The Matchmaker

by Pamela DuMond

  He pressed his fingers to his lips, kissed them, and then held them out to the air. “I saw photos but I never dreamed she would be this beautiful. Thank Jesus I am promised to her.”

  That ridiculous twist of jealousy stabbed my gut. “One small problem, buddy. She’s mine.”

  “Sad,” he said. “I didn’t really want to have to harm you or your sister.”

  “Touch my sister and you’ll know the meaning of pain.”

  “Sleep with Violet, my future wife and mother of my children, and I’ll destroy you,” he said.

  “Good to know, Fabio.”

  “Flavio.”

  “I’m taking a nap, first. You don’t kill men in their sleep do you?”

  “You’d be the first.”

  For some reason I believed him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Violet

  I woke with a start and stared at the clock on the wall. It was already late afternoon? Where? Oh yeah— Sicily with my family and my fake fiancé. I’d slept for over three hours. I grabbed my phone and checked texts. Nothing. How could the world just stop for a holiday? What were people thinking? Business couldn’t just stop for a few days. Could it?

  There was no way in God’s creation I’d make it back to Chicago in less than 48 hours but work had to go on. I couldn’t figure out the time difference but texted Nolan anyway.

  Violet: Hey. You up?

  Nolan: For what?

  Violet: I mean are you awake?

  Nolan: No. I’m sleep texting. Yes. I’m at Grandma’s house and she’s one of those annoying early risers.

  Violet: I’ll one up your annoying grandmother. I’m stuck in Sicily with my family.

  Nolan: Sicily, Wisconsin? Is that in Door County too?

  Violet: No. Sicily, Italy.

  Nolan: Get out. Is it your family’s “Godfather” reunion? Did you find a horse head in your bed yet?

  Violet: Bite me. I’m going to be gone longer than 48 hours. You have to man the ship.

  Nolan: Ahoy, Captain! Don’t I always?

  Violet: Yes. Did you spend some of your Christmas bonus and get your boyfriend something nice?

  Nolan: I can guarantee that was not coal in his new stocking.

  I smiled.

  Nolan: Bring me back something super cool from Italy. Not cheese like you always bring me.

  Violet: Pecorino it is.

  Nolan: Wicked!

  I got out of bed and pulled a pair of jeans, a clean shirt, and a fresh sweater from my suitcase. I showered and dressed, smoothed on minimal makeup and applied a tinted lip balm. I found my way downstairs and followed the happy chatter to the kitchen.

  Papa’s modern, immaculate kitchen featured white-washed glazed walls. Matching white wrought iron crystal chandeliers hung from the beamed ceilings. The cooking galley featured large stainless steel appliances.

  Mom, Florentina and Vincent were seated at a rustic, rectangular, wooden plank table sipping espresso and nibbling pastries.

  “My beautiful granddaughter has seen fit to grace us with her presence,” Papa said as he pulled milk and eggs from the refrigerator.

  “You mean the bride to be,” Mom said.

  Papa opened the oven and placed a baking tray on a cooling rack on the marble counter. “Flavio will make a wonderful husband.”

  “You mean, Aiden will make a wonderful husband,” Mom said.

  I extended my hand in the ‘Stop’ position. “Coffee will make a wonderful husband.”

  “Ha!” Papa walked to the espresso maker and pulled the handle. “I will make you a cup of the magical elixir.”

  “It smells great in here.” I accepted the cup from him. “What are you baking?”

  “Amaretti, ricciarelli…”

  “Almond cookies,” Mom said.

  “What smells delicious?” Aiden’s sister and her spouse entered the kitchen wearing coats and warm boots.

  “Amaretti. Yum.” Flavio followed on their heels loaded down with shopping bags. “Should I take these to your room?”

  “Later,” Nora said. “We’ve got to sample these cookies.”

  “Violet, can you make plates?” Papa asked.

  “Absolutely. Where are the dishes?”

  “Cabinet on the right. Get everyone something to drink as well.”

  “Something sweet for me.” Flavio stared at me knowingly and slowly stripped off his jacket.

