A Bouquet of Love

by Janice Thompson

  “Thank you, young lady,” Laz said. “I owe you.”

  I couldn’t manage anything but a weak nod, but Laz didn’t appear to be paying attention to me anyway. Instead, he hollered across the room at an incoming patron, telling him all about my brilliant-beyond-brilliant idea. Great. Before long everyone on the island would know I had inspired the new Greek pizza. Maybe he’d even name it after me. That would just be the icing on the cake.

  Cake. Mmm.

  My gaze shifted to the opening between Parma John’s and the bakery next door, Let Them Eat Cake. The smell of baked goods drew me in, almost distracting me from the problem at hand. In that moment an idea occurred to me. I knew just how I would get out of here without raising suspicion from the other side of the street. After we finished our pizza, I would come up with some reason to go into the bakery—maybe buy a cake or something—and then go out the bakery door. Perfect. That way, if I was spotted from the opposite side of the street, no one would question my loyalty.

  Just as I settled this issue in my mind, I caught a glimpse of a familiar man out of the corner of my eye. A shiver ran down my spine as I took in the fellow in the expensive suit, the one who’d gotten out of the limousine the other day. His confident stride spoke of authority as he headed right toward us. In his right hand he carried the dark case, the same one Babbas had insisted held a machine gun. As the well-dressed fellow lifted the case onto the counter by the cash register, I fought the temptation to duck under the table. I couldn’t die at Parma John’s. I just couldn’t. My father would never forgive me.

  “You okay over there?” Bella asked.

  I nodded but didn’t mean it. “Just, um, wondering about that man over there.” I spoke in a strained whisper. “The one with the case.”

  “Man with the case?” She turned and saw him, then grinned. “Oh, perfect timing! I’ve been waiting on him.” Bella rose and waved. “Gordy!”

  The man grabbed his case and rushed our way. “Bella!” He kissed her on each cheek, then reached to open the case.

  I pinched my eyes shut and braced myself for shots to ring out. This wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to meet my Maker.

  Turned out the dark case held a musical instrument—a saxophone. Gordy, I learned, directed a swing band, a band that Gabi had hired to perform at her wedding.

  Go figure. The limo didn’t belong to a mobster. It transported band members to and from gigs.

  I felt like a fool.

  On the other hand, at least I wouldn’t die one. Not today, anyway. And not at Parma John’s, under the watchful eye of my father’s mortal enemies.

  11

  Fly Me to the Moon

  You might be Greek if there were more than twenty-eight people in your bridal party.

  Turned out Gordy was quite the character. He kept us in stitches, and not the kind you get at a hospital. I found myself caught up in conversation just as our pizza arrived. Gooey blobs of melted cheese graced the thick red sauce and tantalizing crust, but what really drew me in was the scent—no, the sight . . . no, the scent—of the pepperoni. Oozing little rivers of greasy goodness all over the cheese and red sauce, the yummy-looking circles practically begged me to reach out and grab one of them for a taste. So I did. In fact, I downed the first piece so quickly that Alex gave me an admiring nod.

  “Guess you were hungry.” He took a bite and a contented look settled over him.

  “Guess I was.” It might not be the Zorba, but I hadn’t had anything this tasty in ages. After I finished my second piece, a quick glance at the clock sent me into a tailspin. Had I really been gone from the flower shop for nearly an hour? Ack. I had to make a clean getaway from this place and get back to work.

  I worked out a plan in my mind, a way to protect me should anyone across the street be watching. “Do you mind if we stop off at the bakery on the way out?” I asked Alex. “I need to look at something.”

  “Don’t mind a bit. That’s my usual exit route too.” He waggled a brow and then laughed. “Wait till you taste Scarlet’s cheesecake.”

  Sounded tempting. So did making it out of Parma John’s alive.

  Bella insisted on covering our lunch tab. We thanked her and rose to say our goodbyes to the Rossi crew. Uncle Laz caught us just as I headed into the bakery. “Before you go, you must tell me your name once again. My memory . . . it’s not so good. I want to name the new Greek pizza after you.”

