“And tell him to bring something for our potluck.”
“Negative. The man doesn’t cook. But explain to me why we’re doing a potluck for Thanksgiving?”
“Oh pish. Only a few of us have done all the Thanksgiving turkey for years. It’s time to share the duties with the rest of you moochers. I’ll add you to the Google Form so you can decide what to bring.”
“There’s a Google Form?” No, really. This conversation went from being painful to downright strange. What is happening here?
“Really, Rosalind. It’s the twenty-first century. You should be more tech savvy by now. Why I even bothered paying to send you to that fancy private school, I will never know.”
“Me neither, Ma.”
We chat for a few more minutes about my pregnancy and things I should expect before delivery. I had no idea my mother had gestational diabetes every time she was pregnant, so that’s one more fun thing I get to tell my doctor about at my next appointment. Who knew growing a kid would wreak so much havoc on my body? They never tell you that part when they’re doing DNA tests on Maury.
Overall, the conversation goes better than I expect. As a mom, she’s happy about my new job. As a pending grandma, she’s probably already spending money. And as the host of this year’s holiday festivities, she’s eluded all of her responsibilities by passing the cooking on to the rest of us.
Yeah, she has no reason to complain.
I, on the other hand, have to prepare to bring Joey into the DiSoto fold next week. But first, I need to find this Google Doc before the easy stuff is taken.
Chapter Nine
JOEY
I am not the guy who ever gets nervous. It’s just not in my nature to get flustered over things I can’t control. Even as a kid, when everyone else was anxiously trying to plan out the first day of school, I was just ready to make new friends and see what cute girl I could finagle into sitting next to for the year.
As an adult, I’m still the same way. New job? Cool. Can’t wait to expand my knowledge. New friend? Great. Let’s find something fun to do. New baby? Awesome. I’m going to learn everything I can about being a good dad.
I’m not sure where I got the personality trait, but I assume from my father since my mother has always playfully bitched about how he could go with the flow, even in the middle of a damn blizzard.
Still, for all my calm, today I’m experiencing something brand new—nerves. This isn’t excitement. It isn’t anticipation. This is flat-out fear of what will happen when Rosalind and I walk through her mother’s front door for the first time with the fruit of my loins presenting themselves inside her daughter’s slightly swollen belly.
If Rosalind’s bristly attitude is any indication, I really should have worn my cup.
We get out of my truck in front of a brownstone that looks an awful lot like Abel’s. We actually may be on the other side of his neighborhood. I wasn’t paying much attention on the drive over, too busy following Rosalind’s directions and reminding myself to not drop any f-bombs today.
I take a deep breath and follow Rosalind up the steps, doing my best to avoid staring at her ass. But let’s be real—her backside has always been fabulous and has been the visual image of too many intimate moments with myself lately.
“Are you sure they’re going to like me?” I ask, trying to remove the fear from my voice.
“Nope.”
My jaw drops and I nearly stumble on the step in front of me. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“You’re not supposed to feel better,” she retorts. “You’re supposed to be prepared for anything. It’s easier that way.”
“What does that mean? What could possibly happen?”
Rosalind snorts a laugh and puts her hand on the doorknob, only stopping to turn around and finish this conversation. “Anything. Anything could happen, Joey. My mother could slap you or she could kiss you. Nonna might hit you with her purse or drill you on Catholic traditions. Hell, my pops could make you his new best friend or he could pull out a Glock. Honestly, my mother threw me for a loop when I told her about you and the baby, so I have no idea what we’re walking into.”
“At least Abel will be here to protect me,” I grumble like a child.
“Don’t count on it. When my dad asks for his gun, he expects my cousin to be the one to find it, so he doesn’t have to take his eyes off the target.”
Great. Should have worn my cup and my bulletproof vest. And don’t ask why I have a bulletproof vest. It involves a very detailed story that includes an illegal round of poker with a guy who used to work on a SWAT team.
“Deep breaths, Marshall. Don’t let them see fear.” I do as she instructs, all the while praying I don’t pass out. “You ready?”
I half-heartedly nod, not sure I am in fact ready to meet her entire family at once. I might be walking into a mob of angry people. Either way, she notices my hesitation and gives me an extra moment for one last deep breath.
“Let’s do this,” she says with a quick fist bump and pushes the door open.
I stay close behind her as she steps foot through the front door and announces our arrival. “We’re here!”
The room is packed with people of all ages, all genders, possibly one priest—everyone turning to look right at us. What was a loud and joyous occasion, suddenly goes completely silent.
Rosalind waits for a few seconds before gesturing to me with her thumb and saying, “So this is Joey.”
All at once, as if they have been practicing to get the timing right, all hell breaks loose.
You know that scene in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, the one where all the relatives show up and Clark can’t do anything while his mother inspects him like he’s at a doctor’s appointment? That scene is vivid in my mind for two reasons.
First, because I did my yearly Thanksgiving watch of the classic Christmas flick while waiting for Rosalind to finish trying on eight different outfits before we drove over. On a side note, she ended up in jeans, so I’m not sure why it took so long, but at least I got a few Griswold laughs in.
