Fools Rush In

by Janice Thompson

  Ah. Mr. Billings.

  “How do you know?”

  “Just a feeling I get. This always happens to me. I meet a really great guy, and then . . .” She sighed. “He’s gone. Usually forever.”

  Wow. What an uplifting night this was turning out to be.

  “Don’t worry about me.” Patti-Lou waved a hand in my direction. “I’m okay with being single. It’s a terminal condition. In my case, anyway. I’ve reconciled myself to that fact.”

  She disappeared down Broadway in her van, but her words lingered in the air behind. They seemed to swallow me up like the night air. As always, I had to wonder if my single status would ever change. Were Patti-Lou and I destined to be in the same boat forever? Was my singleness a terminal condition too? After a night like tonight, D.J.’s family would likely encourage him to head to higher ground. Find someone with a less nutty family and a less volatile ex-boyfriend.

  The very idea of losing D.J. brought the sting of tears to my eyes. A pain I’d never before experienced gripped my heart. Now that my cowboy deejay had boot-scooted on home to his condo at the edge of the gulf, I had to wonder if my chance for happiness had drifted out to sea.

  22

  Which Way Did My Heart Go?

  The morning after the wedding, I slept in late. When I finally awoke, every square inch of my body ached. Even my toenails cried out in pain. I didn’t realize until now just how many hours I’d spent on my feet over the past couple of days, or how many things I’d lifted, moved, or cleaned. One thing was clear—all of that work had finally caught up with me.

  Swinging my legs over the side of the bed was tough enough. But attempting to step down? Near to impossible. My knees didn’t want to bend. For that matter, neither did my back. Even my brain hurt, especially when I paused to think about D.J.’s rapid departure. He’d promised to call, but would I ever really hear from him again after Tony’s shenanigans? I sat in queasy silence for a moment, realizing I’d had too much barbecue last night. Better not to mention it to any of the others, especially Rosa. She’d be offering to rub olive oil on my belly, her homemade cure for stomachaches.

  Just as my toes touched down, I heard a rap on the door. I managed a feeble, “Come in.”

  Sophia stepped inside, fully dressed and looking like a prom queen. I hated her. How dare she? My sister was practically perfect in every way.

  She plopped down on my bed with an apologetic look on her face. “Hey, Bella. You going to church today?”

  “Yes. If I can just get my body to unfold, and if this queasiness passes.”

  She laughed, then gave me a sheepish look. “I’m going too, but I have ulterior motives.”

  “Oh?” I gave her a curious look.

  “I need to pray for forgiveness.”

  “For what?”

  She sighed, then peered at me with damp lashes. “I’m so sorry about inviting Tony last night without asking you first.”

  “Aha. So you’re to blame.” I’d never been one to hold back my thoughts where my sister was concerned, so I plowed ahead. “I just don’t get it, Sophia. I thought you liked D.J. Why would you sabotage me like that?”

  “Oh, I do like D.J.!” She offered a convincing nod along with a bright smile. “He’s great. His whole family is. And I think you two are perfect together. And I wasn’t trying to sabotage you at all, I promise.”

  I stared at her, confused. “Well, why bring Tony into the mix? Didn’t you realize things would turn out the way they did?”

  “Well . . .” My sister’s cheeks flushed, and for the first time a niggling suspicion settled in.

  “Don’t tell me you’re . . .”

  “Do you hate me, Bella?” She gave me an imploring look. “I didn’t mean to fall for him. I’ve been fighting it for months. But I’ve had the wildest crush on Tony for ages now.”

  “Ew.”

  She sighed. “I know. It kind of grossed me out at first too. Falling for my sister’s boyfriend.”

  “Ex-boyfriend.”

  “Yeah.” Her gaze shifted to the ceiling, then back down again. “But to be honest, I liked him even when you were still dating.”

  “Double ew.”