  Oh. Help. I’d never wanted to lie so badly in my life.

  “Well,” I finally managed, “my name is so boring. Why don’t you call it something that people will recognize—maybe something like the Venus de Milo?”

  I knew that Babbas would laugh his head off at that name. He would think it amateurish. And he would never, ever suspect that I had played a role in naming the pizza.

  “Venus de Milo.” Laz shrugged. “Might work. I’ll run it by the family.” He offered me a gracious smile. “And speaking of family, you’re a member of the Rossi clan now, whether you realize it or not. There’s no turning back now.”

  Oh please, God, don’t let Babbas show up for my funeral wearing those spandex tights.

  I swallowed hard and fought the temptation to say, “Well, I might need a new family after this.” Instead, I managed a pleasant and calm, “Well, thank you, Mr. Rossi.”

  “None of that Mr. Rossi stuff. It’s Uncle Laz to you.” He threw his arms around me in a bear hug, his cane swinging through the air and nearly clipping Alex in the head.

  Through the plate-glass window I saw my father in front of our shop, wearing his superhero costume. Yikes. He appeared to be looking for something. Or someone. Maybe me. He glanced directly at us, and I ducked through the opening into the bakery, then turned back toward the men.

  Laz gave me a strange look, but not half as strange as the look from Alex, who followed along behind me. “Did you decide what you want from the bakery?”

  “Oh. Um, yes.” I paused, my thoughts tumbling. “My mother’s birthday is coming up.” Next January. “I’m going to buy her a cake.”

  “That’s nice. Well, you’ve come to the right place. Scarlet makes the best cakes in town. She even won a decorating competition on TV. I think you two will get along great.”

  “I met her at church yesterday, actually,” I said. “She seems really nice.”

  “Oh, you went to her church? What did you think?”

  “I liked it a lot.” Hope my dad doesn’t get us excommunicated.

  “I’ve been there quite a few times myself. Scarlet is sweet, and the hardest worker I know,” Alex said. “She’s also tough as nails, but I guess you’d have to be, to be married to Armando.”

  Married to Armando? Which one was Armando again? I couldn’t remember.

  I made my way across the crowded bakery to the glass counter, where I gazed down at the panorama of sugary delicacies. Oy vey. This might be the death of me.

  Scarlet greeted me with a smile. “Well, hello, stranger. Didn’t take you long to stop by. I’m tickled you’re here.”

  She went on and on about how great it was to see me, but I couldn’t get past the fact that Alex had called her Armando’s wife. In that moment, as she stood across from me chattering on without a care in the world, it hit me.

  Armando. Bella’s brother.

  I swallowed hard and faced Scarlet head-on. “Scarlet, your last name is Rossi?”

  “Well, sure.” She reached into the glass case and straightened a tray of M&M cookies. “Still consider myself a honeymooner, though, so I forget my own last name at times. You know how it is when you first get married. You have to remind yourself of the new name.” She beamed. “But I’m so happy to be a Rossi now.”

  Of course she was. They were all happy to be Rossis.

  I slapped myself on the forehead. “You’re a Rossi. Bella’s a Rossi. Marcella’s a Rossi. You’re all Rossis.” A little sigh followed. “And you’re all great.”

  “Well, thank you.” Scarlet giggled. “Technically I’
m only a Rossi by marriage, but if that makes me great in your eyes, I’ll take it.”

  Yeah, you’re pretty great, and you’re a Rossi. Which definitely means my chances of keeping you as a friend are going down by the minute. So long, new friend. After Babbas finds out your last name, we won’t be visiting your father’s church anymore.

  She rambled on about the goings-on at the church’s youth group—something about how she needed to bake more M&M cookies for some big event—but seemed to have lost Alex to the sweets. He pressed his index finger to the glass case in front of the turtle cheesecake and released a contented sigh.

  “Which one are you going to get?” Alex turned back to me.

  “Which what?”

  “Which cake? For your mother?” Tiny creases formed between Alex’s brows.

