“No, no, thank you. I have to be home by nine tonight. Masterpiece Theater is playing Pride and Prejudice. That’s my favorite Jane Austen novel. On that note, I’d better get going. Have a good night. Say hello to your mother for me.”
“I will. Be careful in the snow.”
I watch as she orders a quarter pound of miniature black-and-white cookies for Mitzy, who’s still sniffing and waving her head from side to side like a blind man’s walking stick, sensing where it’s safe to walk. Betsy bends over and gives Mitzy a cookie.
“Can’t make her wait until she gets home to get a taste,” Betsy says to Antoniella, who just nods with her trademark tight-lipped grin. Antoniella’s eyes meet mine, and she rolls them when Betsy stoops over to feed Mitzy, as if to say, “Quest’ e pazza!” I can imagine Antoniella pointing to her head with her finger.
I return my attention back to the scene outside. A lot of the shops have closed early, but not Antoniella’s. As sturdy as the Abruzzi Mountains from where she comes, Antoniella always keeps her store open. Her only exceptions are Christmas and Easter, when she closes at noon.
“People need their pasticcerie to bring to family.”
She offers this justification whenever someone asks her why she isn’t closed for the two most important Christian holidays of the year. But everyone knows how cheap Antoniella can be.
As the owner of the most popular bakery on Ditmars Boulevard, Antoniella—or the Hunchback, as my mother likes to call her—does well financially. But you’d never know it by her shabby coat that has a trailing hem and is missing one or more buttons . . . or by the many cracks in the sidewalk in front of her house, which is in sore need of a new coat of paint . . . or by the shoes whose soles have been glued on too many times before.
“What does the Hunchback do with her money?” Ma always wonders aloud. She’s not the only one. Our neighbors also wonder. Antoniella has never had kids. Her husband died ten years ago. And as far as we know, there are no other relatives here in the United States.
Just barely five feet tall, the Hunchback wears beige wedge-heeled nurses’ shoes so she can see over her sales counter. But all the customers can see is her head. Everything from the chin below is invisible. The towers of panettone from the Christmas season that line either side of the counter obscure her even more. Soon, Perugina chocolate Easter eggs will take the place of the panettone boxes.
Antoniella’s shoulders and upper back are slouched forward, hence her nickname. The Hunchback dyes her hair dark blond, giving it the appearance of matted straw, since she colors it as soon as she sees a stray gray hair. I want to introduce her to conditioner so badly. Her brown eyes are always squinted, and her lips seem to remain in a perpetual tight-lipped frown, making her look like she’s always mad. Her brusque manners match the scowl on her face.
I often wonder if it weren’t for her pastries being so good, would Antoniella even have any customers?
“Are you still waiting for the Carello boy before placing your order, Valentina?”
Antoniella startles me out of my reverie.
“Oh. Yes, Antoniella, I am waiting for Michael, but you know what? I’ll just go ahead and order now. You know me. I can’t stay in here too long without sampling one of your sweets.”
“That’s what I thought,” Antoniella says in a very matter-of-fact tone. I can see a little twinkle in her eye, appreciating my praise. She never allows herself to fully smile whenever her patrons compliment her baking.
“Cappuccino with skim milk as always and what will you have to eat?”
“I really shouldn’t, with my wedding coming up, but I’ve been dying for a slice of your Pastiera di Grano. But can you do me a favor and cut the slice in half? I’ll take the other half home.”
“You’re getting too thin, Valentina. You lose any more weight and you’ll have to keep taking that dress in. But I’ll do as you wish.”
“Thank you, Antoniella.”
Another simple pleasure of mine in addition to people watching is smelling all the delicious pastries and cookies along with the brewing espresso in Antoniella’s. I can just stay in here forever.
“So how’s business been in these cold winter months?”
Antoniella carefully places the cup of cappuccino in front of me. She always fills the cup to the brim, lest any of her customers accuse her of skimping them.
I take a sip before answering.
