.
“Puttana! Puttana!” the Italian neighbors whispered to Olivia as if Tracy were hanging around and could hear them. “Save your daughter! Before it’s too late!”
When Olivia told Valentina what the neighbors were saying, she didn’t say anything. Her silence proved to Olivia that Valentina was aware of the gossip swirling around her best friend.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Ma. I don’t do what the other kids do. I know what’s right and wrong.”
That had consoled Olivia, but only briefly. She knew her daughter was a good girl. But she still worried about her hanging out with Tracy. And then when that puttana betrayed her daughter, Olivia wanted to kill her.
“Dio mio!” she whispered, making the sign of the cross several times. “Forgive me, God. I did not mean that. Well, maybe a little bit. But I’m sorry.”
Olivia had tried to forgive Tracy. She had to remind herself that Tracy was still a child with a polar bear of a mother who had beat her and never shown her much love. But when she thought of how her Valentina had looked on that day when her best friend betrayed her, all she felt was rage. How could Tracy and those other kids have been so cruel? Didn’t their parents teach them anything about treating others kindly? No wonder her daughter couldn’t trust again after what they did to her. It’s a good thing Nicola was too sick to know what had happened. He couldn’t stand his daughters to be in pain of any kind.
Olivia sighed. Even though it had been fourteen years since Nicola had passed away, she still missed him terribly. She wiped the tears that were forming in her eyes with the back of her hand. That was the past. But she could not forget about that girl who had hurt her daughter so much. Olivia was also convinced Tracy had given Valentina the malocchio. Even if she hadn’t actually placed a curse on Valentina, just her jealousy would be enough to cast the mighty malocchio. For fourteen years, she lit candles and prayed to the Black Madonna of Tindari—her Sicilian hometown—begging her to lift the curse off Valentina. Her prayers were answered once Michael proposed to Valentina. Lord knows Valentina had had such a hard time finding the right man. But none of that mattered anymore. She would live a happy life with Michael. Her daughter couldn’t have chosen a finer young man.
Bella Fortuna Page 4
