Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1)

by Liz Talley

  “Hey, Sal. Start the vodka sauce. We’re making Mama’s special today,” his father called from the front.

  “Got it. And Pop?” Sal called.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not chasing love. I’m just not hiding from it.” Sal tied his apron on and started grabbing the ingredients he’d need to make his grandmother’s sauce. He loved feeling connected to his family through the old recipe handed down through generations. Nothing wrong with following the recipe. Lots of people stuck to the step-by-step directives.

  His father didn’t answer. No need to. Sal was, if anything, hardheaded. But in the matter of Rosemary, it didn’t matter. He didn’t have her number. Didn’t know where she was staying. Putting her in that cab last night after she’d suggested they continue the night had been the hardest thing he’d done. But a sixth sense had told him to give her space. Deep sadness and determination shaded her laughter, etched in her face. This was a girl who didn’t do one-night stands. This was a girl who didn’t know the score like the chicks in the clubs did. So he’d left it up to Rosemary.

  If she wanted him, she’d come to Mama Mello’s.

  If not, he’d take it as a sign and jab his foot into the hard-soled shoe. He’d live the life handed to him rather than looking for something different. Not everyone got what they wanted. He’d learned that hard lesson at the hands of a stuck-up bitch who’d gotten married over Christmas and honeymooned in Saint Bart’s.

  As he lifted the strainer full of tomatoes fresh from the market, he said a little prayer.

  Please let Rosemary come save me.

  Rosemary woke to a silent loft and the smell of coffee.

  Blinking, she rubbed her eyes and looked around. No Marco. The bed had been stripped of sheets—if the bundle sitting on the end was any indication—and remade with military precision. A half-full pot of coffee sat on the Carrara marble counter with what looked to be a note.

  She’d actually fallen asleep at some point.

  Miracle of miracles.

  Reaching for her phone, she checked the time—9:25 a.m. Good Lord. She never slept past seven. In fact, her friends always teased her about rising before the infernal rooster her next-door neighbor kept. Stretching, she rose, wincing when her thighs protested. Then she remembered the dancing. The dog-ugly yellow flip-flops in the small entryway proved she’d twirled about a rooftop dance floor with Sal last night.

  Her phone vibrated in her hand, and for the slightest moment she thought it might be him. But then she remembered they hadn’t shared contact information. Just one perfect night.

  She glanced at the ugly flip-flops she’d kicked off.

  Okay, maybe not a total Cinderella fantasy.

  “Hi, Mama,” she said into the phone after pushing the ANSWER button.

  “Oh good. You’re still alive,” her mother said.

  Rosemary laughed. “Very funny, Mama.”

  “I’m not being funny. I’m serious. Being worried sick is not good for my stomach. Just ask your father. I was up all night with acid indigestion.”

  “She was, honey,” her father chimed in. He probably sat next to her mother in the sunroom. No doubt drinking the one and a half cups of coffee Patsy allowed him each morning.

  “I wish you wouldn’t worry. For heaven’s sake, I’m twenty-seven.”

  “Asking her not to worry is like telling a frog not to croak,” her father said. Rosemary was certain she could hear him turning the pages of the morning paper.

  “A frog not to croak? That’s ridiculous, and I don’t care for being compared to a frog, Harold.”

  Her father made no other sound. No doubt he’d tuned his wife out. Silence was her father’s greatest defense.

  “I’m fine, Mama. Just got up and about to have some coffee.”

  “Just now getting up? My goodness. It’s after nine there.” Unspoken censure. Patsy Reynolds embraced early to bed and early to rise. As a renowned horticulturist, Rosemary’s mother rose before the sun awoke each day, pausing to have coffee when her husband got up later.

  “I’m on a much-needed vacation,” Rosemary reminded her mother. Not that she needed to. Like Patsy forgot for a moment her precious daughter was on the mean streets of New York City.

  “So what did you do last night?” her mother asked.

  Tell the truth? Or lie like a dog? “I went out for Italian.” Rosemary clapped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh.

  “By yourself?”

  “Who else was I going to go with, Mother?”

  “It seems odd to be alone in such a big city. Why didn’t you take one of your friends? Much safer that way.”