“Business has never been better, actually. Usually, it slows up a bit in the winter, but this year, we’re almost as busy as we were in the fall. Brides don’t seem to care anymore if they have more than a year’s time until their wedding. The dress is the first purchase they want to make. Of course, that interview Brides magazine did has brought in so many clients.”
Antoniella nods her head. “It’s helped my business, too. I’ve had so many wedding cake orders since the magazine interviewed Sposa Rosa. Do you need business cards to place in your boutique?”
“We still have them, but you can give me more. This way as soon as we run out, I can restock them. You know I always personally recommend your bakery to all of my clients for their wedding cakes?”
“Si, si. You and your family have helped me out a lot. I am so grateful. When I get customers who come in to place an order for their cakes, I ask them if they have already bought their dresses. If they haven’t bought the wedding dress yet, I make sure to tell them to go to Sposa Rosa. Usually, though, they’ve already bought their dress. So then I ask them if their bridesmaids have ordered their dresses. Or I tell them if they know of anyone who’s just gotten engaged to go to your shop. I always refer them to you with the highest praise.”
“Grazie, Antoniella.”
My mother and Antoniella had agreed upon this promotional arrangement when Ma first opened the shop. In addition to both shops displaying the other’s business cards, customers get 15 percent off if Antoniella or Sposa Rosa refers them. To thank us for all the business we’ve given her, Antoniella has insisted on making my wedding cake, free of charge. And though she may be thrifty when it comes to her own possessions, she’s been very generous and encouraging of me to choose the most elaborate design and not worry about the costs.
The cake comes in third as the most important element of the wedding, followed by the venue first, and the dress second. Although I want my cake to look gorgeous, I care more about how it tastes. So I’ve decided to stick to a simple whipped cream frosting with a cheesecake filling. The cheesecake is actually Michael’s idea. Have I mentioned the guy has taste? The cake will have four tiers. Its whipped cream base will feature a basket weave design. Pale green and ivory ribbons, my wedding colors, will cascade down the sides. Cream-colored peonies and roses, my flowers, will be adorning the sides of the cake. The top will be an elegant bow. “So what’s his excuse for being late this time?”
Antoniella interrupts my thoughts.
I smile. “Ahhh . . . You know Michael well. It’s always work these days that’s keeping him.”
“Hmm.”
Antoniella wags her index finger at me and says, “Watch out for him. Make sure the eggs are fresh before you buy them. You can never be too careful.”
With that, she walks off. What does she mean by that? Whatever. I take a bite of my cake and let its sweetness soothe me.
“Ciao, Antoniella!”
Michael’s voice booms loudly. I look at my watch. At least he was just half an hour late this time. After he gives Antoniella his usual order of double espresso with a shot of Sambuca, he strides over to me. Instead of Antoniella hurrying over to the espresso machine to get Michael’s order ready, she makes eye contact with me behind Michael’s back and tilts her head in his direction as if to say, “Remember what I told you.”
Damn Hunchback! So what if she’s making my cake for free! Who does she think she is, criticizing everyone as if she’s God? My mother’s easily frayed temper is making an appearance in me.
Michael bends over to kiss me. As he’s about
to pull away, I continue kissing him. I can tell Michael is aroused by my aggressiveness. When he pulls away, his hand lightly, but subtly, brushes against my breast. I don’t think the Hunchback sees that, but she definitely hasn’t missed the long kiss. Her lips are pursed even tighter than usual before she finally walks off to make Michael’s espresso.
“Well, that was a reception. I thought I was going to get my usual ‘Thanks for keeping me waiting yet again’ lecture. You must’ve missed me.”
Michael winks at me as he takes off his Armani cashmere overcoat and sits down. His infamous winks had returned once we started dating.
“You should take charge like that more often. I like it.”
“If you start being on time, I’ll consider it.”
I smile at him to let him know I’m really not mad.
Antoniella comes over and brings Michael’s espresso. She isn’t as careful carrying his cup as she was with mine, and some of the espresso spills over onto the saucer.
