Tea for Two

  “I do.” Sort of. Until five minutes ago I had pretty much thought of the DeVine wedding as a fairly typical event. That had certainly changed.

  “Just so you understand, Mrs. Neeley, our assignment here will include setting up security posts, making inspections, providing safety and/or emergency response, if necessary. We will service the facilities and surrounding areas on the night of the wedding by monitoring and operating various pieces of communications equipment, along with other advanced technologies that will help us detect and/or identify high-risk items or people. We are also authorized to make arrests. Do you have any questions?”

  Um, yeah. I had about ten, but couldn’t seem to remember them right now. And my heart was suddenly thump-thumping so loudly I couldn’t hear anything the man said.

  “You’re here to protect the bride?” I asked, my voice probably too loud. “Or the groom?”

  “Technically, Title 18 U.S.C. 2056a7 authorizes the U.S. Secret Service to protect spouses of major Presidential and Vice Presidential candidates within 120 days of the general Presidential election. As the election is not for several months, the time frame does not fall within those boundaries. So, to answer your question, we are here to protect the groom.”

  “You’re saying the bride’s on her own?” I offered what came out sounding like a weak laugh.

  “Do we have reason to be concerned about her well-being, Mrs. Neeley?” He gave me a penetrating gaze.

  “Heavens, no. I’m just making light conversation.”

  “We don’t make light conversation.”

  Okay then.

  “And just for the record, the wedding locale is top secret. Even the guests won’t know the location until the day of the ceremony. We expect your full cooperation in keeping this event on the down-low.”

  “But the vendors. . .won’t they have to know?”

  “The ones who need to know will know.” He gave me a stern look. “Got it?”

  “Um, got it.”

  We spent the next hour and a half going over every square inch of Club Wed. So much for getting my work done this morning. Who were these guys, to think they could just show up unannounced and interrupt my workday? Oh yeah. They were the Secret Service. And I’d better do everything they demanded.

  After going over the building with a fine-toothed comb, one of them—the tallest fellow in the dark suit—pulled out a small camera and began to take pictures.

  “I wish I’d known you were coming,” I said. “The room is filled with stuff I brought back from the Middle East.”

  “Middle East?” He turned to face me, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Could you elaborate?”

  “Yes. I’d be happy to elaborate. We went on a cruise and I found the most gorgeous items. Thought they’d be perfect for centerpieces. Want to see them?”

  “I want to see everything you brought home from the Middle East, but first I have a question: Did you meet any strangers?”

  “Oh, lots of strangers. There was this great guy we met on the ship. . .his name was Abdul Something-or-Another. We really liked him a lot. He and his wife live in Egypt. Or maybe it was Kenya. Is it terrible that I can’t remember?”

  “Did this Abdul Something-or-Another give you any packages, Mrs. Neeley?”

  “No. Nothing. Just a lot of great conversation.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He continued snapping photos, then turned his camera on me. I wasn’t sure if I should pose or give him a mug-shot face.

  I opted for the “What do you think you’re doing taking my picture without asking?” pose.

  He didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Okay, Mrs. Rossi, we need to see your identification.”

  “It’s Mrs. Neeley. And what sort of I.D. do you need? Driver’s license?”

  “Yes. And passport. And birth certificate.”

  “Huh? You need to know if I was born in the USA?”

  O’Conner grunted. “We will also need security clearance on every person who plans to work the DeVine wedding—from the local vendors, the ones we might have overlooked, to the servers. Can you provide us with a list so that we can contact them individually?”

  “You really mean you’re going to clear every single person working the wedding? Seriously?”

  “Yes Ma’am. Every. Single. One.”

  “Ack.” I led them to my office, where I attempted to piece together a list.

  “Well, let’s see. . .Hannah will be the photographer. At least, I think she will. Victoria hasn’t specifically asked for her yet, but I usually use Hannah or her husband Drew to do the shoot.”

  “Do the shoot?”

  “Right. Wedding shoot. Pictures.” I held up my hands, as if holding an imaginary camera. “Click, click.” A forced smile followed on my end, but he didn’t play along. He just kept scribbling in that notepad of his.

