“That’s, um, great. What’s with all the surprises?” I asked, my suspicions raised like hackles on a stray dog.
“It’s Christmas, honey. There are always surprises,” Mom said. “Besides, you used to love surprises when you were younger. Who’s your handsome friend?” She took a window seat across from Aiden. “Introduce me.”
Aiden held out his hand to my mom and she shook it. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Accardi, I’m Aiden Black.”
“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth,” I said, after he sat back in his seat. “Why are you here?”
“Your uncle convinced me to tag along for the festivities. Something about cooking.”
“He’s thoughtful that way.” I frowned at Uncle Vincent who didn’t bother to look up from his phone. That conniving asshole wasn’t being nice, he’d made Aiden an offer he couldn’t refuse. “If we’re not going to Wisconsin where are we going?”
“I hope it’s not Hawaii,” said Florentina, our older, thrice removed cousin with the wild Medusa-esque hair. She dragged her ancient, purple carry-on bag behind her, one wheel thunk-thunk-thunking precariously. “I ditched my former lover and bathing suit model, Hans Peterson on Kaanapali Beach fifty years ago, and he’s never forgiven me. Every year he sends me a ‘Wish you were here’ postcard. Passive aggressive much? You should have seen his tan lines five decades ago. Sweet Jesus, that was something to write home about.”
“Jesu, get me out of here,” Rosalia said, pushing around me toward the back of the plane.
“Rest easy, Florentina. Your sordid past will not catch up with you on this trip,” Uncle Vincent said.
“You like to cook, Aiden?” Mom smiled up at him. “The Accardis come from a long line of chefs.”
One unoccupied chair remained in this awkward foursome. I did not want to sit next to Aiden and across from my mom and uncle because I’d be tempted to scream ‘Kill me now!’ in the near future.
“Let me help you with your suitcase, Florentina,” I said, and pointed to the empty seat. “You sit right there. I’ll go in the back with Rosalia.”
“Thank you, but 4A is not a good number for me. I never sit in that number. I could tell you the story but then I’d have to drink and I’ve given up day drinking for Lent.” She kept walking.
“Lent’s not until February,” Mom said.
“Sit down and buckle up,” Uncle Vincent said. “We’ll have plenty of time for cooking discussions and religious holiday debates later.”
“It’s a simple question,” Mom said. “Maybe Aiden has a great recipe for Italian butter cookies. It’s not like I’m asking him to bake Violet’s wedding cake.”
“Mom!”
“Calm down, Violet,” Vincent said. “Stop being so emotional.”
“I am not emotional. I am, I am—fine!” I plopped down next to Aiden and shot him a look. He’d had my back once. He was here, in a plane headed who knows where. Would he rise to the occasion? It was a lot to ask of a man I barely knew. Was he my friend? Was he the guy who took my breath away when we kissed? Was he the man I imagined was smoking hot in the sack? Er, right, now was probably not the best time to be thinking about that.
“How do you two know each other?” Mom asked.
“Aiden’s my friend,” I said a little too quickly.
“Just your friend?” Uncle Vincent asked. “I thought it was more than that.”
Chapter Five
Aiden
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been five years since my last confession.”
How did I end up on a fancy private jet with an entire family when it took me eight years to find one a few decades ago?
That said — I was a lucky kid.
My mother, Maria Gonzales, passed away with a needle in her arm when I was two and a half. The babysitter found me playing with the pots and pans on the floor in the kitchen wearing a day-old dirty diaper. The refrigerator door was open, the milk curdled, the food well on its way to rot. The single spotty memory I retained from that day was the earsplitting sound of my sitter’s high-pitched scream when she walked into the living room and spotted Mom dead on the couch.
I found out later that Dad was a one night stand, had never been in the picture, and the only thing I knew about him was that she’d given me his first name. No relatives on Mom’s side were interested in stepping up to the plate and I became a ward of the State of Massachusetts. I was a favorite among foster parents for the first two go arounds because I looked cute and cherubic.