“Can I also get a slice of tiramisu? I wasn’t hungry when I walked in, but suddenly I’m famished.” Michael grins from ear to ear then very slowly licks his lips in the most suggestive manner. I turn away, feeling my face flush.
“Why don’t you go have a real meal then if you’re that hungry?”
Antoniella plops his espresso cup hard onto the table, spilling more of the espresso. She storms off.
Michael and I look at each other and laugh.
“You’re terrible!”
“I know. That’s why you love me, baby!”
“You know that’s not true!”
I swat him playfully on his arm. Even though I hate to admit it, I am also drawn to the bad boy side of him that comes out on occasion. Seeing him making out with Tracy that night certainly has cast him in a bad boy light. But more of him is good, and that’s the real reason why I love him.
“So what’s up with Antoniella? She seems to be acting very weird toward you.”
“Toward me and all of Astoria. Haven’t you noticed?”
I laugh. “She’s not terrible to everyone.”
“The only person I’ve seen her be nice to is you and your family, and that’s because you guys have helped promote her business. Something’s in it for her.”
I think about the validity of his statement. It bothers me a bit that that might be the case with Antoniella. I shrug the thought away.
“So, Vee, I’m really sorry about seeing you in your wedding dress yesterday. I had no idea you’d be trying it on. I hope you’re not too disappointed?”
“No, no. It’s okay. It’s not the end of the world. You know me. I’m not one of your typical Bridezillas who believes in all that superstitious nonsense.”
I stroke Michael’s hand.
“Thank God! I felt horrible. Oh! And your mother! The way she was carrying on, ‘Malocchio! Malocchio!’ ”
Michael wipes his eyes with a napkin as we both laugh hysterically. I notice the Hunchback is glowering at Michael from behind the pastry display.
“My sisters were imitating her all day long. They offered to take me to a fortune-teller to remove the curse from me.”
“Well, I’m sure your mother must still be cursing me out for walking in on you. I’ll have to think of something to get back in her good graces.”
“Oh, stop! My mother loves you. She wouldn’t want anyone else for me. You know that!” I take a sip of cappuccino and clear my throat. “Hmmm . . . so, how much of the dress did you see?”
“I thought you said you didn’t believe in that superstitious crap?”
“I don’t. But I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Honestly, I didn’t see much. All I remembered was that the dress was strapless or almost strapless, and that your legs showed, which doesn’t make sense to me since I saw plenty of fabric in the back of the dress. Was the dress temporarily pinned up for some alteration reason?”
My heart sinks a little. Okay, a lot. It sounds like he’d seen most of the dress. I’ve been praying fervently that he’d hardly seen it, especially since Ma had charged as fast as a wild boar to get him out of the shop. I’m not that superstitious. But what bride wants her fiancé to see her dress before the wedding? I’ve been looking forward to the expression on his face when he would first see me walk down the aisle in the gown that I’d designed. I notice Michael staring at me, trying to read my thoughts, something he does often. I put on my best phony smile.
“No, the dress wasn’t temporarily hemmed up in the front. That was intentional. The front hem is shorter than the back. It’s actually my favorite part of the dress. Doesn’t it look dramatic with the traditional, cathedral-length train?”
Michael shrugs his shoulders. “I guess.”
“Some of the best couture designers have designed dresses this way, and I love the combination of the traditional train with the daring shorter hem.”
“Really? Your fashion tastes are usually more conservative. If Connie had designed that dress I could see it, since she’s more of a risk taker when it comes to fashion.”
“Oh, so I’m boring?”
“I didn’t say that, Vee. You know what I mean. I love your fashion sensibility. You wear classics. You have a sophisticated sense when it comes to clothes, kind of like an Audrey Hepburn or Jackie O. That’s part of what I love about you. This dress just doesn’t seem you. Where did this all come from? It’s almost like you’re trying to be someone you’re not.”
“Yes, it’s true. I do like the classics, but I wanted to spread my wings a bit. I wanted to dazzle you with something you wouldn’t expect. A wedding dress is supposed to accentuate a bride’s best features. Since you’ve always said my best trait is my legs, I thought, why not show them off?”