  “I tried not to.” Her eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw a glistening of tears. “You have no idea how hard I tried. Didn’t you ever notice that I made excuses not to be around on the nights he came for dinner? And that time you invited me along on your date to Moody Gardens, I told you I had an appointment?” After I nodded, she sighed. “I lied. I spent that afternoon at the restaurant, drinking three large caramel mocha macchiatos.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah, I was up all night. You know what caffeine does to me.” She gave me an imploring look. “Oh, but Tony does the same thing to me, only worse. I can’t sleep when I think about him. I feel like I’m on a high when he’s around, and I have this huge, plunging feeling all the way to my toes when he’s gone. I’m . . . addicted, Bella. And I can’t help it.”

  “I understand that particular addiction, trust me.” My heart had taken a pretty big plunge last night when I realized D.J. had left. And I certainly understood the staying up all night thing too. I’d hardly slept in the two weeks since meeting him.

  Sophia continued, oblivious to my thoughts. “After you broke up with Tony, I hoped . . .” Another sigh escaped, and I understood in an instant what she’d been trying to say all along. She’d been hoping Tony would turn his attention away from me—and toward her.

  Well, this certainly explained why none of her dates ever seemed to work out. How could they, when she’d given her heart to another?

  “I need you to forgive me.” She looked at me with misty eyes. “I promised myself I’d never let a man come between me and my sister.”

  “Sounds like a song.”

  “I know, but I really mean it. He’s . . .” She stammered over the words. “He’s . . . not worth it. He’ll probably never even figure out I exist, but you . . .” She reached to take my hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’ll be my sister for life. So please forgive me.”

  “I’ll forgive you on one condition.” I eased myself to a standing position. “When you and Tony are married and have half a dozen children, I still want you to work for me at the wedding facility. I plan to be in business for years to come, and I can’t do it without you. And you’ll have to ask me to be your maid of honor . . . even if it’s a little weird.” I shivered, thinking about just how weird it would be.

  “Oh, Bella!” Sophia lunged into my arms, almost knocking me down. “You’ve got it. And wouldn’t Tony and I make beautiful babies together?” She clasped her hands together and giggled. “Sophia DeLuca. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Extending her left hand, she looked at the empty ring finger. “Someday. I know it’s going to happen. I just know it.”

  A starry-eyed look replaced her once-sensible expression, and I shrugged. Maybe Sophia and Tony would end up living a happily-ever-after life, but would I? After last night, I highly doubted it.

  Sophia sashayed out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  As I showered, I reenacted the wedding. Sure, the cleanup had presented some problems, but the actual wedding and reception had come off without a hitch. With God’s help, I’d done it! I’d pulled off my first real themed wedding. And the bride and groom left for their honeymoon content. Really, that was all that mattered. Right?

  Of course, there was that one little incident that involved Bubba’s eyebrows. And the police. And of course there was Bubba’s black eye to consider. But if you didn’t factor in all of those things, the night could very well be considered a success.

  A wave of satisfaction washed over me as I reveled in the possibility that I wouldn’t drive our family’s business into the ground. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I looked forward to the next wedding—a medieval extravaganza. Knights in shining armor. Ladies-in-waiting. What fun I’d have working with the bride-to-be. Not that I really knew much about
the Renaissance era. Hmm. I’d better spend some time researching over the next couple of weeks.

  Oh, but right now all I wanted to do was relax. Take a deep breath. Thank God for all he’d done . . . and then figure out a way to express my regrets to D.J.’s family about Tony’s actions.

  I spent the next couple of hours in church with the Rossi clan. Seated in the pew, I praised God for his many blessings and asked him to mend any broken fences between the Rossis and the Neeleys. Reverend Woodson spoke on overcoming obstacles, a lesson I needed to hear. And looking at his boots reminded me that I had a little business to take care of when I arrived home: the Lanciottis. I needed to get them back into their rightful owner’s hands.

  Later that afternoon—after Rosa’s traditional Sunday afternoon lunch of spaghetti and meatballs—I stood in the front hall, humming “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” I found the lyrics applicable, since more than a dozen pair of boots had disappeared over the past week or so. Everyone in the Rossi family had claimed at least one pair. Mama found a pretty pair with fringe. Rosa had taken the orange pair, claiming they made her run faster. Armando, Nick, and Joey had each settled on a pair, and Uncle Laz . . . well, once he’d sworn off the Lanciottis, he’d settled on a plain pair of worn brown boots, claiming they were the most comfortable things he’d ever put on his feet.