That was before my learning disabilities became apparent. Before the ADD, OCD, whatever-the-D traits bubbled to the surface. I couldn’t concentrate and acted out. Kindergarten reports stated, “Aiden is very bright but can’t focus.” “Aiden interrupts other children during school.” “We recommend Aiden receive psychiatric evaluation.”
The older I grew the more I heard words like “high maintenance”, “overly sensitive” “on the spectrum”. Foster care parents changed shifts like drivers on leased cars. I was eight-years-old and on my seventh home when I met Agnes and John Black. They were in their late fifties, too old by agency’s standards to stand a chance at adopting.
But the Blacks had persevered, sending in detailed, lengthy applications to multiple organizations, including referrals from respected friends and clergy, writing letters why they wanted a family so very badly. They finally succeeded in adopting a nine-year-old girl a few years before I came on the scene.
Sydney was also born to a mother with a drug problem and had bounced in and out of facilities until she found a forever home with the Blacks. She was a wild child, a handful, but I could tell from framed pictures on the walls and the videos they shared that they reveled in her. Enveloped her in attention, a ‘Let’s try that again’ attitude, and loved her willful self to pieces.
Agnes and John Black were devout Catholics in that cool way where Jesus was kind, God was honorable, and the saints were aunties and uncles with super powers assigned to special events and spiritual outings. My new caseworker contacted them when my latest case of foster parents threw their hands up over my latest mess-up.
They met with me at the group home. We watched animated movies on TV. They showed up for my basketball games after school. We shared meals, attended church, and met three times a week with the caseworker. One night before they dropped me back at the group home after an outing Mrs. Black asked me if I’d like to live with them.
I asked them why.
They said they had always wanted a son and thought I’d be the perfect kid for that job.
I asked them if they were crazy.
They said, yes, they’d been accused of that for quite some time.
And just like that—in a moment I’d given up hoping for—I had a family. It should have been a relief. I should have been able to take a breath but I couldn’t. I’d spent so much time sliding in and out of temporary situations it never dawned on me that this situation with the Blacks would be any different.
The months flew by as I fought with my new sister. Sydney knew everything and loved to boss me around.
Another year passed. Agnes and John appeared older than the other parents that showed up for baseball practice and school plays. Their hair was streaked with silver, their faces cross-hatched with wrinkles. Everyone in our family had different skin tones. We were a mish-mash of white, tan and cocoa. But none of that mattered. Laughter mattered. Arms to hold me were a huge improvement. Love was an unexpected bonus.
The third year ticked by. I struggled with a few, not all, social skills. I messed up and lost my temper in science class. But with the help of the Blacks I figured it out. I wasn’t a perfect kid nor was I a horrible one. And yet I was still living in the same place with people who seemed to genuinely care about me. A feeling knit deep in my bones, This was for real.
This was the good stuff.
This was forever.
I was home.
I wondered if this was how the members of the Accardi
family felt too.
Chapter Six
Violet
I frowned at Uncle Vincent. “Aiden Black is my friend. And he owns White Glove Agency. You know, the matchmaking service Mom pressured me to sign up for?”
“I told you Jeanie that I was working on that,” Uncle Vincent said. “I have the perfect man lined up for Violet. I wish you had listened to me.”
“How long am I supposed to wait, Vincent?” Mom said. “I’m not getting any younger you know. All my friends have grandchildren. What do I have? Sportswear samples.”
“Really well made sportswear samples,” I said. “Besides, you already have grandchildren from Robbie.”
“A woman can never have too many grandchildren.”
“Yes, they can,” Florentina said. “A friend of mine had a bad one and now she’s in therapy. It’s costing her a fortune and she had to change her will. What a nightmare.”
“That’s the exception to the grandchild rule,” Mom said. “You cook and own the matchmaking agency, Aiden. That’s impossibly romantic. Have you found anyone for my Violet, yet?”