  “My mother. Right. Her birthday.” Next January.

  “This one’s nice.” He pointed at an expensive number, all frilled out in cream cheese frosting. “That’s the one I would get for my mother.”

  “That’s the one you bought for yourself last week, goober.” Scarlet laughed. She looked at me, an amused expression on her face. “I’ve never known a guy who has a sweet tooth like Alex. He’s worse than any woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Keep on humiliating me like that and I’ll just start buying my sweets across the street.” He pointed at Super-Gyros and my breath caught in my throat.

  “Oh yeah?” Scarlet’s brow wrinkled in concern. “They sell baked goods over there?”

  “Only the best baklava I’ve ever had in my life,” Alex said. “But I wouldn’t worry if I were you. They only had a million customers buying it right and left when I was there on Saturday.”

  Scarlet’s brows elevated. “Be serious. Do you think I should add baklava to my lineup?”

  “You make the best sweets on the island,” Alex said, “but I don’t think you want to give these people a run for their money when it comes to baklava. They’re Greek.”

  “Ah.” She sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll stick to what I know.”

  The bakery filled with customers, and I took another look at the time. No way. I’d been gone an hour and ten minutes? Marcella would have my head. If the man in the superhero cape didn’t kill me on the way out of here.

  “I need to go. Now.” Taking hold of Alex’s muscular arm distracted me from making a quick getaway.

  “You gonna get the cake for your mom later then?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve got plenty of time.” Several months, in fact.

  He led the way out of the bakery door onto the street, and I hid behind him as my sister came out of Super-Gyros to clear the tables on the sidewalk.

  “Just keep walking,” I said to Alex. “I’ll explain in a minute.”

  He headed away from Parma John’s in the direction of the florist shop. When we reached the first street corner, I breathed what must’ve been a visible sigh of relief.

  “I knew it.” Alex snapped his fingers. “You’re on the run from the law, aren’t you?”

  “No.” I laughed nervously. “But I am on the run. You’ve got that part right.”

  “From . . . ?” He took a seat at the trolley stop and gestured for me to join him.

  “My father.”

  “Your father?” Alex’s expression tightened. “Is he abusive?”

  “No, nothing like that.” With a wave of my hand I dismissed that idea right away. Babbas was tough, no doubt about it. But never abusive. Oh, he occasionally ranted about giving the little ones a swift kick in the rear every now and again, but he didn’t mean it.

  “So why are you on the run from him?”

  “It’s kind of funny, really.” I gave what I hoped would be a convincing smile. “My father would kill me if he knew I was at Parma John’s, having pizza.”

  “Because you’re allergic to pizza too?”

  “No. Because he really doesn’t like to see me cavorting with the enemy.”

  “Cavorting with the enemy?” Alex asked. “Now I’m really intrigued.”

  “Here’s the problem,” I whispered. “The whole island is filled with Rossis.”

  “That’s a problem?”

  “Well, not from my vantage point, but my father . . . he, well—”

  “Doesn’t like the Rossis? Is that it?”

  “Yeah, but there’s a little more to it than that.”

  He thinks they’re evil and wants to see them destroyed.

  I’d just opened my mouth to explain when the trolley came to a stop in front of us. Alex reached for my hand and helped me on board. We found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of a tourist group from Japan—approximately thirty people, all snapping photographs of the buildings along the Strand, and all speaking Japanese. Loudly.

  With so many people on board, we couldn’t even locate seats, so we had to stand on the platform in the back along with three other chattering tourists. Before I had the opportunity to explain about my father, we were back at the florist shop, which was flooded with customers. Marcella gave me a “thank God you’re here” look, and I sprinted to the counter to help her. Hopefully she would forgive me later.

  And Alex . . . hopefully he would forgive me too. No doubt he thought I was a nutcase.

  He grabbed a large stack of flower buckets from the back room and gave me a little goodbye wave, which I returned with a smile. I didn’t even have the chance to thank him for the lunch invitation before he was out the door. Hopefully I could make it up to him, and soon. If anyone deserved an explanation for my wacky behavior, he did.