  “Ooh la, la. Someone’s been working out,” Florentina said. “You’ll have to share your arm routine with me. Those are fabulous guns you’ve got there.”

  “How did you know?” Flavio asked.

  “Not those guns,” Vincent said.

  “Aha. For a minute I thought she might have the sight,” Flavio said.

  I grabbed a spatula and placed the warm cookies on a white ceramic platter.

  “You should see how cute the piazza is,” Nora said.

  “We saw that on the way into town,” I said. “Some kind of baking festival?”

  “Not just some,” Papa said, adding more dollops of dough to baking tins. “The baking festival of the year. The winner gets to ride on a float in the Festival of the Almond Blossoms in Agrigento. This is my year. I feel it. I almost have the recipe down. I’m just looking for that last pinch of magic.”

  I grabbed small plates and napkins from shelves and drawers and poured sparkling water into crystal glasses. “What is that going to be, Papa?” I asked. “More amaretto? Anise? Sugar?”

  “I’ll know it when I feel it. Just like I know how beautiful Florentina looks in the late afternoon sun that streams through the windows.”

  “I do?”

  “You know you do, Bella.”

  “Don’t start with me, Giuseppe.”

  “We started a long time ago, Florentina.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aiden

  I slept fitfully. I dreamed of attractive young women wearing old-fashioned ball gowns with low cut bodices and impressive cleavage. They implored me to use my matchmaking abilities to find them a mate.

  “Please help me, fine sir.” A pretty brunette wearing a blue bonnet with satin ribbons tied under her chin batted her eyes at me. “Find me a proper man.”

  “Of course,” I said and bowed. “Matchmaking is my middle name. I am here to make people happy.”

  “Scusami.” A man with long, blond, coiffed hair, wearing skintight black breeches who looked awfully familiar tapped me briskly on the shoulder. “I am the right man for this woman.”

  “Flavio?” I asked.

  “Fabio,” he said.

  “I’ll decide if you’re the right man for this woman. I am the matchmaker after all.” I returned my attention to the young lady. “What exactly are you looking for in your perfect match, Ms.?”

  “A man who can earn fair wages.”

  Fabio held out a fat stash of Euros in one hand.

  “A strong man who can make sweet, sweet love to me,” she said. “Satisfy my womanly desires.”

  Fabio ripped open his white, puffy shirt, exposing his massive manly cleavage. He flexed his bulging arms.

  “Oh.” She fanned herself. “And a man who will be a good father to our children.”

  Fabio rocked a baby in his arms, holding a bottle to the infant’s mouth.

  “What do you think?” I asked the young lady.

  “Can he read?”

  “Totally not fair.” Fabio sighed. “Women want everything these days.”

  More ladies lined up, begging me to broker their happily-ever-afters. They wanted me to find them deserving mates who would be terrific lovers, best friends, and also hold their hands through good times and bad.

  “Yes, of course I will help you,” I said to each lovely lass, but no matter how hard I tried to interview candidates, Fabio always elbowed his way in. I grew increasingly frustrated until the fourth time he made an appearance and I realized I needed to shut him down. “Look, buddy, this just isn’t working for me or my people.”

&
nbsp; “My name is not Buddy. I am Fabio,” he said. He tossed his hair, puffed out his chest, and thrust a defiant chin in the air.

  A fierce, noisy wind bustled out of nowhere, ruffling his shirt, but his hair remained remarkably slick, shiny, and undisturbed.

  “Apologies.” I struggled to stay upright in the squall’s fury and finally held on tightly to a tree. “I don’t think you’re the right match for this young lady. I am, after all, chief cook and bottle washer of White Glove Matchmaking Agency. I look after my clients. I put their needs first and do what I think is best for each individual.”

  “But I am the most desirable man for all of these women. I am the best match. I suspect you are just jealous of me.”

  “I am not jealous of you. Your pants look uncomfortably tight. Your shirt’s ripped wide open, and you have more cleavage than most of the young ladies you’re interested in being paired with.”