“You haven’t shared the big news yet with your Mom?” Uncle Vincent said.
“I’m not the best cook in the world,” Aiden said, as the jet engines revved and we taxied down the runway, the winds shimmying the plane side to side.
“You need to share,” Uncle Vincent said.
“Not yet,” I said. The plane’s gears ground as we lifted off the runway and I white-knuckled the armrest.
“There’s big news?” Mom asked.
“The secret’s not mine to tell,” Vincent said, his words barely audible over the grinding and whirring as we took off. “Why don’t you ask your daughter? Or better—Aiden Black.”
I glanced at Aiden. It wasn’t all that warm inside the plane and yet sweat glistened on his forehead. “What gives, Cuoco?”
He leaned in, whispered, and for a change his words gave me the bad kind of tingles in all the wrong places. “Uncle Vincent thinks we’re engaged. He’s not happy about it. Something about someone else you are promised to.”
“Oh, fuck, that shit again. I’m not. Has he—you know—done something bad? Made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”
“Yes.”
“Crap. Sorry. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Is it really bad?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.”
We winged our way out of Chicago, the jet rising through gray patchy clouds.
I broke out in a sweat, the insides of my wrists itching. I glanced down and watched as hives blossomed. Lovely. I was the least attractive former Mafioso princess on the planet. “I feel like we’re being kidnapped. Will someone please tell me where we’re going?”
“To the moon, Violet,” Uncle Vincent said.
“I’ll tell you where we’re going,” Mom said. “As soon as you tell us your big news.”
“I’ll share my big news when it’s the right time.”
“Newsflash. It’s the right time,” Vincent said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Aiden?” Mom asked.
I glared at him and pressed a finger to my lips. “I’m the baby of the family. They control my life. I’m done with that. I’m doing things differently from here on out.”
“Yes, Grande Formaggio.”
“I’m not sure I like that nickname.”
“Too bad. It fits.” He smiled in that way that made me want to tackle him and kiss him.
“You’re naughty,” I said.
“You have no idea, Ms. Accardi? Hmm. Where did I hear that before?”
And we both suppressed giggles.
I lifted an all-knowing eyebrow. “If you only knew the half of it, Cuoco.”
Chapter Seven
Aiden
I couldn’t help but wonder what I was getting myself into. Couldn’t help but speculate if my sister knew she was being chaperoned by a photography-loving mafia goon, or if Vincent Accardi was lying and Sydney was safe and sound. Couldn’t help but notice how hot Violet was when she was fired up.
A flush to her face, her chin jutted out, her chest heaving with each determined, angry breath. Why didn’t I go home with her after I kissed her under the mistletoe? I could have enjoyed being with Violet in the intimate confines of her apartment, accept her offer for a nightcap, follow that up with a kiss and then, if she asked me—and only if she asked me—fuck her senseless, make her come time and time again until she was spent and falling asleep in my arms. This would make me happier than I’d been in years.
Nice fantasy.
Sadly, this wasn’t going to happen for any number of reasons, the obvious being that Violet was White Glove’s client, therefore my client. The other embarrassing problem which no one knew except me was that I hadn’t been intimate with a woman in years. I’d sworn off sex years ago. Why? That was another story.
Violet caught me staring. Her eyes widened and she glanced away. Problem was, there weren’t that many places to look on a mid-sized luxury jet so she stared at her shoe. “It’s so hot in here. Why is it so hot in here?” She fanned her face, struggled to pull off her coat, but got tangled up with the seatbelt. She unsnapped it in a huff.
“Sit down,” her mother said.
She stood and yanked off her coat. “It’s not safe to stand. It’s not safe to start my own business. It’s not safe to date someone who’s not a Catholic.”
I unsnapped my seatbelt and stood up. “Why don’t I take your coat?”
She thrust it toward me. “Why don’t you just plastic wrap me, Mom? Put me in one of those zip bags, and stick me in the freezer. I’ll have a longer shelf life.”