  “I would have. But Eden and Jess had work.”

  “But you didn’t ask me to go with you,” her mother said.

  And that was the issue. Her mother was miffed Rosemary hadn’t asked her to come with her. They’d gone to Memphis and Graceland last year together, and Rosemary swore she’d never repeat the experience. Her mother had brought her own sheets to stay at the Peabody Hotel and complained about every nitpicking thing, including the decor in Elvis’s residence. Rosemary was surprised she hadn’t suggested a decorator to the tour guide. “Mom, we went over this. I needed a break from my regular life. I—”

  “And what’s so wrong with your life, missy? You have a family who loves you, friends at your fingertips, and a successful business. Not to mention, Margaret Haven’s son just moved back to work at the bank as a loan officer. He’s very attractive.”

  “Chris moved back to Morning Glory? When did this happen?” Rosemary struggled from the depths of the couch and went into the kitchen. Moscow jumped onto the counter and yowled.

  “What’s that? Halle’s cats? They sound feral,” her mother said.

  “Just hungry.”

  “Well, I saw Margaret yesterday at our circle meeting, and she said he was moving back. Got laid off by that oil and gas firm in New Orleans. Poor man. But he got in with Jansen Peters at the bank and he’ll be moving back this weekend. There you go.”

  “Mother, Chris is gay.”

  “He is not. Just because a man takes pride in his appearance and doesn’t date every slut from here to Meridian doesn’t mean he’s gay. Now don’t go spreading those sorts of rumors, Rosemary Marie. It’s very unladylike.”

  Rosemary rolled her eyes. “Yes, ma’am. I would never want to be unladylike.”

  “Sarcasm does not become you, dear.”

  “Look, I’m not interested in the impeccably dressed Chris, and I’m doing fine here. I’ve already met a nice man who took me dancing last night.” Yep. She laid it out there.

  “What? You went dancing last night? Have you lost every bit of sense the good Lord gave you? Harry, did you hear that? She went out with a man last night. A perfect stranger!”

  “How could I have missed it, Patsy Lee? You’re yelling in my ear.” She heard the phone crackle as her father no doubt took the receiver. “Now, Rosemary, I want you take the pepper spray with you wherever you go. Oh, and make sure you lock your doors.”

  Rosemary didn’t know whether to laugh at her parents or be offended they thought she was a complete idiot. “I’ll do that, Daddy. I need to go. The cats are demanding food, and I’m planning on going out for some of those famous New York bagels.”

  Another crackle and she heard her mother sniff before saying, “Oh no. You wait a second, missy. We haven’t talked about the absolutely irresponsible, not to mention dangerous, thing you did last night. This is why I didn’t think it was a good idea to have you going off to that . . . that . . . hellhole. Too much could go wrong up—”

  “Mama, stop. You’re being ridiculous and I don’t want to argue with you. I appreciate you’re concerned, but I’m a grown woman. Let me repeat that—grown woman.”

  Silence on the line.

  “Mama?”

  “Whatever you want, honey. I want you to be happy. That’s all I ever wanted. Got to go. Shorty’s here to prune the roses in the south garden.
” The cold words were spoken like a true passive-aggressive southern mama. But the one thing Patsy Reynolds had gotten right was that Sal Genovese was a perfect stranger. Emphasis on perfect.

  “’Bye, Mama. Give Daddy my love.” Rosemary hung up. Looking at Melbourne, who leaped to join his friend on the counter, she sighed. “Guess I shouldn’t have poked a stick at her by telling the truth. Should have told her I stayed in and watched Little House on the Prairie reruns.”

  Moscow yowled again.

  “Okay, I’m getting it,” she said, pulling the bag of cat food from beneath the counter, noting once again how much more expensive the cat food was in NYC than in Mississippi. Her dad would flip out at the sticker shock. The man claimed cats didn’t need fancy store-bought food, not when they came equipped to find their own dinner.

  After pouring a cup of coffee and figuring out how to work the fancy convection microwave, Rosemary propped up her feet and got out her travel guides. So much to do in NYC, she didn’t know where to start.