  “My friend Scarlet is doing the cake. You’ll totally love Scarlet, by the way. She does great work. She’s married to Armando, my brother. He’s doing sound with D.J..”

  “Armando Rossi? We’ve already run a check on him.” O’Conner pursed his lips. “Doesn’t have the cleanest record in the state.”

  “I know, I know. . .he has a bit of a history, but he’s walking the straight and narrow now. He and Scarlet are expecting a baby. But that reminds me, Mama and Pop will be here.”

  “Cosmo Rossi.” The agent nodded. “He checked out fine. So did your mother, Imelda. To be honest, Mrs. Neeley, you’re the one we’re concerned about.”

  “M-m-me?”

  “Yes.” He flipped through the pages of his notepad, finally landing on one that drew his undivided attention. “According to our research, you were arrested not once, but twice, over the past several years.”

  “Not true!” I put my hand up in the air, completely flustered by this accusation. “There was that one time—really, it was just a misunderstanding. Brock Benson thought he was protecting me from the paparazzi. How were we supposed to know they were police officers?” I gave him a scrutinizing look. “See now, if everyone dressed like you, it would be a lot easier to tell. But these officers weren’t as believable. Anyway, the whole city rallied behind us and the charges were dropped. That’s what happens when folks realize there’s been a misunderstanding. They forgive and forget.”

  “We know all about it, Mrs. Neeley. Now, about your arrest in Splendora.”

  “Whoa, Nellie.” I shook my head. “Let’s set the record straight. I did not get arrested in Splendora. Just because I rode to the jailhouse in the back of the patrol car does not mean they locked me up. Again, the whole thing was a misunderstanding. I tried to explain to the officer that I hadn’t stolen the almond extract from the Piggly Wiggly. It fell into my purse. He just took me in for questioning, that’s all. He wanted to appease the store manager.”

  “Right.” O’Conner gazed at the tablet. “No charges were filed. I see that now. I’m sure you can understand our concerns. Mr. DeVine is running for president of the United States. We need to make sure he’s not surrounded by any suspicious characters.”

  “Suspicious characters, eh?” Uncle Laz popped his head into the office. “Did Bella tell you the story of how the Rossis have ties to the mob?”

  I groaned and leaned my head down onto my desk. “It’s. Not. True.” I looked back up, my gaze shifting to Uncle Laz, who beamed like he’d just landed a role on a television sitcom. “My uncle Sal was in the mob, but he’s dead now.”

  “They took him out?” Agent O’Conner scribbled in his notepad.

  “No.” I groaned. “He died of natural causes. And he wasn’t technically my uncle.”

  “Sal Lucci was my brother from another mother.” Uncle Laz squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “Never had a closer friend.”

  “And your best friend was in the mob?” The Secret Service guy stared with great intensity at my uncle. “Tell me more.”

  Laz took a few steps into the room and I could literally feel the Secret Service guys stiffenin
g their backbones. “Well now, you see. . .once upon a time old Lazarro Rossi—yours truly—was a bit of a scoundrel. To say I was a heavy drinker would be putting it mildly. We lived in New Jersey at the time, and I was on my way home one night when suddenly, from out of nowhere, I had a Damascus Road experience.”

  “Damascus Road?” O’Conner looked up and I could read the confusion in his eyes. “Isn’t Damascus in the Middle East?”

  “Yep.” Laz nodded and his eyes filled with tears, something that often happened when he shared his story. “See I was blinded by a bright light, just like the apostle Paul in the book of Acts.”

  I shook my head. “What he means to say is, he was stumbling out of a bar in a drunken stupor and landed in the middle of a street late at night. A city bus was headed right for him.”

  “As I said, a bright light.” Laz squinted, as if seeing it all over again. “Back in those days, I was a vacuum cleaner salesman.” He shifted his gaze to the Secret Service man. “For real, I mean. It wasn’t a cover for anything else. Anyway, I sold a vacuum—a Kirby, model 516—to Sal. . .and the rest was history.”