  12

  More Than You Know

  You know you’re Greek when you say “Opa!” every time someone drops or breaks something.

  The next couple of days were spent going back and forth between the flower shop and the family restaurant. Thank goodness Babbas hadn’t seen me going into Parma John’s. For now I was off the hook.

  Well, sort of. He kept me hopping during the hours I worked at Super-Gyros. Marcella kept me hopping too. Seemed more and more she needed time off, which left me manning the flower shop. I didn’t really mind. In fact, I rather enjoyed helping customers make decisions.

  On Thursday morning I worked harder than ever putting together six bridesmaid bouquets. The little poppies in the bouquets reminded me of The Wizard of Oz, so I hummed “Somewhere over the Rainbow” as I worked. While I was in the middle of putting them together, Bella came in to place an order for one of her brides. She and Marcella worked on the order while I pieced together the bouquets, which looked lovelier by the moment.

  When I finished, I placed them in the walk-in refrigerator in the back, then came back out to the front of the shop, still in a happy-go-lucky mood.

  Both ladies turned to face me as I entered the room.

  “So what’s this fascination with Judy Garland?” Bella asked.

  I shrugged. “I’ve always been a fan. Love the music. Love the movies. Love the flower connection.”

  “Flower connection?” Marcella’s eyes narrowed.

  “I get it,” Bella said. “That whole poppies scene in The Wizard of Oz, right?”

  “Well, that, and the fact that she had her own flower shop,” I explained.

  “What?” Marcella still looked perplexed.

  “It’s true.” I started tidying up the worktable, clearing it of broken flower petals. “Judy Garland opened her own florist shop on Wilshire Boulevard when she was just fifteen years old. The money she made was put into a trust that she wasn’t able to touch until she got older.”

  “No way. Judy Garland, the movie star, was a florist?” Bella shook her head. “What, did she sing ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’ as she put together wedding bouquets?”

  “Probably. I know that she balanced her work at the shop with her work at MGM studios. She waited on customers, filled orders, all sorts of things. There’s a really cool picture of her online, one where she’s pinning a boutonniere on Jimmy Stewart’s lapel.” I wrinkled my nose. “No, it
wasn’t Jimmy Stewart. It was that other guy, the one with a similar name.” I paused a moment and then snapped my fingers. “Jimmy Durante. That’s his name.”

  “Are you making this up, Cassia?” Marcella asked.

  “No, it’s totally true. At the same time she was filming The Wizard of Oz, she would work at the studio during the day and hit the flower shop for a couple of hours in the evening. The whole thing was her mom’s idea—sort of an investment—but she couldn’t touch the money till she turned eighteen. Still, it gave her an interest outside of showbiz.”

  “So what you’re saying is Judy Garland worked in a family business.” Bella chuckled. “Then I have more in common with her than I knew.” This led to a discussion about how crazy her life was, working with family members. I wanted to chime in and say “Me too!” but couldn’t, for obvious reasons.

  A call from Aunt Rosa sent Bella scurrying back to Club Wed. After she left, Marcella gave me a few hours off as a thank-you for my hard work. “Go,” she said. “Be with your family.”

  Of course, she still hadn’t met my parents and siblings—or even asked about them—but that didn’t seem to matter to her. I wouldn’t call the woman self-absorbed, but she seemed too engrossed in her own family to wonder much about mine.

  I walked back down the Strand, smiling as the trolley went by. Memories of being with Alex flooded over me. What I wouldn’t give to have a second chance with him. He’d been noticeably absent from the island over the past few days, though. Weird.

  When I reached Super-Gyros, I noticed the whole family standing out on the sidewalk, staring across the street.

  “What’s happening?” I whispered to Eva.

  She pointed at Nick Rossi, Marcella’s husband, who was hanging a new sign outside Parma John’s advertising the new pizza, the Venus de Milo. I eased myself behind Eva just as Uncle Laz walked out of Parma John’s and glanced our way. Yikes.

  “What’s this?” My mother’s voice was tinged with concern.