Just then the front door burst open, and Rosa chased Laz outside onto the veranda, shaking a broom in his face. “I’ve told you to stay out of the kitchen when I’m working, old man! Don’t ever let me catch you touching my gravy again!”
Okay. We were off to a great start.
Rosa’s anger dissipated when she saw us standing there. “I-I’m sorry, Bella. I didn’t know you had guests.” She sighed and put the broom down. “But that man is getting on my last nerve.” Her gaze traveled from Marian to Rob to Brock to me. Then, just as quickly, her eyes darted back to Brock. “Oh.” She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Oh, oh, oh.”
He extended his hand. “I’m Brock.”
“I—I—I know.” She turned all shades of red, then began to use her free hand to fuss with her hair. “You’re Jean Luc Dumont, that heavenly pirate who saves women from the clutches of evil. I must look a sight.”
“Oh, not in the least.” A look of genuine tenderness came over Brock as he spoke to her. “There’s something absolutely lovely about you. Reminds me of home.”
“Are you Italian, boy?”
“Fourth generation. Benson is just a stage name. I was born Vincenzo DiMarco. My cousins still call me Vinny.”
Go figure. Vinny, eh? This information put a whole new spin on things. I had to admit I preferred the stage name, but this certainly explained why he was so anxious to stay for dinner.
Uncle Laz gave a “humph” and shuffled inside.
Brock leaned my aunt’s direction. “Just so you know, I’m a Sinatra fan. Can’t get enough of him, in fact.”
At once her face lit into a smile. Using the broom to push back the rest of us, she said, “Well, why didn’t you say so? Come on in the house, young man. I’m making homemade chicken parmesan and the most divine garlic twists you’ve ever tasted, loaded with butter. Not margarine. Butter. Never use that fake stuff. If my arteries are going to be clogged, they’re going to be clogged with the real thing. No point in risking your life over a substitute.” Her voice faded away as she disappeared inside the foyer.
“Any fan of Frank Sinatra’s is not welcome in this house,” Laz yelled from inside the door. He glanced toward Rosa, a scowl on his face.
Alrighty then. Looked like things couldn’t possibly get any better.
7
They All Laughed
I entered the house on Aunt Rosa’s heels, with Brock—er, Vinny—directly behind me. Sophia tagged along on his heels, babbling endlessly, her voice laced with a nervous vibrato. Behind her, the bride- and groom-to-be entered arm in arm.
Once inside, I heard music coming from the living room. Mama and Bubba were hard at work, rehearsing. His huge voice filled the house from rafter to rafter. Very impressive.
I turned to say something to Sophia, only to discover she’d spirited away to some other place. Terrific. Leave me to take care of this on my own. No problem.
Precious, my Yorkie-Poo, chose that moment to greet us in attack mode. She directed her energies at Brock, who stared down at her with an amused look on his face.
“That’s a lot of noise coming from such a tiny little thing.” He tried to reach down to pet her, but she snapped at him. Pulling his hand up again, Brock shook his head. “Never mind.”
I reached down and snatched up the little devil. “Come here, you. Settle down.”
Once I had her sufficiently quieted, I slipped into the living room with my three guests on my heels. This was my first time to hear Bubba belt out Figaro’s lines. I’d heard him sing country tunes before, but nothing like this. Wow. Turned out Mama had been right about him. He was the perfect choice. I could hardly believe the amazing operatic voice pouring out of him.
Brock looked at me with a stunned expression on his face, then mouthed the words, “Who is that? He’s amazing.”
I nodded in response. I’d known he was good, but not this good. And as for who Bubba was, well, I’d make introductions later. Disturbing Mama when she was in work mode was a huge no-no.
I heard Guido off in the distance, warbling a tune slightly more off-key. Mama stopped playing the piano and pounded on the keys in frustration. She shouted, “Somebody make that bird shut up!”
My uncle hobbled across the room, cane in hand, to the cage. Once there, he began to talk in a soothing voice to the ornery parrot. This all served to make Brock laugh, which he did in absolute silence, something I’d never witnessed before. In the Rossi house, nothing was silent. Ever.