  Should she buy a ticket for the on-again, off-again bus? Someone had told her it was the best way to get a feel for the city, but that seemed so touristy. But . . . she was a tourist.

  Or she could wander around SoHo and the surrounding neighborhoods, letting the day take her where she should go. Like she had last night.

  Sal laughing as she tried on flip-flops in the twenty-four-hour convenience store popped into her mind. He’d looked so incredibly handsome, his dark hair falling over his brow, brushing past his eyebrows. Her father would say he needed a decent haircut, but Rosemary liked the way it lazily skimmed his brows. She also liked his crooked nose and his toothy smile. And the five o’clock shadow had made him more approachable. But the thing she loved almost as much as the kiss he’d given her was the way he’d sung the lyrics from the old standards in her ear as they moved against each other on the dance floor. Nothing was sexier than a man who knew all the words to “At Last” and “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.”

  Snapping the travel book shut, she made a snap decision. She’d go by Mama Mello’s first and leave Sal a note with her number. Maybe even ask him out. In her other life it would have felt too forward, but after enduring her mother’s rant, she felt even more determined to be the other half of herself—the half who wanted to lock her ankles around Sal’s neck . . . the half who wasn’t about to let the boy get away.

  “Good enough, Lacy?” she asked the empty room.

  No response, but Rosemary smiled anyway. She already knew the answer.

  Today Rosemary would take the next step toward being a modern woman. She was going to be bold and forward. But she’d do it wearing her pearls like a good southern girl. Of that, her mother could at least approve.

  An hour later, she sat outside a small café eating a bagel that wasn’t too different from the ones she bought at the Lazy Frog—Sassy must be doing something right. Fifteen minutes after smiling hello at a dozen strangers who looked uncomfortable smiling back, striking up a conversation with an older woman who walked a poodle with matching bows on her ears—the poodle, not the woman—and refraining from licking the cream cheese off her plate, Rosemary headed toward Mulberry Street and Mama Mello’s.

  She felt good. The day wasn’t as humid, so she wore her hair down and pulled on a new Katherine Way tunic dress she’d found in a boutique in Jackson on the not so ill-fated but still knuckle-gripping trip. In her crossover bag she carried a thank-you note for Sal. Thankfully, she’d stashed a monogrammed note in the side pocket before she left home so she had personal stationery on which to write her number.

  And the last line stated very plainly that she wanted to see him again.

  Applying a coat of lip gloss, she congratulated herself on finding the restaurant without getting turned around. A good sense of direction wasn’t on her short list of talents, so she’d studied the map of SoHo, Little Italy, and Nolita that morning.

  The tables that had sat outside Mama Mello’s yesterday were noticeably absent, and the sign in the window told her in fancy cursive that the place was closed.

  Huh. She hadn’t thought about that.

  Rosemary tried the door but it was locked.

  So . . . what to do?

  The old Rosemary would have chalked it up to fate or slid the note under the door hoping for the best. She glanced down at the flush threshold where the note would never fit. But no matter. Because the new Rosemary had long tired of playing the role of shrinking violet. She wasn’t about to be thwarted by a CLOSED sign.

  So she knocked on the glass, cupped her hands around her face, and peered inside.

  A young woman stopped setting cutlery on the tables and squinted at Rosemary. Making an annoyed face, she headed toward the front and unlocked the door, pushing it open. “Deliveries over there.” She jabbed a finger to the right.

  Rosemary leaned back and noted the door. “I’m, ah, not here for a delivery.”

  “Then we don’t want any,” the younger woman said, pulling the door toward her.

  Rosemary caught the handle before it closed. “Wait.”

  “What? We open at eleven. Come back then.”

  “No.” Rosemary jerked the door open. “If you’d let me speak, I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

  The woman looked about Rosemary’s age. Maybe younger. She wore a white shirt and trim black pants, and her dark hair hung in a low ponytail. Her chin was pointed, eyes dark, and the curve of her face looked familiar. Rosemary would bet her new Tory Burch flats that this girl was Sal’s sister.

  “So what’s this about?”

  “Sal,” Rosemary said. “Is he here?”

  The woman broke into laughter. “Oh God. You’re joking, right?”