  “He pulled you into the mob?” O’Conner asked.

  “No. He pulled me into the bar. We were there together the night I saw the light. It took several years before he saw it too, but he did. Before he passed, praise the Lord.”

  “Sir, are you saying that your friend Sal Lucci was hit by a bus, as well? Is that how he died? If so, I would hardly call that natural causes.”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. Sal passed years later. He died with his hands and heart clean as a whistle, washed in the blood.”

  “Washed in blood?” O’Conner took to scribbling again. “Mob hit? His old life caught up with him?”

  “No, his new life caught up with him. He died a happy man. And along the way, we even got Guido saved.”

  “You saved his friend, Mr. Rossi?” O’Conner glanced up from his tablet. “From harm, you mean?”

  “Yes, from harm. Saved Guido from a host of other issues, as well. He used to curse like a sailor.”

  “Mr. Lucci, you mean?”

  “No, Guido.” Laz grinned. “But we have a ways to go with Guido, if you want the truth of it. I doubt he’ll ever make it all the way to the heaven, unless I tuck him under my arm when it’s my time to go and we fly off to the great beyond together.”

  “You plan to take Guido to heaven?” O’Conner eyed Laz with more suspicion than before. “You’ve made that your mission?”

  “That’s the plan.” Laz leaned back in his chair. “Kicking and screaming all the way, I dare say.”

  “Where is this Guido you speak of?”

  “In the front hall.”

  Every man in the room startled to attention and they all began to argue over whether or not they’d passed a man named Guido in the front hallway of Club Wed.

  “Calm down, everyone,” I said. “Guido is just a parrot.”

  “In the figurative sense?” one of the men asked. “Meaning, he just repeats what he hears others say?”

  “I knew a guy in the mob like that,” O’Conner said. “Raised up from childhood with those thugs. Learned the lingo. Parroted everything they said. In his heart he didn’t really mean it, though. He turned out to be a great guy.”

  “No,” I debated. “He’s a real, honest-to-goodness parrot. A bird. You passed him in the front hall.”

  “Oh, the bird.” O’Conner scribbled something in his tablet. “Got it.”

  “That bird called me a heathen,” one of the men said.

  “And then sang Amazing Grace,” another chimed in.

  “After a couple of rounds of 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” another added.

  “You see my dilemma?” Laz sighed. “Poor old Guido can’t make up his mind if he wants to go to heaven or. . .well, you know.”

  “So, let me get this straight.” Agent O’Conner narrowed his gaze. “You weren’t really in the mob, Mr. Rossi. And you, Mrs. Neeley, didn’t do jail time. And Guido is really a bird, not someone you plan to take out.”

  “Right.” Laz nodded. “Now you’ve got it. But this conversation is reminding me that I do need to let Guido out of his cage for a while. He needs to stretch his wings a bit.”

  “I see.” O’Conner closed his tablet. “Please wait until after we’re gone to release him. We’ll get busy clearing the others in the family so that this event can move forward.”

  “Are you saying I should stop planning until you’ve cleared them?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not. Please move forward with the plans. Mr. DeVine and Miss Brierley will be happy to know you’re on task. The last thing we need right now is a distraction.” He offered a strained smile and then shoved his notepad under his arm. “Now, just to fill you in, on the night of the wedding we’ll have a Motorcade Support Unit here. They’ll provide tactical support for official movements of motorcades.”

  “Wait. . .we’re having motorcades?”

  “Yes, but not until after the canine unit comes in for a sweep of the premises.”

  “Gosh, I’ll have to get Guido out of here before then. He’s not very good with dogs.”

  “Guido. The parrot.”

  “Yes. Guido, the parrot.”

  Laz started telling another story about Guido, but O’Conner cleared his throat. “Sir, we are the Secret Service. We don’t have light conversation.”

  “You say that a lot.” Laz patted O’Conner on the back. “You should have it tattooed on your arm.”

  “Mr. Rossi, I must inform you that Secret Service agents are prohibited from having visible body markings.”

