A Billionaire for Christmas

by Maggie Marr

  She glanced up at the big uniformed guy with a mustache wearing blue plastic gloves who was lifting her roll-on bag from the conveyor belt. She nodded obediently, even though a jolt of fear shot through her.

  “I need you to step aside.”

  Fuck. She didn’t like badges. She didn’t like authority. And she definitely didn’t like being pulled out of line.

  A thin line of sweat coated Shelly’s upper lip. What the fuck did she have that could get her busted? Had she owned that bag when she was in Texas? Did she coyote with it? Was it possible some residue had shown up?

  “Please stand right there while I check your bag.”

  Her heart careened in her chest. She looked guilty, she felt guilty, and yet, this was the cleanest she’d been in years. One hundred and eighty-two fucking days clean. Six months and twelve hours. Some days worse than others, but she’d done it so far. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t always better, but Alex said that eventually life would be better sober than it was high.

  Shelly held her new boots in her hand while the mustached TSA agent unzipped her bag. A second pair of shoes rested on top of her clothes in the bag. She hadn’t had a second pair of shoes in a long time, but Aunt Patty had insisted she needed a nice pair of heels to wear to midnight mass. The bag held, neatly folded, a dress, another pair of jeans, three sweaters, plus a pair of snow boots they’d found at the second-hand shop for her to wear in New York. She held her winter coat over her arm, afraid to take her eyes off of her carry-on as he searched—for what?

  His hands dug farther into her bag. Then he pulled and came out with…her electric toothbrush?

  A smile spread over the agent’s face. “The wires showed up on the screen. Just had to check, to be sure.”

  How could you feel guilty even though you knew you’d done nothing wrong? Why did Shelly stand paralyzed with fear that this guy would find something illegal in her bag when there was nothing illegal to find? Did she have such a dark-forever stain on her soul that no matter how clean she was, no matter how long she stayed sober, she would always feel bad and ugly and dirty? Would the stain of her past, the guilt from her mistakes, the memories of all the foul things she’d done to keep going and get her fix remain no matter how many times she scrubbed herself?

  The agent zipped up her black carry-on, lifted it into the air, and set it at her feet. “Happy holidays,” he said.

  She grasped the handle. “Yeah,” she replied. “Same to you.”

  Happy? What was that? Shelly wasn’t certain that she’d ever really know.

  Chapter 2

  Snow came early to Long Island this year. With Christmas still a week away, dirty drifts of plowed snow lined the streets. In the car on the way from Manhattan, miles before Anthony’s destination, Christmas decorations and lights surrendered to warehouses and loading docks. A well-worn street led up to the front of Carmine’s Bake Factory. Anthony pulled into the parking lot and got out of his car. The cold air slapped his face and the scent of snow and sugar and pastries filled his nose. At the back door, Joey Delfino waited.

  “Anthony! How you doin’?” Joey held out his hand and then pulled Anthony into a hug. Joey was a younger version of his father.

  The Delfinos and the Travatis went way back. Joey and Anthony’s grandfathers had actually done some sort of business together, though neither family spoke much about it. Anthony followed Joey into the warehouse.

  “You’ve been in this facility how long?” Anthony walked beside Joey down the long, well-lit hall to a long line of glass windows. Behind the glass, dozens of employees manned pristine stainless steel machines.

  “Since last year,” Joey said. He handed Anthony an elasticized white cap. “Sorry, we go in, we got to wear one.”

  “No problem.” Anthony slipped the elastic down to his ears.

  Inside, the noise of the machines filled the room, but the place was spotlessly clean. “We’ve had our original bakery for over a hundred years. It was Dad that took us regional; now my goal is to take Carmine’s national.”

  Anthony nodded. Joey had the talent and the knowledge—what he needed was the money. He sought a capital-rich silent partner who would loan Carmine’s the money for a piece of the profit. For his part, silence was exactly what Anthony wanted.

  “This machine can do in one hour what used to take my grandfather a day and a half.” Joey slapped the side of a cookie machine. “Still my great-grandma’s recipe, though.”

  “I’ve seen the national distribution on your website.”

  Joey nodded. “It’s a start.” Anthony trailed him through the next room in the bakery into another. “But we’d like to open up more brick-and-mortar shops in some of the bigger markets. Maybe even a few in malls. Expand our name and our distribution.”

  “Franchises?” Anthony asked.

  Joey shook his head. “Privately held. If we can’t own them ourselves, then we won’t do it. We need to control the product and the process. Our name and reputation is too valuable to hand over to somebody outside the family.”

  They ambled out the door and into the baking room. The sugary sweet scent of cookies and cakes overwhelmed Anthony’s nose. His stomach grumbled. Joey smiled.

  “Happens to me too, even after growing up in the bakery. Still get hungry when I walk into the oven room.”

  Next up was the decorations room. Giant vats of red and green icing waited to adorn the thousands of Christmas cookies that would be made and decorated between now and Christmas. Anthony surveyed the giant metal tables where women and men decorated cookies, cakes, and cupcakes with the speed and precision of artisanal craftspeople.

  “How many do you employ?”

  “Right now, we’re at around one seventy-five. We have a loyal work force. That’s another reason we won’t go public. We treat our people well. This may turn you off to us as an investor, but we believe in paying our people a living wage, providing health insurance, taking care of them. We even have an employee investment program where they can buy into the company over time.” Joey watched Anthony’s face, sussing out the impact of his words.

  “I agree with all of that,” Anthony said. “I also like that you’re one of the few companies that has stayed here, in the old neighborhood. Giving people jobs they can count on.”

  “Most our employees stay a long time. We love that, because training new employees and turnover is more expensive in our business than paying experienced employees what they’re worth.”

  Anthony could see that, especially in this room, where the decorators were more artists than hourly employees.

