Fools Rush In

  Okay, so the good reverend hadn’t really called me by name in front of the congregation, but he might as well have. Certainly felt like his words were directed at me, anyway, and they’d cut me to the core.

  But what could I do about it? Something about being put on the spot—even internally—forced me to reexamine my motives and actions of late. Sure, I’d told people I was a woman of faith who, with God’s help, could whip the wedding facility into shape in no time. But I hadn’t been living it. I’d managed to convince others I had it all together, but on the inside I quivered like a half-baked cheesecake.

  My thoughts drifted back to that life-altering sermon. What struck me as ironic—beyond the pastor’s passionate words—was something he’d done at the end of the message. He’d lifted the hem of his pants and exclaimed, “These boots are made for walkin’!”

  Now, who knew Reverend Woodson wore cowboy boots? You could’ve heard a pin drop in the congregation at that revelation—at least in the Rossi section. Just one more coincidence to add to my ever-growing list.

  And now, thanks to the soul-jarring sermon, I had boots on the brain. Eighty of them, to be precise. I could just see it now. After my untimely demise—likely caused by stress related to this wedding—my tombstone would read, BELLA ROSSI, KIND BUT DENSE—SHE HAD MORE BOOTS THAN COMMON SENSE.

  It was time to put my money where my mouth was. To stop pretending I had it all together when I really didn’t. Time to be real. Genuine. I’d start by confessing the eBay debacle to my father. Surely he could help me come up with a plan. Maybe I could turn around and resell the excess boots, redeeming the money. Maybe I could even make a little extra cash in the process. Hopefully before the Visa bill arrived.

  Not that I really had time to be buying or selling anything at the moment. No, I needed to focus on Sharlene and Cody’s big day, just five days from now. I stared at the wedding facility and sighed. If only the weight of the world didn’t rest on my shoulders. If only my parents could take their European vacation without wondering if I’d drive the family business into the ground. If only . . .

  Pushing the thoughts away, I remembered Uncle Laz’s words: “Everything hinges on the Lord. Don’t forget that! He is the potter and you are the clay.”

  Funny. The only thing that felt like clay this morning was my feet. I stared down at them and tried to imagine what they’d look like with boots wrapped around them.

  Nope. Couldn’t fathom it.

  I forced my attention back to the project at hand. A country-western themed wedding. A boot-scootin’ heyday. This morning I needed to finalize plans with Joey (who would serve as photographer), double-check the guest list, and take care of a few other details.

  But first things first. As I entered the wedding facility, I noticed the postman had already dropped off the mail. I glanced through the envelopes, perplexed when I found a tiny Priority package addressed to Lazarro Rossi. The return name was Bro Pockets, with an address in Shreveport, Louisiana. Why had it been delivered to the wedding facility instead of next door or the restaurant? An accident . . . or did Laz have something to hide?

  I picked up my cell phone and gave him a call. Upon hearing of the delivery, he came rushing over—rushing being a relative term. Laz moved pretty slowly these days, particularly if there were stairs involved. He eventually joined me in the office of Club Wed, where he took the package in his hands and tried to sneak out the door before I could begin my first round of questioning.

  “Wait.” I made it to the door before him and closed it so he couldn’t make his intended getaway. “What’s the big secret? What’s in the package?”

  His cheeks reddened. “Oh, nothing.”

  “Uncle Laz . . .”

  He sighed, then dropped into a chair. “Forget about it. It’s really not that big of a deal. Nothing to get all worked up about.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I took my seat and waited. “’Fess up. Who’s Bro Pockets?”

  “Bro Pockets?” He looked at the return address label as if trying to make sense of it, and then said, “Oh, I see. They’ve abbreviated it. That’s Brother. Brother Pockets.”

  “Brother Pockets?” I racked my brain to figure out why that sounded so familiar. Suddenly it came to me. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean Brother Phillip Pockets, the televangelist scam artist, do you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Tell me you didn’t send that man any of your hard-earned money.” I knew enough about the guy to know he’d scammed thousands of elderly folks out of their pensions, all in the name of religion. Jenna and I had joked about his “fill up pockets” name, to be sure. But I never dreamed anyone in my family would succumb to his twisted tactics.