“So dramatic.” Uncle Vincent rolled his eyes.
“Excuse me.” I signaled the immaculate flight attendant seated at the front of the jet. “Is there someplace we can hang the lady’s coat?”
His face folded in on itself, turning sour like a pickle.
“Risk takers! That’s hot!” Florentina said. “I too was a risk taker back in the day.”
The attendant grabbed the intercom’s handset and pressed it close to his pursed, pale lips. “We’re winging our way through choppy air. Please take your seats and buckle up.”
“Perhaps Violet doesn’t have big news. Maybe it’s just another one of her ridiculous efforts to separate from the family,” Uncle Vincent said. “Be perceived as independent.”
“Excuse me? Violet said. “I am independent. I have my own company. I pay my own bills. I’ve already left the nest. Years ago.”
“And yet the nest’s mother is still waiting for her big news,” her mom said. Her mother clicked open her belt and stood up, squaring off against her daughter like a worthy opponent in the ring.
“I repeat,” the flight attendant said, “the captain has not cleared us to walk about the cabin. Please, take your seats.”
“Born an Accardi. Always an Accardi,” Vincent said, still firmly seated.
“Really?” Violet grabbed my hand, entwined her fingers between mine and squeezed them hard like she was drowning and I was a life preserver.
Finger-to-finger contact, her palm small, but warm in mine. Beat-beat-beat went my heart, my pulse mimicking the rhythm as it reverberated down to my hand. What would happen if I touched Violet Accardi’s hand for a few minutes, or hours? If I caressed her skin for days? If I worshiped her body by kissing, licking, touching, fucking her for days, weeks, God willing—years? Would her magic sink through my skin, melt on my tongue like a communion wafer? Would the blood and body of Violet Accardi grant absolution to my damaged soul?
“Someday, Violet, you will come to the realization that you can’t escape your family,” Vincent said.
I searched her eyes for reciprocity, a sign that we were good, but her gaze was firmly directed at her mom and uncle. It dawned on me that I’d already committed to this ride a few days ago when I told Salvatore the Meatloaf that Violet and I were engaged. Now definitely wasn’t the time for me to back o
ut.
“Someday, Uncle Vincent, you will come to the realization that you don’t own me,” Violet said. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“Still waiting on the big news,” her mom said, crossing her arms in front of her.
The plane suddenly dropped.
“Ahh!” Violet’s mother screamed then stumbled.
“Air pocket!” the flight attendant yelled.
Violet fell into my arms where I caught her, cradling her firmly against my chest with one hand while I lifted gripped the jet’s ceiling with the other.
She inhaled sharply, and stared up into my face, her chocolate eyes wide.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes. Things are going to get rockier, Cuoco. You up for that?”
“Yes.” I pushed an errant lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead back, and tucked it behind her ear.
“Good.” She reached up and kissed me, her lips lingering for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Beat-beat-beat. “Violet?”
“Aiden?”
“You know a few nights ago when you asked me to go back with you to your place the other night?”
“Yes.”
“I was an asshole for saying no.”
“I know, Cuoco. But no one’s perfect.” She swiveled and faced her mom. “Aiden Black asked me to marry him and I said yes.”
“Ahh!” her mom screamed. “You’re engaged? I feel light-headed. I’m going to faint!”
“Sit down, Jeanie.” Uncle Vincent latched onto her wrist and guided her into her seat where she landed with a thud.
“I wasn’t kidding about the safety issue,” the flight attendant said.
“Don’t do it!” Florentina sprung up from her seat on the sofa toward the back of the plane. “Marriage is a patriarchal trap designed to enslave women. That’s why I’ve stayed single all these years.”
“The captain apologizes for the bumpy ride,” the flight attendant said. “Please stay seated and keep your seat belts securely fastened. The flight will be smoothing out and I will be taking drink orders shortly.”
The Matchmaker Page 4