  I had to agree. The pair I’d selected for the wedding ended up being just the right fit. Maybe I’d been won over to the other side after all. Still, I couldn’t keep the Lanciottis. I had to track down the owner. Had to tell her the truth.

  Turning my sights to my email, I located the original email from the woman who’d sold me the boots. I located her name—Victoria Oldenburg—on the receipt. Found her address as well. And it didn’t take much work on my part to locate her phone number.

  With nerves kicking in, I punched in the number. She answered after the second ring with an abrupt, “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Oldenburg, this is Bella Rossi from Galveston. I’m the one who purchased the boots from you on eBay a little more than a week ago.”

  “That’s Ms. Oldenburg,” she countered in an all-too-serious voice. “And there’s no refund or exchange, so don’t even bother to ask.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m not calling to get my money back or because I’m unhappy with the product. Quite the opposite.” I went on to explain that I’d located a pearl in the midst of the oysters I’d purchased from her. “There’s a pair of boots here worth thousands of dollars.”

  She snickered. “The Lanciottis.”

  “You . . . you knew about them?”

  “Of course.” The tone of her voice changed as she continued. “Brian was always keen on expensive things. He used to brag that he was the only man in Lubbock with boots like that. Ya know, he was probably right, but I always hated to hear him carry on about it, especially in such a public way. He sure was a prideful man.”

  All this talk about Brian in the past tense made me wonder if he’d gone on to that great boot maker in the sky. But I couldn’t just come out and ask, could I? “So, you meant to sell them to me for twenty dollars?”

  “Yep. Serves him right.”

  Okay, now we were talking about him in present tense.

  The not-so-happy Ms. Oldenburg went on to share far too much information about her ex-husband—how he’d left her for a pretty young thing named Missy who worked at his office. How he’d neglected to return home to pick up his things before marrying Missy and building a mini mansion on the outskirts of town. How she—the first Mrs. Oldenburg, not the second—had sold off all of her ex’s possessions on eBay to get even. How she’d laughed when the sale of the boots had gone through.

  The woman’s enthusiasm grew as she told the story, but mine did not. In fact, I felt sicker by the moment. “So, you’re telling me I purchased something that didn’t actually belong to you?” I asked when she finally paused to breathe.

  Her voice took on a defensive tone. “Hey, all of the women’s boots were mine. I wanted to get rid of any evidence of my former life. And I had every right to sell the others. Brian left his stuff here when he took off. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know.”

  Okay, well, I’d heard that one before. I could almost envision the neighbor kid with my pop’s prized basketball in his hand. “But does he know what you’ve done?”

  “Yeah, he knows. That’s between us. You just enjoy those boots now, honey. And if you know anyone who might want to buy a Ford F-450 Super Duty for pennies on the dollar, let me know.” After a guttural laugh from the now-infamous Ms. O, the call ended.

  I held the phone in my hand, flabbergasted. As I looked around at the boxes, the truth registered. I didn’t have just a houseful of boots. I had a houseful of stolen boots. Brian’s boots, to be precise.

  Had he mourned their loss? Did he want them back? Only one way to know for sure.

  I got back on the Internet, looking up the address for Brian Oldenburg. It took nearly an hour of work on my part, but I finally reached him. I quickly explained the predicament, and for a minute, I thought the fellow might cry.

  “You . . . you’ve got my Lanciottis?”

  “I do. Where should I send them?”

  “And the others? You have all the others?”

  “I do, but I’ve used quite a few of them.” I further explained the situation, and he responded with, “You can keep those. No problem. But I’d do anything to have those Lanciottis back. And there was a pair of snakeskin boots I was partial to. Oh, and a goatskin pair that’s worth a pretty penny. I’d like to have those three back. Don’t give a rip what you do with the others, especially the ones that belonged to my ex-wife.”

  There was something about the way this fellow said the word ex-wife that caused my skin to crawl. Sounded so . . . final. So bitter. What was it with these two? Surely they’d loved each other once. Right?