  Laz shrugged and shifted the package from one hand to the other.

  “Uncle Lazarro.” I placed my hands on my hips and stared him down. “What have you done?”

  He released a sigh. “Look, I’m worried about Sal, that’s all. And Guido too.”

  “Guido?” Somehow I’d never figured him to play a role in this story.

  “I’m going to make a new bird of him. Or, rather, the Lord is going to make a new bird of him.”

  “Laz, what in the world are you talking about?”

  My uncle leaned forward with tears in his eyes. “Sal never wanted anything to do with the gospel before his stroke. Never. And trust me, I tried to approach the subject from every conceivable angle. Ran into a brick wall every single time. But now he’s entrusted Guido to me. I have no idea how long I’ll have the little guy, but I truly believe the Lord has given me an opportunity to teach an old bird some new tricks.”

  “Such as . . .”

  “I figure if I can get him to give up his old ways—let go of the bad language, forget about the questionable phrases, and so forth—then I can retrain him. I’ll teach him a few Scripture verses and a couple of praise choruses before I have to send him back to Sal. Get it? Then Guido can do the work of winning my old friend to the Lord.” Laz leaned back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face.

  “So Guido is going to become a missionary? You’re going to send him back to Atlantic City to witness to Sal?” I leaned back in my seat, ready to hear this explanation.

  “Exactly. After I’ve anointed him with Brother Pockets’s miracle-working oil.” Laz held up the package. “When I called to place the order, one of the telephone prayer partners joined me in a prayer of agreement.”

  “I see. And just how much did you pay for this oil?” I stared at the little package in stunned disbelief.

  My uncle’s gaze shifted downward. “Well . . .”

  “Uncle Laz.”

  “Okay, look. I paid extra for the double anointing package. It’s concentrated. Made by monks who live in a monastery in a remote mountainous region.”

  “Of Shreveport?”

  “Yes. The sole purpose of their order is to grow the olives, then produce the oil using the same process in the Old Testament. Afterward they pray over every bottle individually before it’s sent out. Isn’t that an amazing story?”

  “To say the least.” I shook my head. “How much?”

  “What?”

  “How much did you spend on the oil?” I bit my lip, preparing myself for his answer.

  “Well . . . $49.95 plus overnight shipping.”

  “Uncle Laz!” I ripped open the package and stared at the tiny bottle inside. “Surely you jest.” I opened the bottle, poured out a few drops, and sniffed. Immediately I regretted it. “This isn’t olive oil. Look at the color. It’s corn oil with some kind of cheap perfume in it.” I let out a sneeze, and my eyes filled with tears. Unable to handle the overwhelming smell, I closed the bottle and held it out to my uncle. “It reeks. What were you thinking?”

  A lone tear trickled out of the corner of my uncle’s right eye and rolled down his wrinkled cheek. He ran his fingers through thinning gray hair, then rose to his feet, using his cane. “I was thinking that my friend is going to die without knowing the Lord if I don’
t do something.” He reached a trembling hand my way and snatched the bottle from me before pacing the floor. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. I don’t know. Sounded pretty good at the time. I just know I have to do something. And what can it hurt? I’ll pray with Guido tonight before bed. Anoint him head to toe—er, beak to claw.”

  “And tomorrow he’ll be a changed bird?”

  “Maybe. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I happened to glance down at my uncle’s feet as he paced, noticing, for the first time, a familiar pair of cowboy boots. “Hey.” I looked up at him. “Where did you get those?”

  “Oh, um, these? I, um, I’ve had them for a while now.”

  “Since Saturday, perhaps?”

  “Oh, I, well . . .” He squirmed, and I noticed the tips of his ears turn red. “I found them . . .”

  “In the front hall?”

  His gaze shifted. “Maybe.”