  Laz’s smile faded. “Oh, well I was just kidding about the tattoo.”

  “Not just tattoos, sir. We’re not allowed to have body art or branding, and this would include any visible areas of the human anatomy, including but not limited to the head, the face, the neck the hands and the fingers.”

  “Oh, well I didn’t really mean to imply that you—”

  “If I were to get such a tattoo, I would be required to have it medically removed at my own expense in order to continue my duty to my country.”

  “I see. Well, I really was kidding about the tattoo.” Laz shrugged.

  “We don’t kid, sir.”

  “I see that.” Laz’s gaze shifted to the door. I had a feeling he wanted to bolt.

  “When one takes on the job of special agent, he—or she—takes the job very seriously. Very seriously.” O’Conner lowered his glasses, squinted at Laz—and then me—with his blue eyes, and then put the glasses back in place. “I have a fulfilling career carrying out integrated missions of investigation and protection, folks. I work with others in my division to implement strategies to mitigate threats to some of our nation’s finest leaders. No tattoo would be worth it. I’m sure you understand.”

  I understood all right. These guys didn’t mess around. And they didn’t have light conversation. And they were here to protect the future president of the United States, even if it meant driving the entire Rossi family to the brink of insanity in the process.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Power of Love

  The politicians were talking themselves red, white and blue in the face.

  Clare Boothe Luce

  On Thursday evening, January 14th, the family gathered at my parents’ house to watch the Republican debate. Though we’d never been terribly political, knowing one of the participants first-hand suddenly gave us a vested interest.

  We settled in in front of the television, bowls of popcorn in hand. Felt more like a movie theater experience than a political debate, but, with so many unknown variables, the popcorn felt right. So did the jokes from Uncle Laz, who insisted he’d rather be watching anything but a political debate.

  “Lazarro Rossi, that’s the trouble with you.” Aunt Rosa slugged him on the arm. “You don’t know what’s going on in the world and you never will if you bury your head in the sand.”

  “I’m blissfully ignor
ant.” He laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with that. And we live on an island. There’s plenty of sand to bury my head in, thank you very much. Don’t mind if I do.”

  Rosa clucked her tongue. “But the world is in trouble and we need to be voting for someone who can make a difference.”

  Laz rolled his eyes. “Like any of them could make a difference.”

  “They can, if they trust God to use them,” Mama said. “Hopefully a few of them will prove to be men—or women—of honor.”

  One by one the candidates were introduced. I recognized many of them, of course. So did Pop, apparently. He pointed out Donald Trump and started sputtering. “There he is. That’s the guy who used to be on that show. What was it called, again? Celebrity something or another.”

  “Apprentice,” D.J. said. “Celebrity Apprentice.”

  “Why couldn’t things stay like they were? I always liked him on that show,” Rosa said as she settled onto the loveseat next to Uncle Laz. “He was such a natural. He sat at his big desk and fired the ones who didn’t get the job done. Remember how fun that was? Why did he have to spoil it all by running for president?”

  “He’s just one of many candidates,” D.J. said.

  “I see that,” Pop said. “Looks like there are more Republican presidential candidates than there are Rossis.” He slapped his knee and laugh. “And that’s a lot of candidates!”

  “Yep. Beau DeVine is just one of many,” I explained. “From what I understand, he’s pretty low in the polls right now but he made it onto the main stage for the debate, which is an honor. Not everyone makes it into the main debate.”

  “Which one is he, Bella?” Mama asked.

  The camera panned the audience and I thought I caught a glimpse of Victoria. “Ooo, there’s our bride!”

  “She’s running for president, too?” Pop asked. “I thought the only gal running for president was that Italian one.”

  “If you mean Carly Fiorina, I’m voting for her,” Rosa said with a nod. “She’s a good Italian girl and that goes a long way in my book.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure Fiorina is her married name,” I said. “But I was talking about seeing the bride-to-be in the audience. And no, she’s not running for President, Pop. She’s engaged to—” My breath caught in my throat as Beau DeVine was introduced. “To him. To Beauregard.”