  After giving him my address, he agreed to have UPS come by to pick up the three boxes and to cover all costs related to the shipping. He also offered to reimburse my $800.

  “You don’t have to do that, Mr. Oldenburg,” I argued. “I feel bad enough already. Trust me.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m happy to do it.” He laughed. “I can’t wait till I run into my ex-wife at the racetrack wearing those Lanciottis. It’ll be worth every penny.”

  Hmm. At once I thought of one of Aunt Rosa’s famous sayings: Non si puo avere la botte piena è la moglie ubriaca—you can’t have your cake and eat it too. Sure looked like Mr. Oldenburg was gonna try.

  I hung up feeling a bit nauseous. What would drive a couple to such lengths? Surely they’d once been a happy duo, facing each other at an altar to exchange “I dos.” Likely they’d been addicted to each other in the same way Sophia had described. Now they met at the racetrack to argue over who got the boots? And if the former Mrs. Oldenburg had been this vengeful about cowboy boots, how had she treated their poor children? If they had children.

  I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind but found it difficult. What was wrong with couples these days?

  These troubling thoughts stayed with me as I considered my line of work. I loved the wedding biz. Loved it. Loved making the plans. Loved pulling off a great event. Loved the look of pure joy on the bride’s face. Loved watching the couple ride off into the sunset for their happily ever after.

  Only one problem—I’d never really taken the time to think through the happily-ever-after part. What happened to my wedding couples after the big day? Would Sharlene and Cody still be blissfully happy a month from now? A year? Would they always feel the joy, the elation, or would the problems of life eventually kick in?

  I sighed. The Oldenburgs might as well have kicked me in the shins with those boots of theirs. They’d certainly knocked the wind out of my sails.

  My thoughts shifted to D.J. once again, and my heart took a plunge in the way Sophia had so aptly described just this morning. Why hadn’t he called? Was he avoiding me? Had that incident
with Tony been the nail in my proverbial coffin?

  My gut twisted at the very idea, and I had to admit, I was addicted. D.J. Neeley was my caramel mocha macchiato. Only now he’d gone missing. Would he forget about me? Cast me aside like a worn boot? Would he move on to someone new and build her a mini mansion on the outskirts of town?

  Determined not to let these questions get me down, I focused on my job—planning happily ever afters for everyone but me.

  23

  I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face

  The following morning I awoke to the shattering of glass, followed by Aunt Rosa’s shrill voice. Stumbling from the bed, I made my way to the window to peer outside. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my gaze shifted to the lawn, where I saw Rosa with the broom in her hand. Oh no! Not again!

  She sprinted across the yard, her floral bathrobe flapping in the breeze. A couple of foam curlers bounced onto the grass as she rounded the corner. Once again the Burton boy was on the bristly end of the broom.

  Swinging open my window, I heard Rosa shout, “And don’t let me ever catch you doing that again!”

  I shot out of bed and raced down the stairs, my eyes still sticky from sleep. Precious followed on my heels, her shrill yapping likely waking everyone in the house, including Guido. From the kitchen I heard him squawking, “Go to the mattresses! Go to the mattresses!” Still, none of this made sense. What had the kid done at this time of morning to get Rosa all riled up?

  Pushing propriety aside, I swung the front door open and stepped outside in my shorts and T-shirt. At that very moment, the Burton boy raced past the front steps. He paused long enough to holler, “Help me, please! She’s gonna kill me! Do something!” He wasn’t playacting this time around. I could read the terror in his eyes.

  Now, I knew Aunt Rosa didn’t have it in her to hurt anyone, but I could see how easily this could be misconstrued. She did have that wild-eyed look, after all. And her Italian phraseology let me know she wouldn’t stop until she caught the kid.

  My, how that woman could rant. And I had to admit, after years of listening to my aunt’s temper-induced shouts, I now knew more saint names than the pope. It appeared one or two of them—saints, not popes—might just be on the Burton kid’s side today. He made an abrupt turn toward his home, managing to make his way across the street and onto his lawn. Once there, he stopped cold, panting. Instead of his usual taunting, he disappeared into his house.