  “You’re not going to pull that ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law’ thing, are you?” I asked. “’Cause if you are . . .”

  He waved a hand in the air. “I just thought it would be fun to try them on. I’ve never worn cowboy boots before. I’ll give them back, I promise.”

  “Before the wedding?”

  “Of course. Don’t you trust your old Uncle Laz?”

  I glanced at the bottle of anointing oil and sighed as I contemplated my rebuttal. On the other hand, how could I—a girl who’d accidentally ordered eighty cowboy boots from a total stranger—possibly judge my uncle for a seemingly unreasonable purchase? His heart was in the right place, after all.

  “Have a look at this.” He lifted his pants leg to reveal an intricate design on the back of the boot. “These boots have got to be worth a pretty penny. How much did you pay for them?”

  “Twenty bucks.” I stared a bit closer, realizing the truth. The boots were beautifully made. Great quality. Exquisite leather detailing. I’d never seen anything quite like them. Had heaven just dropped an unexpected gift in our laps?

  “Hang on a second.” I reached down and lifted the boot, looking for the name of the manufacturer on the bottom. Lanciotti. The boots were made in Italy? Another coincidence? I promised myself I’d look up the name on the Internet when things slowed down.

  Laz glanced at his watch and gasped. “Ten thirty? Jenna’s probably wondering where I am. Gotta go.” He gave me a half smile, snatched his package from Brother Pockets, and headed toward the door. At the last minute, he turned back. With tears in his eyes, he whispered, “Keep praying for Sal, Bella. Finché c’è vita c’è speranza.”

  I looked at him with the sting of tears in my eyes and echoed, “As long as there is life, there is hope.” Somehow just speaking the words put everything in perspective. This wasn’t about Brother Pockets or a parrot. This was about Uncle Laz and his good friend. This was about moving Sal toward the same life-changing encounter with God my uncle had experienced. Minus the bus, of course.

  Laz gave me a wink, then headed home, anointing oil in hand. I had a feeling I’d be hearing more about Guido later, and I also felt sure the whole Rossi house would reek of cheap perfume before day’s end.

  I could fault Uncle Laz on a number of things, but one thing was for sure—he certainly understood what it meant to be an authentic Christian. His boots—albeit stolen from the front hallway—were made for walkin’. He’d made that plain. In fact, I imagined he’d be willing to walk all the way to Atlantic City if he thought it would help Salvadore Lucci find the Lord.

  I felt ashamed when I realized I’d questioned my uncle’s actions. On the other hand, could he really rehabilitate a cantankerous parrot and turn him into an evangelist? Only time would tell.

  In the meantime, I had a few projects of my own to tend to. Determined to “walk the walk,” I turned back to the wedding plans.

  14

  Pennies from Heaven

  On Tuesday afternoon, as the south Texas temperature climbed into the upper nineties, the air conditioner at the wedding facility went on the fritz. I tried to reach Mama, who was up at the Opera House, putting together programs for an upcoming performance. Nothing new there. She’d been caught up in the world of opera ever since I could remember.

  When Mama didn’t answer, I tried Rosa. Her voice sounded strained as she whispered, “Hello?”

  “Aunt Rosa, it’s Bella. I—”

  “Bella, I can’t talk right now. I’m at St. Patrick’s. We’re in the middle of a Bible study on the epistle of James.”

  “Oh, sorry, I just wanted to—” I never got to finish. She hung up on me.

  I groaned, then snapped my phone shut while I tried to figure out what to do. And though I hesitated to do it, I eventually telephoned my father, interrupting his fishing trip with Deany-boy and Frankie.

  “Pop, I hate to interrupt, but—”

  “Bella, hang on! I’ve got a live one on the line. Give me a minute to reel her in!” His voice faded, then I heard him holler out something to the boys about fetching a net. He returned to the phone moments later, breathless but happy. “It’s a redfish, Bella! She’s a beauty! Looks like we’re having fish for dinner.”