  Fabio looked down at his chest and smiled. “Spectacular, yes? Many hours spent in the gym to become this buff.”

  “That’s terrific,” I said. “But it’s cold and flu season. With winds this nasty you should probably button up or you’re bound to catch something. And not to be a downer, but what’s up with your hair? No one has hair that immoveable. Frankly, it scares me.”

  A white stallion appeared out of nowhere and Fabio hopped on and sneered at me. “I will take your woman. Steal your hopes and dreams. They will always pick me instead of you. Give up now, loser. Fabio is victorious.” He trotted away, the horse’s tail curved unusually high as it flicked its enormous mane.

  I startled awake, sweat beading on my forehead. I glanced at my watch. I’d been out for four hours. Crap! I’d slept half the day away.

  I looked to the other side of the room. The real Flavio didn’t have jet lag and his bed was unoccupied. A black plastic bottle of men’s hair mousse was lying on top of the quilt like it had been left for dead and all hope had been squeezed out of it. My roommate with the overly-coiffed hair was no doubt taking advantage of my sleeping in. My first instinct was to rush downstairs, but a funky odor wafted through the air and I realized—oh man, I’d been traveling too long.

  I bathed in the miniscule, pathetic shower adjoining our room. The wall nozzle alternated between spitting and dribbling lukewarm water. I dried off and dressed in jeans and a cashmere turtleneck. I took the stairs two at a time to the first floor and followed the aromatic smells and the sounds of voices down corridors. I walked into the kitchen, the sun descending on this crisp Sicilian winter day.

  “I love it here, Papa,” Jeanie said. “I can see the effort you put into the place.”

  “The pensione needed updating,” Giuseppe said. “I gutted the galley and put in the best appliances. I get my share of tourists, you know.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I get nostalgic for the old days when Michael was still alive. It’s hard to believe he’s been gone for seven years.”

  “His death changed me.” Giuseppe cracked eggs into a bowl. “It made me question why I was holding onto the family business when clearly life was marching on.”

  Giuseppe pulled steamy, thick rolls out of an industrial grade oven and waved a thick mitt over them. The smell of almonds mixed with sugar wafted through the air.

  “You’re making almond biscotti?” I asked.

  “I am.”

  “Is that a hint of lemon?”

  “I made one batch with lemon and one without. Sample, and tell me what you think.”

  I tore a small bite from both. Tastes swirled around my mouth. “Don’t kill me. I like the regular better.”

  “Me too,” he said and popped another tray in the oven.

  “Espresso?”

  “Help yourself.” He gestured to the machine and I poured myself a cup.

  Florentina, Jeanie, Vincent, and Salvatore were sitting at a rustic wooden plank table nibbling on an array of food. Fruit, pastries, loaves of bread, and olive oil were laid out on the boards.

  “Join us,” Vincent said.

  “Please,” Jeanie said.

  “No new information from St. Jude yet,” Florentina said. “I’m starting to think that was a one time visit.”

  “Good to know.” I picked up a piece of warm, crusty homemade bread and dipped it in the olive oil. “Wow. This is excellent. You baked this as well?”

  “Yes,” Giuseppe said. “Why don’t you take some bread out to Violet and the girls?”

  “Where is Violet?”

  I suddenly worried about my Fabio/Flavio dream. Maybe he could get all the pretty women just by raising one tiny, muscular finger. I bet he could even do a full body push up using only his pinky.

  “On the patio with Flavio,” Jeanie said.

  I looked out the window at the pergola-covered patio. Bare vines were twisted around beams. A collection of wrought iron tables with glass tops were clustered on the cracked, flagstone floor. Violet, wrapped in a thick sweater and hugging her knees to her chest, was sitting at a table with Sydney, Nora, and Flavio. The girls were chatting and laughing. They seemed to be bonding and it made me happy.

  Flavio, showboat that he was, tossed his thick hair, waved his hands around in the air to make a point, and smiled his perfect smile at the ladies. The he stared longingly at Violet, practically giving her deer caught in the headlights eyes.