And second, it’s exactly how I feel right now as I get poked and prodded and slapped on the back. I’m surrounded by people I’ve never met, who are peppering me with everything from kisses to questions on my religious beliefs and who I voted for. If I weren’t such a personable guy, it would make me wildly uncomfortable. Fortunately, I’m a pro at fitting in, so I smile back and reciprocate hugs, trying to avoid any politics and religion talk with a standard answer of “Let’s save those topics for dessert. We can’t start throwing punches until after we’ve eaten. Hahaha.” The men, at least, seem to find that response acceptable and maybe even smart.
Finally, the crowd parts, a stern-looking woman making her way through. It’s as if everyone knows a queen is in our midst. Her dark hair is held up on top of her head in a fancy bun. She’s wearing a brightly colored blouse and dark pants. Her jewelry is significant, yet not gaudy. She sashays toward me, scowling as the crowd quiets. She stares me up and down and up again before speaking.
“I am Rosalind’s mother. You may call me Mona.” Unsure how to respond, I say nothing, do nothing, barely breathe. She finally throws her arms out wide and yells, “Welcome to the family!” before grabbing me and hugging me tightly.
The room erupts into cheers as Mona guides me through the sea of people into the kitchen where food is already being set up. There are at least three good-sized turkeys, two hams, and all the side dishes I could imagine. It looks and smells fantastic, and I thank my lucky stars carbs are a required part of my diet these days. Strongman might still be five months away, but I need to build my middle to help stabilize my core during the heavy lifting. I’ll miss my eight-pack, but by mid-summer, it’ll be back. That’s the height of bathing suit season anyway.
Everything on the counter is clearly homemade with a lot of love. I’m not sure where we’re going to put the Tupperware I have in my hands. I guess Mona will figure it out. She lo
oks like she’s done this hosting thing before.
Handing the container to her, I say, “We brought deviled eggs.”
She takes it from me with one hand and cups my cheek with the other. “Isn’t he sweet? He made us deviled eggs.”
More murmurs from the crowd that seems to be following us around. I suppose I am sort of a sideshow attraction right now—the first man to come home with the stripper relative. Although Rosalind swears it’s the best-kept secret in the family. Still, I’m a novelty and I know it.
“Actually, I’m a horrible cook,” I admit. “Rosalind made them.”
“Oh,” her mother says, a look of disappointment on her face. The expression changes quickly when she announces, “Isn’t he sweet? He brought us Rosalind’s deviled eggs!”
The crowd erupts in cheers again, and I’m starting to wonder how long they’ve all been hitting the sauce. This isn’t just a family meal. It’s almost like a sporting event. I wonder if they give out ribbons for best food and if Mona wins all of them because family politics.
When she steps aside to put the Tupperware down, another family member takes her place.
I’d say she’s elderly, but she doesn’t seem to believe so. The way she carries herself, the way she’s dressed, the way she looks me up and down while she licks her lips reminds me of a darker-haired Blanche from Golden Girls. She’d probably fit right in with my 65+ workout class. Once she stops eyeing me like a piece of meat, I should offer her a free trial.
I bend down anticipating a hug, but instead she reaches her hand up, because physically boundaries seem to be absent in this room so far, and pulls the band out of my man bun, making my hair fall around my shoulders.
“Look at all that beautiful hair,” Italian Blanche breathes seductively while she runs her fingers through the golden strands. If I didn’t like head massages so much, I might be uncomfortable. But her fingers are magical, so I’ll deal with the unsolicited flirting. “You look like a younger, more handsome Fabio.”
And my comfort level comes to a screeching halt. I have been compared to Brock O’Hurn and Jason Momoa before, which is flattering. But I’ve never been compared to Fabio, and I’m not sure I like it. The last thing I want to remind people of is the guy who got his nose broken by a bird when it flew into his face while he was riding a roller coaster. The video was pretty brutal. And oddly amusing, although I feel a tiny bit of guilt for laughing at that man’s pain.
Abel may be right—it might be time to get rid of the man bun.
Before I can respond, Italian Blanche is manhandled out of the way by an older gentleman, his dark hair is thinning on top, stomach rounded with a potbelly indicative of age.
“Keep your hands to yourself, Aurora,” he demands, and I can already tell in his younger years he was probably terrifying. Hell, he’s intimidating now, and I’ve got at least fifty pounds of muscle alone on him. Strength means nothing if I’m swimming with the fishes.
I stand stock-still as the man assesses me, the entire room dead silent once again. While I’m not uncomfortable being the center of attention, being the star of what may or may not be a mob drama is admittedly a little nerve-wracking.
The man takes his time walking around me, as if I’m a steed whose worth he’s determining based on pedigree and athleticism. He ends up in front of me again, shrewd eyes never glancing away, holding my gaze in a power struggle I’m determined not to lose.
“I… am Rosalind’s father, Lorenzo Palmer.” His appraisal makes more sense now. I’m more confused on how I should respond, though. Do I hold eye contact and win this game? Or do I give up as a sign of respect? I didn’t watch the Godfather movies. I don’t know the right way to proceed. Maybe having Fabio hair is a good thing right now. It’ll be easier to change my appearance if this all goes south.