Mama promptly went back to coaching Bubba. “Don’t sing through your nose, please. No twang-twang at the opera, Bubba. Open up and sing from your heart, not your nostrils. This is the Galveston Grand Opera, not the Grand Ole Opry.”
“Yes’m.” He nodded, then tried again, sounding a little less like Brad Paisley and a little more like Andrea Bocelli.
“Bellissimo!” Mama shouted. She began to play with great gusto, never even noticing we’d entered the room. On and on she went, her fingers flying across the keys.
I looked at Brock and groaned. “Welcome to my world.” Then I took a few steps in the direction of the dining room, where I put Precious down on the floor. She did her usual jumping up and down thing but eventually retreated to the kitchen.
“I love your world, Bella.” Brock gave me a look so warm it melted my heart. “Normal things happen here. Life isn’t scripted. There’s no way to tell how it might end.”
“Well, that part’s true, but you call this normal?”
Off in the distance, Aunt Rosa cried out, “Lazarro Rossi, if you don’t get rid of that bird before my big day, I’m never speaking to you again.”
“No skin off my teeth, woman,” Laz snapped back. “I like my peace and quiet anyway.”
Rosa’s voice rang out again. “That bird is going to be the death of me yet!”
Laz countered with “I’m not that lucky!”
“Wow. They’re like an old married couple,” Brock observed, pulling out a chair for me.
I couldn’t help but laugh at that one. “They’re definitely not married.” As I took my seat, I gestured for the others to do the same. Rob and Marian sat about midway down the table.
“Maybe they should be,” he uttered in a dramatic stage whisper. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with them.”
“See? That just confirms what I’ve been thinking! I’m convinced they’re a match made in heaven.”
“Aha. I see.” Brock’s eyebrows elevated mischievously. “So, the plot thickens.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well …” He leaned in to whisper. “I’m almost sure I caught Rosa making eyes at your Uncle Laz as she came through the door. I’ve gotten pretty good at discerning real emotion from acting. Been in this business awhile. All of this shouting sounds more like acting to me. It’s a game they play, but it’s not real.”
“I totally agree.”
“What’s real is what’s underneath—the look in his eyes, the tremor in her voice …” Brock held me captivated with his words. “The heart always gives the mouth away. Or maybe it’s the other way around. But you know what I mean.”
“Mm-hmm.” I leaned close to him, the gentle scent of his manly cologne working wonders on my already overactive imagination. “But I can’t believe you picked up on all of that stuff about Rosa and Laz after only a few seconds. See, I’ve often suspected …”
“Suspected what, Bella?” Rosa snapped a dish towel in my direction as she walked by.
“Suspected I will soon need to move to my own place if I tell you what I really said.” I gave her a wink.
“If you want to stay put, then mind your manners. And don’t be filling this boy’s head with any nonsense about me. I need his head and his heart to be clean so he can better critique my food.”
“Critique?” Brock looked stunned. “I thought we were here to eat.”
“That too,” she said. “But I need a good, honest critique from someone who isn’t biased.” She pointed at Brock. “A
nd you’re that someone.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“What are we critiquing?” I looked up as I heard D.J.’s familiar deep voice, a voice that captivated me every time. He leaned over and kissed me on the top of the head, then looked around the room at the crowd with a puzzled look on his face. “You should’ve told me we were having company for dinner. I would’ve dressed up.”
Granted, the boy was wearing jeans and a button-up over a white T-shirt. And yes, he had sawdust in his hair, as always. But his winning smile, along with that dark tan he’d acquired while working in the Galveston sun, made up for any wardrobe mishaps.
I smiled and gestured for him to take the seat next to me, wondering how long it would take before he figured out Brock’s identity. “Hi, baby,” I whispered. “Glad you could make it.”
He took a seat and grinned, which only served to further complicate things. Brock quirked a brow my direction as if to ask, “Who have we here?” I’d better make introductions.
