“Bella’s famous,” Marcella said. “You wouldn’t believe all the people she’s worked with. Even Hollywood stars. Her themed weddings have made the news, and she’s even been featured in Texas Bride magazine.”
“Wow, that’s amazing.”
“I think so.” Marcella sighed. “I hate to admit this, but I use Bella to promote my business. I mean, it’s not every florist who has a sister-in-law who’s been written up in a well-known magazine. You know?”
“Sister-in-law?”
“Yes.” Bella nodded. “Marcella is married to my brother Nick.”
Wait a minute. This girl—the really nice one with the great personality—was really a Rossi? If so, Neeley must be her married name.
I’d not only stumbled into my dream job at a florist shop, I’d also stumbled headlong into a couple of new friendships from the enemy’s camp. And much to my horror, these Rossis seemed really, really great. At least the female contingent. But would they still accept my friendship once they found out who I was? The subject of my last name had never come up again after Marcella shoved my résumé into the drawer, but she was bound to find out sooner or later. All she had to do was look at the tax forms I’d filled out. The woman was so busy she didn’t care about my last name. Yet. But she would. They all would.
Bella rested against the counter and gave me a closer look. “You seem really familiar to me. Have we met before?”
She’d probably noticed me watching her from the upstairs window, but I would never say that. “No. Nope. Never met before.”
“Strange. Feels like I’ve seen you before someplace.”
For a moment it felt as if my tongue got stuck to the roof of my mouth. I couldn’t force any words at all. Not that I wanted to. Who could come up with something logical to talk about when everyone else in the room was from the Italian side of the street and I was from the Greek side? Once they figured out my dad was working overtime to take out their pizza business, they would hate me.
Bye-bye, florist job. Bye-bye, new friends.
“You okay over there?” Fine lines appeared around Bella’s eyes as she stared at me.
I finally managed to nod, then stammered, “Y-you’re Bella Rossi.”
She shrugged. “I’m Bella Neeley now.”
“But you were a Rossi?” I asked.
“Sure.” She shrugged again. “Once upon a time. And trust me, once a Rossi, always a Rossi. It’s like a disease. You can’t shake it.” She and Marcella erupted in laughter.
I felt sick. “Well, that pretty much changes everything.”
“Why does that change everything?” Bella comforted the little girl in her arms, who had started to fuss.
“Because you seem really nice.”
Now she looked perplexed. “Well, thank you. But I’m not sure I understand what this is—”
“You’re Bella Rossi. And you’re related to Marcella.”
“Who’s also a Rossi.” Bella put the little girl down in a chair and faced me. “My sister-in-law.”
“Right. I think I’ve got it all figured out now.” I smacked myself in the head and slid down into a chair, mumbling my epitaph in Greek. “You’re all Rossis,” I finally managed, this time in English.
“We are,” they said in unison.
“I work for the Rossis and now I’m friends with the Rossis too.”
Marcella nodded. “Well, of course we’re friends. Is that a problem?”
“A problem?” I echoed, then swallowed hard. “Oh no.”
Not unless you happen to consider a half-crazed Greek father a problem. Unless you’re sure—really, really sure—the family you’re working for is probably going to end up hating you in the end.
“Is there something you need to tell us, Cassia?” Bella asked.
“Just promise me one thing,” I said at last. “Promise you’ll never judge me based on my family.”
This got Bella so tickled that she actually doubled over in laughter. “Me? Judge you because of your family? Oh, girl . . . you have no idea.” She told a humorous story about her aunt Rosa and uncle Laz, and I felt myself relaxing as the truth surfaced—they were just as nutty as my dad. Maybe more so. Thank God.
“If you want to get together to talk family stuff, I’m your girl,” Bella said. “But I’m pretty sure I can one-up you on any story you might tell. Just saying.” She and Marcella shared a wacky story about the time Rosa chased a neighbor boy across the lawn with a broom, and my nerves lifted. By the time they covered their fourth—or was it fifth?—story, they’d long since forgotten about me.