“Without a doubt you have the most beautiful, sexy legs that I’ve ever seen on any woman. I adore those legs, especially when they’re wrapped around me while we’re making love.”
“Sshhhh . . . She’ll hear you.” I glance nervously toward Antoniella, who is spraying Windex on her pastry display.
“Don’t sweat over the Hunchback.”
Michael waves dismissively toward her. I hate it when he does that. He often gives me the same dismissive wave when I say something he doesn’t take seriously.
“Look, baby, I appreciate your wanting to show me your magnificent legs on our wedding day, but think about it. Is it really appropriate, especially in church?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I am utterly shocked. Since when has Michael shown any sign of being old-fashioned? He doesn’t even get jealous when other men on the street are eyeing me. That has always bothered me.
“You didn’t get a good look at the dress before my mother rushed you out of there. The front hem isn’t that short. It rests slightly below my knee. As you said, I have a more conservative, classic style. And I’m not an idiot. I’m aware that my dress needs to be respectable for church. But this is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth century. We’re not traipsing around in gowns every day. People wear shorts to Sunday Mass, for crying out loud.”
“In America, people wear shorts to Mass. But you know the churches in Italy won’t let you enter unless your knees and shoulders are covered. I remember when I was there the first time so many of the American tourists didn’t know this. Maybe they won’t appreciate you showing your legs.”
I can feel my pulse pounding feverishly. “My knees will be covered. It’s just my calves that are showing. Women do attend church in Italy with skirts and dresses. You act like I’m wearing a miniskirt.”
“Okay, okay. The dress isn’t that short, but I still think you should drop the hem and cover your legs completely. After all, aren’t wedding dresses supposed to be long? What about that dress I saw in Sposa Rosa with the really long, traditional train and high neckline. Can’t you design your dress more like that?”
Suddenly it’s as hot as a sauna. Michael is referring to Sposa Rosa’s featured dress for February: an Oscar de la Re
nta Alençon lace ball gown with a cathedral-length train and high neckline. The dress sports long sleeves, which are appropriate for winter weddings, but I’m getting married in June, not January! The dress is exquisite, but it’s more for brides who have to follow strict religious guidelines about baring skin during the wedding ceremony. A lovely Orthodox Jewish girl had put a deposit on the dress last weekend. And I had noticed the girl was staring longingly at the strapless gowns that were all the rage now. Ugghhhh!!! I want to scream and would if we weren’t in the Hunchback’s bakery.
I let out a deep sigh. “So, Michael, you want me covered from head to toe like a cloistered nun? That’s a first.”
“Of course I don’t want you to look like a nun! But be reasonable! See it from my eyes. I don’t want my future wife to be wearing next to nothing either.”
And he hasn’t even seen the deep plunging back. He would really be having a fit now if he’d seen it.
“You’re being old-fashioned. This isn’t you. Where is this coming from?”
“Valentina, just consider it at least.”
Hunchback or no Hunchback, I’m not holding back now.
“What do you know about women’s fashion, let alone bridal fashion? And how dare you tell me what I should wear on my wedding day, especially after you had the nerve to walk in on me! Do you know how many hours I have been slaving away over that dress? What’s the matter with you? Have you suddenly turned into a prude?”
Michael laughed. “You’re overreacting, and keep your voice down if you don’t want the Hunchback telling all of Astoria that I saw your dress.”
“Whatever! I don’t care. Look, Michael. I don’t appreciate you telling me what I can wear. Pretty soon, you’ll pull a Robert DeNiro and go all Raging Bull on me, trying to control every aspect of my life.”
“Who’s exaggerating now, Vee? I’m just looking out for you.”
“You’re looking out for me? It sounds like you’re looking out for you! It sounds like you’d be embarrassed to have me by your side in that dress on our wedding day.”
The more I think about it, the more I become convinced that’s what this is all about. Michael is worried about his own image.
Bella Fortuna Page 7