  “That’s great, but—”

  “What do you think, boys?” I could tell he’d turned his attention back to Deany-boy and Frankie. “Grilled or blackened?”

  Their excited voices rose and fell as the signal on the phone cut in and out. I groaned. At this rate, we’d never get the AC fixed. “Pop, I need you.” After a long pause, I hollered, “Pop!”

  He finally came back on the line. “What is it, Bella Bambina? What does my girl need?”

  I explained the air conditioning dilemma, and he agreed to call a repairman and get back with me. Half an hour later, he called back to let me know the repairman—a guy named Pete—couldn’t come until tomorrow.

  I didn’t mind. Not really. But I had to get out of the building before the heat fried my few remaining brain cells. Because I had a few wedding-related items to pick up at Walmart on the seawall, I headed off for some time alone.

  The traffic on Broadway was more troublesome than usual. Tourist season was at its peak, after all. And when I reached the seawall, the situation did not improve. Not that I really minded. No, with the windows down and the salty breeze in my face, I felt at home, traffic or no traffic.

  A thousand things rolled through my brain as I headed west toward Walmart. I found myself thanking God, not just for my quirky family and my new love interest, but for Galveston Island, my home. Well, my home since New Jersey.

  Though I rarely talked about it, I loved just about everything to do with living on the island. In spite of her many storms, she was a survivor. I could relate to her tenacity, her unwavering spirit. And the people! Seemed no matter how many times they faced the ravages of the sea, they returned to rebuild. Talk about backbone!

  I gazed out across the waters, taken in by the waves. How calm they seemed now, but how quickly they could be riled up. On a peaceful day like today, I could almost envision moonlit strolls on the beach. The misty breeze off the gulf in the morning. The seagulls, white with gray wings, as they dove into the water for bits of food. The sound of tourists’ voices as they chased the shallow waves along the shoreline. The majestic colors of the sun setting over the water.

  More than anything, I loved the pull of the waves. They did their usual back-and-forth thing, day in and day out. Sometimes I felt the pull of the sea more than I admitted. I knew what it felt like to be tugged back and forth, and there were times I wanted to just release myself to the unknown, to allow something new and exciting to pull me to an unknown place. That’s why running the wedding facility got under my skin so much. Organizing weddings . . . well, that was my “unknown place,” and I loved it.

  I passed the condominiums at 61st and the seawall where D.J. lived and tried to imagine what his place looked like. Had he chosen country-western decor? Was it a typical bachelor pad with black leather sofas and empty walls? At
the rate things were going—both of us so busy—I’d never find out. Since our meeting on Saturday with Armando, we’d only had snatches of conversations by phone. Was it possible to miss someone I’d known only a week?

  As if to remind myself he was more than just a figment of my overactive imagination, I reflected on his kiss that night at the steak house. Oh, what sweetness! I’d never known such a fireworks moment . . . until Tony had walked in on us. Then we’d experienced fireworks of a completely different kind.

  Not that it mattered. I could handle Tony’s glares and snide remarks. With D.J.’s arms wrapped around me, I’d felt safe, secure. I’d also felt completely comfortable—a fact that still surprised me, in light of the fact that we barely knew each other. I wanted to relish that comfort and yet step out into the vast unknown of this new relationship all at the same time.

  As I drove, I glanced to my left. The mighty Gulf of Mexico beckoned. Tourists—the bread and butter of Galveston Island—lined the beaches, and their colorful umbrellas dotted the beige sand. How long had it been since I’d been out in the water? Seemed strange to live on an island surrounded by water on every side and never venture out into it. People drove all the way from north Texas and beyond to visit my hometown. Why couldn’t I take a few minutes and let the waves toss me to and fro?

  Oh yeah. Because I was too busy running a wedding facility. And planning for a country-western themed wedding. And boot shopping. And falling in love.

  Ah, love! I chewed on that idea as I pulled my SUV into the parking lot of Walmart. Leaning my head back against the seat, I closed my eyes and thanked God for the cowboy he’d dropped into my life. What an unexpected but wonderful surprise.