Or not.
“Look, Cassia.” Bella gazed at me so intently I thought she could read my mind. “Let’s take a vow.”
“A vow?”
“Yes. We’ll never be offended by the other person’s family members. I won’t if you won’t.”
“Promise?” I asked. “Even if it turns out my family—well, at least one person in my family—is a little on the wacky side?”
“No offense.” She stuck out her hand. “I promise.”
I shook her hand and did my best to relax. Sooner or later they would have to know my deep, dark secret. For now, though, I would keep it to myself. Why ruin a new friendship on the very first day?
“Speaking of being offended, I might as well give it to you straight. Being in Texas is quite a wake-up call,” Bella said. “I know this from my own experience. You’ll have a thousand opportunities to get offended. You can’t take anything personally, especially if it’s spoken by someone with a Texas drawl.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for instance, you absolutely can’t be offended if someone calls you ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie.’”
“It took me a while to get used to that too,” Marcella said.
“Aunt Rosa hated it at first, but now she calls everyone ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie.’” Bella laughed.
“Except Uncle Laz.” A familiar male voice sounded from the door, and I looked over and saw that Alex had entered the shop with a bucketful of roses. “She’s got a few other choice names for him. He tends to run on the hot-tempered side at times.”
I’d seen that firsthand in the middle of the street during the photo shoot.
Alex’s comment clued me in to the fact that he was a Rossi too. Maybe not by blood, but he knew the Rossi family well enough to say something like that about Rosa and Laz.
Man. Was everyone on the island connected . . . except me?
“So you’re all friends?” I gestured from Alex to Bella to Marcella, then back to Alex again.
“Sure.” He nodded. “I was supplying flowers to Bella and her family before they switched the name of the business to Club Wed. We’ve known ’em forever. Our families go way back.”
“Of course, we’ve got the Splendora connection too,” Bella said. “Gotta factor that in.”
I didn’t have a clue what all of this stuff about Splendora had to do with anything but just offered a shrug.
“Cassia’s on a learning curve,” Marcella explained. “She’s from California.”
“Santa Cruz,” I said.
“Well, things are probably a little different here.” Alex gave me a wink.
“No joke.” I could lay out some of the differences, but I didn’t want to run the risk of offending anyone by glowing about the home I missed so much.
“Maybe you should look at what the two have in common,” Alex said.
“Like . . . ?”
“Like, both are coastal towns, right?” Alex said. “Can’t be all that different.”
“Oh, but it is,” I countered. “Have you ever seen the blue waters of the Pacific? The Gulf of Mexico doesn’t begin to compare. What color do you call that water, anyway?”
I fought the temptation to go off on a tangent, and all the more as Alex and Marcella began to brag about Galveston’s newest attraction, Pleasure Pier. Clearly they had never been to the boardwalk in Santa Cruz or they wouldn’t waste their breath. And they�
��d obviously never seen a true coastal area, one complete with mountains and redwood trees, carved into a beautifully scenic landscape edged up to vibrant blue waters.
When they finished their lengthy, glowing report about Texas, I just shrugged.
Bella laughed. “Give her a break, y’all. She’s only been on the island a few weeks. It takes time to win people over.”
“But if you’re not that keen on Texas, why come?” Alex’s question seemed genuine enough.
“I, um . . . well, I moved here after someone in the family made an impulsive decision. Let’s just leave it at that.” Biting back a sigh, I offered a little smile.
“Well, God bless whoever made the impulsive decision then.” He gave me another wink, which sent tingles all the way down to my toes. If all Texans were as welcoming as this guy, I might be swept away after all.
“Besides, if anyone understands impulsive family members, I do.” Alex dove into a crazy story about his controlling, over-the-top sisters, and I chuckled at how animated they sounded.
When his story ended, I gave all of my new friends a nod and released a slow breath. “I want you all to know that you’re terrific people, and it’s been great getting to know you.”