  “No,” Rosemary said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

  “Let me guess, you left your panties at his place,” the woman asked.

  “What? No.” Rosemary let go of the door, shocked the woman would even think something like that.

  Sal’s sister or cousin or whoever she was lowered her eyes and took in Rosemary. Then she arched her eyebrows. “Never mind. I can see that probably didn’t happen. But, hey, don’t fault me. It’s happened before. The last chick was adamant she was going to get her Agent Provocateur undies back.”

  Rosemary didn’t know what to say, so she pulled the thank-you note from her bag. “So if you’re done telling me about Sal’s intimate past, I’d appreciate your giving this to him.”

  The woman looked at the heavy vellum envelope with Rosemary’s initials engraved on the back as if it were a loaded gun. “You want me to give him an invitation or something?”

  “Actually it’s a—”

  “Rosemary?” a voice called behind the woman. Sal appeared, sticking his head around the door. He looked even better than she remembered. This time his hair had been tamed by a brush and a small pinprick of red sauce dotted his white apron. Just like the day before. Like a trademark. “Hey, you came by.”

  The woman holding the door turned her head, shrinking back, looking flabbergasted. “You know this chick?”

  “Yeah, so let her in, Fran,” Sal said, pulling the door back, annoyance on his face as evident as the scent of garlic permeating the air. He jerked his head toward the woman still looking confused. “This is Frances Anne, my sister.”

  Rosemary’s hands sweated again, but she used her best committee smile when she turned to the woman. “Hi, I’m Rosemary. I, uh, came to the restaurant last night. The meatballs were really good.”

  Frances Anne reacted like a unicorn had tap-danced into the restaurant. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

  “What’s this?” Sal interrupted, plucking the note Rosemary had been about to hand his sister from her hand.

  “It’s a thank-you note. I didn’t have your address,” Rosemary said lamely, wishing she’d forgotten the whole thing. She felt about as comfortable as a nun in a whorehouse.

  “A thank-you note?” Frances Anne repeated.

  “You know, Pop
needs you in the back,” Sal said, jerking his head toward the kitchen, narrowing his eyes in that age-old suggestion of get lost.

  “He can wait,” Frances Anne said, shifting her gaze between Rosemary and Sal. Obviously Frances Anne felt vested in the interaction.

  “No. He can’t. Vamoose,” Sal said, jerking a thumb this time. “I can handle this.”

  Frances Anne dropped her gaze and looked pointedly at Rosemary. “You sure? ’Cause I have a feeling you need help here, bro. It’s like déjà vu all over again.”

  Rosemary was polite, but she wasn’t mealymouthed. Frances Anne seemed way too protective over a thirtysomething brother. “I came to thank your brother for being so kind to me last night. He made sure I had a nice introduction to New York City and was a perfect gentleman.”

  She expected her somewhat uppity tone to wither Frances Anne. No such luck—Sal’s sister crossed her arms and studied Rosemary as if she were bread mold. “He was kind to you, huh?”

  So Rosemary looked at Sal, who seemed at a loss for how to handle his sister baring her teeth.

  Rosemary might be dorky for showing up with engraved vellum, but she wasn’t a whore. “I didn’t sleep with your brother, if that’s what you’re implying. And I’m not sure why a thank-you note threatens you.”

  Sal gave his sister a less than polite shove, angling her back toward the kitchen. “Frances Anne needs to apologize and finish what she was doing.”

  “Should I apologize to the last one you got hung up on? I mean, man, you so have a type, don’t you?” Frances Anne said, ignoring her brother, digging in her heels.

  “If we’re playing connect the dots, I’m missing a few,” Rosemary said.

  Sal glared at his sister, his lips a thin line, his posture at least as stubborn as his sister’s.

  Finally, France Anne gave a one-shouldered shrug, turned to Rosemary, and said, “Sorry if I implied something untrue. Sal can be a blockhead at times. We have to save him from himself when it comes to women. Nice to meet you.”

  Rosemary didn’t know how to respond to that admission. Something bubbled beneath the surface, but she wasn’t going fishing. Wasn’t any of her business. She barely knew the man. “’Bye.”