After a few more seconds of uncomfortable and intimidating silence, Lorenzo speaks again. “You are the man responsible for getting my Rosalind in the family way. What do you have to say for yourself?”
I swallow hard, buying time before deciding to just go with the truth. “Rosalind is a fantastic woman. I’m really excited to be a parent right alongside her.”
His jaw twitches but he says nothing. “So, you will take care of my daughter and my grandchild.”
I don’t even have to think about my answer. It’s automatic. “I would die for them.”
He stares for a few seconds more, until suddenly he throws his arms out, smiles and yells, “Welcome to the family!” The room erupts once again as his beefy arms come around me and he hugs me tight, kissing me on the cheek.
I am again passed around from person to person, each one welcoming me like I’ve always been part of the family. I have no idea who anyone is, as names are thrown at me left and right, but the whole thing is kind of fun. My family is so small, I’ve never been welcomed into anything like this, so it’s an experience I’ll never forget.
So far, Thanksgiving is a success. Fingers crossed the food makes it even better.
Chapter Ten
ROSALIND
I am officially stuffed. I indulged in Nonna’s Olive all’Ascolana before eating anything else, and I ate pretty much everything else. But those went first. I’d be highly disappointed if I didn’t have enough room for her stuffed and fried green olives. She only makes them once a year, and I spend the three hundred sixty-four days in between waiting for them again.
I wonder if I can get her to make them a few more times, claiming the baby is craving them. I make a mental note to call her next week and try it out. She doesn’t know how to make single servings of anything, and a family-sized portion will hit the spot.
Sitting on the couch, rubbing my swollen belly, I watch Joey engage with the family. The nerves he was sporting on the way here have more than disappeared. He’s actually enjoying himself. He’s so intriguing because it’s the exact opposite of my personality. Where he chats with everyone, I feel like I’m always assessing people and their motives. Where he smiles, I have a severe case of resting bitch face. Where he has never met a stranger, I have a hard time making friends. It’s so strange to me that he “peoples” with such ease. I have such a hard time with it; most people just write me off as a bitch, which I’m not. I don’t think. I may need to examine myself more closely on that one.
Abel plops down next to me on the couch, stretches his legs out and sighs deeply. Gesturing to the crowd gathered around my baby daddy, he asks, “Did you know this was going to happen?”
“What, that the family was going to love Joey more than they love me?”
He chuckles. “I guess that’s an accurate way to put it.”
“Nope. It’s completely unexpected.”
Abel watches for a minute before declaring, “It’s weird.”
“You’re telling me. I honestly expected Mom and Nonna and all the aunts to add him to their rosary or something. Instead, Mom got all excited about having two new members of the family.”
“When you guys came in?”
“No, last week when I finally told her. Oh, also be forewarned,” I add smacking his thigh, “she’s pissed at you for knowing all about my business and not telling her.”
He gasps. “Dammit, Rosie, why did you bring me into the conversation?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.” Although maybe I should have since he keeps using that damn nickname. “I was trying to make her feel better by telling her you had already assessed the situation and approved. She didn’t buy it. She started droning on about how mad she was you didn’t tell her.”
He groans and drops his head to the back of the couch. “Shit. I was wondering why she gave me the evil eye when I walked in. I hope the gnocchi she gave me wasn’t poisoned.”
“Oh! Gnocchi!” I exclaim, my mouth suddenly watering. “I forgot about her gnocchi! Is there any left?”
“Doubt it,” he says, crushing all my hopes and dreams. “Pretty sure your boy toy over there ate most of it while you were sucking down Nonna’s olives
.”
“Don’t judge me. I’m growing a real Italian baby over here.”
Just then, Joey raises a glass and yells “Opa!” before taking the shot of whatever liquor my dad just gave him. Probably Johnny Walker Black.
Abel and I both watch the scene in utter confusion as all the men laugh and clap Joey on the back. “Joey knows opa is Greek, right?”
“I highly doubt it,” Abel says. “Your Italian baby is going to be awfully confused.”
Based on this whole day, he’s not wrong.
We watch as Joey continues making conversation with just about everyone. He fits in so naturally here. Don’t get me wrong—physically he stands out. Compared to the potbelly on my dad and all the uncles, Joey looks like a supermodel. Not that he doesn’t always look like he should be in pictures. It’s just more pronounced with him being taller than anyone else, with long hair and wearing a tight sweater that shows off the cut of his shoulders.
No, even with the physical differences, it’s as if he’s been part of the family for years. This is good. He just blends in seamlessly. This is good. Joey fitting in and not being intimidated by my weird family will make it easier for the baby. And me. But mostly the baby. I think.
It’s really confusing to be hot for the guy who knocked you up when you’re almost positive his only interest in you is what you’re growing for him.
Abel nudges me before my thoughts go too far off the rails. “You know I’m happy for you, right?”
I turn to my favorite cousin and smile. “I know.”
“You know I’m still going to give you shit, though, right?”
“I would expect nothing less,” I say truthfully. “It just means I’ll be giving you shit right back.”
Weights of Wrath (Cipher Office Book 4) Page 8