“Well, it’s been great getting to know you too, Cassia.” Bella threw her arms around me and gave me a big hug. “Welcome to the island.”
“I hope we can be friends,” I added. “I really do.”
“We’re already friends.” Little creases formed between her eyes. “At least, I thought we were.”
“We are, but . . .” I paused and thought about my next words very carefully. I needed to prep her for the truth, even if I didn’t share it all today. “You ever read Romeo and Juliet?”
“Sure. Didn’t everyone?”
“You know about the ongoing feud between the Capulets and the Montagues? It spoiled everything, and all because of family pride.”
“Are you telling me you’re Juliet and you’ve got a Romeo hiding in the wings somewhere?” Bella asked. “Some guy your family hates?”
For whatever reason, my gaze drifted to Alex, who’d reached for the bucket of red roses.
“No. Not exactly that. But my father is . . . is . . . different.”
“I thought we already covered the family thing,” Bella said with a wave of her hand.
Alex glanced our way as if to ask, “What did I miss?”
“We promised not to judge each other based on wacky family members,” Bella explained. “And I never go back on a promise.”
“She’s telling you the truth,” Alex said as he opened the refrigerator case. “And besides, have you met the Rossi family? No offense to Bella, but they’re some of the craziest people I’ve ever known, and I grew up in Splendora.”
Again with the Splendora reference? Where was this place? And were the people there really nuttier than the Rossis? If so, they might just rival my dad, the wackiest of all. Surely one day all of these awesome people would see the truth for themselves, and when they did my Romeo and Juliet reference would make perfect sense. Until then, I would relax and enjoy their company . . . while they were still speaking to me.
7
Till the Clouds Roll By
You might be Greek if you were surprised to discover the FDA recommends you eat three meals a day, not seven.
On the morning of Super-Gyros’ grand opening, the tantalizing smells of lamb, cumin, and garlic filled the air. Mmm. I’d always loved a gyro in the making. Apparently so did our new customers, who pressed through the front door in rapid succession. I watched as they made their way through our various selections of fresh hummus and pita bread to imported cheeses and kalamata olives. Yum. Who could even think of pizza on a day like today?
Apparently, no one on the island, judging from the slew of customers that streamed into our shop. Of course, many had come to redeem their free gyro coupon, but others were just here to sample the breakfast goodies and Greek coffees.
Mama smiled at a customer, an elderly woman with soft blue eyes. “Try the loukoumades,” my mother said. “You’ll never taste anything sweeter.”
The woman reached for one of the tasty nibbles. “Mmm.” She grabbed another, then another, finally buying two dozen to take home with her.
Mama turned my way and held out the platter of loukoumades. Oh, yum. I loved them more than anything else. Well, anything except baklava. Making my way behind the counter, I reached for the plate of golf ball–sized fritters and popped one in my mouth, savoring the gooey honey and cinnamon topping. Yum. A second bite revealed another tasty treat.
“I love the extra walnuts,” I said after licking my fingers clean. “They’re my favorite.” I reached for another, gobbling it down.
Off in the distance my father took the opportunity to extend the welcome mat to Officer O’Reilly, who’d shown up with three of Galveston’s finest. Babbas offered them each a free gyro and a cup of Greek coffee. Black, of course. Within a minute, the officers were seated at one of the tables in the corner, laughing and talking.
Customers came and went for the entire morning, keeping us busy and excited. We couldn’t provide the breakfast sweets fast enough, and by eleven o’clock the sandwiches were being snapped up right and left. Apparently my father’s advertising campaign was working. And from what I could judge as I glanced out the window, the crowd on the Greek side of the street far outweighed the crowd on the Italian side. Not that Parma John’s appeared to serve breakfast, but whatever.
The midmorning crowd finally thinned, and I worked up the courage to approach Babbas about my new job at the flower shop. I explained my reasoning and shared the plan I’d come up with to balance my hours between Super-Gyros and Patti-Lou’s Petals. All of this I did at warp speed, hoping to spit it out before he could comment. And I left out the part where my boss and all of my new friends happened to be Rossis.