  Asshat.

  I could take him if I had to. I’d have to up my visits to the gym when I got back home, which reminded me that I needed to message Hailey, my assistant, and tell her I was out of pocket for a few more days at least. I pulled out my phone and texted her.

  “Thank you. Can someone help with this batch of dough?” Giuseppe asked. “Someone with strong arms to stir? My shoulder is bothering me.”

  “That’s me, sir,” I said, male competition making my testosterone kick in as I suddenly felt invigorated.

  “Grazie,” Giuseppe handed me the bowl. “Stir please. Jeanie, I thought of you and Michael when I first saw this place. It reminded me of your cottage in Door County. It made me nostalgic for simpler times.”

  “When was the last time you were at our lake house?” Jeanie asked.

  “Your wedding.”

  “Wow. That was twenty-seven years ago. I can’t believe you never visited since then.”

  “I can,” Florentina said.

  “Leave it,” Vincent said.

  “It was a warm summer evening,” Giuseppe said pulling trays of small loves from the oven with thick mitts. “You were married on the veranda overlooking the lake at sunset.”

  “The fireflies lit up the sky that night,” Florentina said. “Like fairies. It was enchanting.”

  “You, looked like a princess bride,” Giuseppe said. “It brought tears to my eyes.”

  “Tears of sorrow,” Florentine said.

  I kept stirring the dough in the bowl.

  “I didn’t know you thought that, Giuseppe. Thank you. Michael looked so handsome that day,” Jeanie said.

  “Charcoal gray suit,” Vincent said. “I helped him pick at out. We bought it on sale at a department store. I took him to Mr. Enzo’s Alterations. Money was tight after he decided to marry you. The family cut him off for a while.”

  “Those were the lean years,” Jeanie said. “I always felt bad about that. You were his best man, Vincent. Where has the time gone?”

  “Don’t feel guilty,” Florentina said. “Michael wanted to marry you. You were more important to him than a business dealing, or the power that would give him.”

  “The family picked up the slack,” Vincent said. “We found other ways to make it work after we angered the Savellis by backing out of the deal to marry Michael to their second born daughter.”

  “Michael didn’t want to marry that Savelli woman,” Florentina said. “So what if he was the second child? This whole Accardi tradition of offering up the second child as a sacrificial lamb to smooth over fragile business egos is archaic and needs to be put to bed.”

  “I d
on’t make the rules,” Vincent said. “I just enforce them.”

  “I thought I did that, boss,” Salvatore said, dipping a crust of bread in olive oil.

  “No. Only the ones I tell you to enforce,” he said. “Stop double dipping. It’s not hygienic. Pour some on your own plate.”

  “I hate when everyone argues,” Jeanie said. “Everything turned out for the best.”

  “Giuseppe should never had tried to force that Savelli woman on Michael,” Florentina said.

  “I was not forcing,” Giuseppe said. “I was simply suggesting.”

  “Suggesting? I had to sneak Michael out of Trapani in the middle of the night, shove him on a private jet, ferry him in the back of a bakery van to Wisconsin and make him hide out in Door County until you calmed down,” Florentina said.

  “Which is how we met,” Jeanie said. “We don’t need to bring this up again. All’s well that ends well.”

  “But it’s not,” Florentina said. “Because now he’s trying to do the same thing to Violet. And I won’t have it!”

  “To Flavio,” Vincent said. “He’ll make a great husband. And the generational rift between the Accardis and the Savelli family can heal.”

  “Excuse me?” I said. “I am standing here in the room with you.”

  “Violet will marry Aiden,” Florentina said. “I’m beginning to think the reason St. Jude came to me in a dream was to prevent you men from marrying dear sweet Violet to the wrong man for the wrong reasons. What is it with you people? Someone pour me a glass of wine for god’s sakes. It’s cocktail hour already and no wine has been poured. Are we barbarians?”

  “Only I am when it comes to you, Florentina,” Giuseppe said. “You look so good. I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since Michael and Jeanie’s wedding.”