“That you’re in charge of the wedding plans?” I tried. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve coordinated lots of weddings where the bride did most of the planning without the groom’s involvement. Lots of guys just go along with whatever you think, anyway.”
“No, that’s not what I meant at all. The whole tea party theme, well, it’s as much his as mine. What I’m trying to say, Bella, is that I’m really going to depend on you artistically. I won’t have time to think through the finer details of what the cake should look like, what the décor should be. . .all of that. I mean, I have some ideas, for sure, and I’ll share them with you. But I want to give you full leeway to take the ball and run with it. I heard so much about you from Justine and I saw her wedding first-hand. It was spectacular.”
“Still can’t get over the fact that it actually snowed the night of a meteorologist’s wedding, can you?” I laughed.
“Right? But my point is, I know you because I’ve seen your work. You’ll pull this off Bella. And I want you to know that money is no object. Beau will see to that. This is going to be a grand event. So, don’t feel limited by the financial.”
“I don’t mind taking care of the finer points, but want to make sure I’ve got the theme right. Tea party. Old-fashioned.”
“Right.” She hollered something to someone on her end and then returned to the phone. “Sorry about that. Now, I know we can’t do an outdoor wedding in February, but I want the whole thing to have that sort of feel. Quaint. Charming. Vintage. You know. Like a true afternoon tea in the garden—only inside. At night.”
“I see.”
I’d never really done a tea party themed wedding before, but how hard could it be, really? Vintage lace tablecloths. Pretty dishes. An elegant cake. . .and voila! Surely the Rossis could pull this off. I hoped.
Another yawn escaped and Victoria laughed. “Okay, okay, I can take the hint. You go back to sleep, Bella. Let your body catch up to Texas time. We can talk later, once the jetlag has passed. I need to get back to Beau, anyway. He has a television interview in an hour and he’s hopeless without me at his side. You know how men are.”
Actually, I knew nothing of hopeless men. Most of the men in my life were the hard-working, self-sufficient type. Okay, all but Pop, who depended on Mama for pretty much everything. But luckily he wasn’t running for President of the United States.
Beau DeVine was, though. . .and that pretty much changed everything about the upcoming Valentine’s wedding. I’d better get all of my ducks in a row. . .and then pray they weren’t shot down by some random Secret Service guy. Heavens! Did I ever have my work cut out for me!
Tea for Two
CHAPTER TWO
To Know Him is to Love Him
Man is by nature a political animal.
Aristotle
A couple of days after Victoria’s call, Mama popped her head in my office and whispered, “The men in suits are here. . .and they’re asking for you.”
“Men in suits?” I looked up from my work, intrigued by her words. “Huh?”
“Secret Service.” Her eyes widened and she took a couple of steps inside the room.
I rose, and my hands began to tremble. “Secret Service? Like, the Secret Service, Secret Service?”
“The real deal. They’re at the front door. If Rosa hadn’t been cleaning out Guido’s cage we wouldn’t have noticed them.” Mama’s voice quivered and she lowered it to a whisper. “But it’s kind of hard to miss a bunch of guys in black suits wearing sunglasses at nine in the morning. You know?”
“Well, yes. . .but, Secret Service? Don’t they usually fly under the radar? Why would they tell you who they are?”
None of this made sense. None of it. I rose and smoothed the wrinkles out of my blouse, then gave my appearance a glance in the mirror. Hmm. I needed to touch up my lipstick, but maybe they wouldn’t mind that.
I followed Mama into the front hallway and my breath caught in my throat when I saw six—no, seven—men in black suits standing there. Maybe she’d misunderstood. Maybe these guys were funeral directors, lost on their way to a convention or something.
“Bella Neeley?” The one closest to me pulled off his sunglasses, revealing bight blue eyes. I’m Agent O’Conner, with the Secret Service.”
Okay, then. . .not a funeral convention.
“I’m Bella Neeley.” The words came out a bit squeaky. Probably nerves. “How can I help you?”
“We’re here to scope out the place before the DeVine wedding. You’ll be seeing us come and go over the next few weeks. We need top security clearance due to the current political climate. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, Club Wed is perfectly safe,” I said. “We’ve never had an incident here.” I paused and my nose wrinkled. “Well, unless you count the time my Uncle Laz caught Bubba’s eyebrows on fire. But that was totally random.”
Agent O’Conner pulled out a notepad and scribbled something down. “Who is this Uncle Laz? Is he currently on the premises or was he incarcerated after the incident?”
“Oh, no Sir, not incarcerated. He and Rosa just got back from Italy a few weeks ago. In fact, my husband and I just arrived home from a Mediterranean cruise a couple of weeks ago, ourselves.”
“You’ve been traveling in the Middle East?” Agent O’Conner quirked a brow. “What was the nature of your visit?”
“The nature of it? I guess you could call it a second honeymoon. D.J. and I—D.J. is my husband—anyway, D.J. and I went to Santorini, Italy, and Spain. Oh, and Turkey. We were supposed to get off in Turkey but with the current unrest, well, you know. We had to stay on the ship.”
“This D.J. fellow—will he be at the wedding?”
“Oh, sure. He’ll be running sound.”
“We’ll need to clear the sound equipment,” O’Conner said. “In fact, we’ll need to clear every square inch of this place. I hope you realize the seriousness of this process Mrs. Neeley.”
“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 authored 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 C
lub 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 guys 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 her 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 quirked a brow. “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, I would believe it. 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.”
“Right.” He 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 stiffening 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 from a bar in a drunken stupor 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 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, yo
u 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 heaven 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 a parrot, not a human being.”
“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.”