“I don’t understand it, Cassia.” Drops of moisture clung to his damp forehead. “You’ve always worked for the family. This is important. We’re just starting out and we need you at Super-Gyros.”
“I understand, Babbas, but with so many other children in the family, you have all the workers you need. To cover most of the shifts, anyway. I can still come and go. Marcella will give me a flexible schedule.”
“Marcella?”
“The shop owner. She’s great. And like I said, I can still help out. I’m not going anywhere. Not really. But I want to do something . . . different. Something unexpected.” I paused and did my best to press back the lump in my throat. “Why do you think I took those classes in floral design?”
He gestured to the shop’s decor. “So that you could help decorate the shop, of course. It never entered my mind that you might jump ship.”
“Babbas, that’s not what I plan to do. Not at all. You know I’ll always be linked to Super-Gyros.” Like I could ever get away.
A muscle clenched along his jaw. “We will discuss this later, Cassia. The lunch crowd should be here shortly. You ready to get back to work? I need you today more than ever.”
Clearly the man hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Or if he had, it had gone in one ear and out the other.
A voice rang out from behind me. “I’d like the Super-Gyro with peppers and extra onions. Scratch the sauce. I’ve never been a fan of tzatzi . . . tzatzi . . .”
I turned to see a local mailman standing there, licking his lips. Babbas stood, gave the fella a friendly pat on the back, and proclaimed that his sandwich would be half price. After teaching him the correct pronunciation of our homemade sauce. Minutes later, he had the fellow convinced that tzatziki—at least our version of it—was the perfect complement for the gyro.
In the middle of the lunch crowd chaos, the mayor appeared. She opted for the souvlaki sandwich—our top sirloin shish kebab on a pita with tomato, bell pepper, onion, and tzatziki sauce. Babbas offered it to her for free, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Still, I could tell he’d won her over.
A cute guy we
aring a surfboard shop T-shirt asked for a Super-Gyro. The woman behind him wanted a Greek salad. On and on the orders went. Just about the time we’d made enough sandwiches to feed everyone in the place, I was worn out.
I glanced around the shop, my gaze landing on a lady with three small children. She bit into a gyro, and a look of sheer bliss transformed her face from cranky mom to contented customer. In that moment, I understood why Babbas worked so hard to make Super-Gyros the best it could be—the same reason I worked so hard to create bouquets of flowers. To bring joy to people. To lift spirits. To make a difference in their lives.
Food has the power to transform. How many times had I heard him speak those words? Not that I had time to ponder them right now, with the crowd pressing in around me.
A woman who introduced herself as chairman of the island beautification committee stopped in to pick up food for a group meeting. “I’ll have five spinach chicken pitas and three Super-Gyros.” She watched as Mama—makeup easing its way down her face—whipped together the lamb and beef supersize sandwiches loaded with tzatziki.
I offered to put together the pitas. “What would you like on top?” I asked the woman.
“Everything else in the restaurant.” Her gentle laugh rippled through the air. “Seriously, load ’em up. Whatever you think we’ll like.”
I was up to my eyeballs in pitas when three nuns entered Super-Gyros chatting like schoolgirls. I braced myself, knowing what was about to happen. Sure enough, Babbas closed in on them and shared one of his “three nuns walked into a bar” jokes, and before long the sisters were laughing like hyenas. Then, when Father Harrigan joined them minutes later, they shared my dad’s joke all over again. Go figure.
Over the next few hours I worked like a slave, just as I’d done hundreds—no, thousands—of times back in Santa Cruz. But as much as I hated to admit it, I had a blast all the while. These Galvestonians were a hoot. I couldn’t get over the Texas twang from many of them. Maybe Southerners really were sweeter than folks from the West Coast. At any rate, I needed to give them a chance.
Speaking of sweet, more than once a customer asked for sweet tea. I just shrugged and pointed them to the soda machine or the coffee servers.
A Bouquet of Love Page 6