“Hey, everyone,” I said. “This is D.J., my …” My voice trailed off as I almost made the mistake of calling him my fiancé. He wasn’t. Not yet anyway. But I already pictured him as such in my mind, and in that moment I found myself wanting to say the word. However, the fact that I left the details of our relationship hanging midsentence did nothing to better my chances of getting a proposal anytime soon.
D.J. looked at me with a wrinkled brow and said, “Boyfriend. I’m her boyfriend.” He glanced at the others and nodded. “Dwayne Neeley Jr. But everyone calls me D.J.”
Coming to my senses, I made proper introductions. “D.J., this is Rob. He’s the groom-to-be. And this is his beautiful fiancée, Marian.”
“Pleased to meet you.” D.J. nodded and smiled, pure kindness and hospitality oozing from every pore. “I’ve heard a lot about your big day. I know Bella’s very excited.”
“Yes.” I paused, turning to the handsome movie star on my right. “And this is …” Heaven help me. “Brock Benson.”
“Brock.” D.J. nodded with absolutely no hint of recognition in his eyes.
A wave of relief washed over me. D.J. wasn’t much of a moviegoer. That much I already knew. So maybe he didn’t make the connection.
“Brock is their best man,” I said.
“Great. I know y’all are looking forward to the big day.”
D.J. grabbed one of Rosa’s famous garlic twists and took a bite, then turned to me. “Missed you today, baby.” He grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.
“I missed you too.”
Just as I relished the thought that I might get a reprieve, Sophia breezed into the room. Don’t ask me how she’d done it, but the girl had somehow found the time to change into a new outfit and jazz up her long, dark hair. Even her makeup looked like it had been refreshed. How long had we been in the house? Ten minutes? Fifteen? The girl was a miracle worker—and clearly even faster with the lip liner than her mother.
D.J. took one look at her and whistled. “Who you trying to impress, girl?”
She slugged him in the arm, then muttered “Stop it” under her breath.
God bless D.J. At least the stunned look on his face was real. He had no idea what he’d done. And I wouldn’t be filling him in anytime soon.
On the other hand …
My mother swept into the room with Bubba at her side. She took one look at Brock and began to fan herself. “Oh my. I …” She stared at him, speechless.
Likely Brock thought we were all incapable of articulating a single sentence.
Pop entered the room wearing his undershirt and a pair of slacks, holding a brown button-up shirt in his hand. He slipped it on in front of our guests, then pulled out Mama’s chair with gentlemanly flair. When she didn’t take her seat, he gave her a funny look and started buttoning his shirt. Eventually he took the empty chair beside her. “Something going on in here I need to know about?” My pop’s gaze traveled the table, finally landing on Brock. He stuck a fork into a piece of chicken as he said, “Oh, hey. You’re that actor Brock Benson, right? And you’re sitting at our table. What’s up with that?”
That was all she wrote. The whole place came alive. It was hard to distinguish who was saying what, now that everyone was talking on top of everyone else.
“Mama mia!” my mother shouted. She looked my way and gasped, then said, “You should tell a person.” With an exaggerated smile, she turned back to our guests and greeted them. “Mr. Benson, how can we ever thank you for gracing our table? You’ve dined with some of the finest people around the globe, and now here you are at the Rossi family table. To what do we owe this honor?”
Before Brock could come up with a decent answer, D.J. looked my way, his eyes wide. “Wait a minute,” he whispered. “Is that the guy who won best actor last year?” When I nodded, the strangest look crossed his face. “What’s he doing here?” D.J. took another bite of garlic bread and leaned back in his seat, looking Brock over.
I somehow managed to get the noise to a dull roar and then gave a quick explanation, focusing my attention on my mother. After sharing the story, I managed to squeak out the important concern. “Brock and Rob need a place to stay till next weekend, Mama.”
Sophia clutched her hands to her chest, an imploring look on her face. “I told them we would be honored to let them stay here.”
“Stay here?” Laz, Pop, D.J., and Bubba spoke in unison, sounding just like one of those old-fashioned male quartets. D.J. sang bass, Bubba sang tenor. Pop and Laz, well, they joined right in there. Within minutes the Rossi and Neeley men were a mighty chorus, listing all the reasons why this would never work.
Of course, the womenfolk had different opinions.
“Oh, I think it’s a marvelous idea!” Mama’s eyelashes began to flutter, as they so often did when she was nervous. “And we certainly have the space, now that two of the boys have moved out.”
“Where else can they get good food and a safe place to stay, away from the media?” Sophia threw in.
“Away from the media?” Laz looked at Rosa and shook his head. “What about the Food Network? Have you all forgotten that little tidbit?”
I hadn’t planned to introduce this complication yet, but there it was, like a newspaper headline for all to read.
“The Food Network?” Brock shook his head. “What do they have to do with anything?”
“Well, there is this one little thing,” I said. “Aunt Rosa has been selected to be in a special on the Food Network next weekend. They’re sending a crew to film her—re-creating this meal, actually—the night of the wedding rehearsal.”
Marian looked as if she might faint at this news. “Yikes.” She shook her head, turning pale. “What can we do?”
“I’m sure if we all put our heads together, we’ll come up with a plan,” I said.
“Besides, on the night of the rehearsal, Brock will be at the wedding facility, not here,” Mama reminded everyone. “So, that solves everything. We just need to keep him hidden until then.”
Brock shrugged. “Sure. Why not? And in the meantime …” He extended his plate. “Could someone pass the chicken parmesan?”
8
Everybody Loves Somebody
On Friday morning, D.J.’s mom showed up at our front door unannounced. Now, I’d loved Earline Neeley for as long as I’d known her. All three months, in fact. She’d swept me into the fold and extended the love of Jesus time and time again.
Best of all, she’d entrusted the heart of her son to me, a fact I did not take lightly. Still, I wasn’t sure why she’d chosen to grace us with her presence today. Galveston was a far cry from Splendora.
I stood in the open doorway, trying to decide what to do. If I let her inside, she was sure to see Brock and give away our little secret. However, if I kept her standing on the veranda, she was sure to think I’d lost my mind and might encourage her son to have me committed. We certainly couldn’t have that.
As I stood there toying with my decision, I tried to envision
what Brock would make of Earline. She was a darling, no doubt about it, but the woman wasn’t exactly Hollywood material.
Then again, maybe she was. At five foot two and two-hundred-plus pounds, she could easily be a character actor in a TV sitcom. And she certainly had the eclectic personality to warrant the role. Earline was a true-blue Southern lady. And where she came from—Splendora, Texas, just an hour and a half up Highway 59—Full Gospel meant full figured. In other words, all of the ladies in her little group were on the hefty side, and they all loved the Lord with full abandon.
It’s just that they had more to abandon than most.
I finally ushered Earline into the house and could tell right away that this was a woman on a mission.
Her face paled as she spoke, and her words were a little shaky. “Oh, honey … have you seen my boys today?”
I did my best to calm her by keeping my voice steady. “Which one are you looking for, Bubba or D.J.? Or does it matter?”
“Bubba would be best, I suppose.” She fanned herself with her hand as she plopped down on the bench in our front hallway. “I need to talk to him about this opera thing.”
“What about it?” Mama entered the room with a concerned look on her face. “Has something gone wrong? He isn’t sick, is he?”
“Oh no. Nothing like that. This is about me, actually.” She looked up at my mother with tears in her eyes.
Mama’s expression softened. “What about you, honey?”
“Well …” Earline sighed. “See now, I don’t get to fancy places much, and I’ll need a dress to wear. I, um … well, I thought he might have some idea what sort of getup I’ll need. The first performance is tomorrow, and I’m clueless!”
“Well, why didn’t you say so!” My mama’s face lit up, and she slipped into Mother Teresa mode. “Earline, grab your purse. We’re going to town.”