  Joey pushed open another door, which led into the hall. He turned the corner and led Anthony through a glass door. They both pulled off their white plastic caps. “This is our factory outlet store.” The shop was packed with people standing nearly shoulder to shoulder between the confection-filled display cases that lined the wall, each holding numbers for their turn to get sweet treats from Carmine’s Bakery.

  “This is our busy time of year.”

  “No, it’s not,” Anthony said coolly.

  Joey examined his face.

  “I looked at your numbers and yes, while you do see a spike around Christmas, you guys are this busy year-round. Otherwise, why would I be here?”

  Joey smiled. “Right, why would you?” He slid open a case filled with crumble cakes and cookies and cannolis and filled a box. He flipped it closed and turned to Anthony.

  “For you and the famiglia.”

  Anthony took the box. No famiglia would be sharing these treats with him. Justin still barely spoke to him, and Leo and Devon ignored him too. Justin’s wife, Aubrey, kept trying to reach out, inviting Anthony to come over for a meal, but he dodged her calls. Nope. These treats were his alone.

  He followed Joey through another door and down a corridor chilled by the cold winter air sliding along the walls. “This is shipping.” Joey opened a door and waved his hand at the loading docks. Eight Carmine’s trucks were backed up and re
ady to load. Joey turned to a side dock. “And this is where we do day-old delivery to the homeless shelters.”

  Yes, Carmine’s was always delivering to the local shelters.

  “I figure if you want to come in, you should know, off the top, what’s important to me, my family, and this company, other than just dollars. We believe in family. We believe in our employees. And we believe in giving back. And at my core,” Joey pressed his fist to his heart, “I believe those three things, plus making the best product on the market, is what gives us our success.”

  The hard cold part of Anthony, the businessman, wanted to make a smart remark. But the part raised by his father and his mother, who had donated dollars, fed their neighbors, and took care of the sick even when the Travati family was barely scraping by, agreed with Joey. Anthony hadn’t inhabited the cold hard halls of finance for so long that he’d lost touch with where he’d come from.

  “So what are your thoughts?”

  “I’ve reviewed your ask. I know who you are and what you need, and it fits with what I want.” Anthony’s eyes scanned the docks, where workers hustled to put the baked goods into the trucks. “I’m in if you are.”

  Joey held out his hand. “Done.” Joey said and they shook. “Welcome to Carmine’s Bakery.”

  Anthony smiled. “Welcome to Anthony Travati Financial.”

  *

  The street to Nonna’s didn’t look much different from when Shelly grew up on this block, except that the cars, the people that went in and out of the houses, weren’t the same ones that she remembered. The Agrettis who used to live next door were gone; they’d died and their kids had sold the house. Same thing had happened with the Vincegeurras from across the street. The Travatis had sold their house when their mom passed. The Brunettis still owned the house on the other side of Nonna’s, but they rented it out to a Korean couple that hardly spoke two words of English.

  Nope. Not the same neighborhood, but she wasn’t the same neighborhood girl either. Snow buried the yards, and clouds covered the sky. Even through the cold of winter, under the veil of snow, she could see Nonna’s house was the best kept one on the block.

  “Shelly? Holy shit, is that Shelly Bello?”

  Her stomach tightened and anxiety thrummed through her blood. She glanced over her shoulder. She wasn’t ready for people, old friends, anyone who knew her before she left and might have heard what she’d been doing since she’d been gone.

  “Holy fuck, it is!” Tank Tabanetti, now weighing two-eighty if he weighed a pound, hustled across the street towards her. “What a sight for sore eyes! How the hell are you?”

  Shelly flipped her hair over her shoulder. Tank and Vinnie had played football together at Saint Bernard’s High School.

  “Hey, Tank.” Shelly forced a smile to her face. He pulled her in for a hug. Tank smelled like sausage and garlic and marinara.

  “What the hell, Shelly, you come home for the holidays? Nonna said you was, but we didn’t know. Damn good to see you.”

  “Something like that.” Shelly jerked her head toward the Tabanettis’ house. “You livin’ at your folks?”

  “Heck, no. Just come by to put up Ma’s Christmas lights. She’s been after me since Halloween.”

  “Good to see you like to do things early,” Shelly said.

  “You sound just like Ma. It’s her last Christmas in the house. She’s moving to Florida right after New Year’s. Says she’s done with the snow and ice. Don’t blame her.” Tank’s eyes roamed a little more freely over Shelly’s body. “So how long you in town for?” His voice a little lower, he stepped closer to Shelly.

  An oily feeling coiled in her gut. What did Tank know? What had he heard? She stepped back and glanced at the sidewalk. A gold band wrapped around the ring finger on Tank’s left hand, which hung by his side. He must have heard something about how she’d been making her living, or he wouldn’t be staring at the spot where her tits were beneath her coat and using that low voice he mistakenly thought was sexy. You spent time with married men, you understood how they asked.

  What a douche.

  Here was this lardass, probably with a dedicated wife who had pumped out at least four kids, and he was hitting her up for a good time six days before Christmas? Men. Some things always stayed the same. Tank’s dad hadn’t ever been much better. Shelly’d been fifteen the first time Tank’s daddy had hit on her.

  “Just in for a week to see Nonna,” Shelly said. “Leaving the day after Christmas.” She grasped the handle of her rolling bag and turned back toward Nonna’s. “Good to see you, Tank. Tell your ma and your wife I said hi.” Shelly opened the gate and entered the yard. “Try not to slip on the fucking roof, asshole,” she added in a mumble under her breath as she strode up the walk to the front porch.

  Should she knock? Should she ring the bell? Or should she just let herself in? She’d spent her entire childhood in this house, but the distance between then and now was measured in far more than years.

  She twisted the doorknob. The door opened. What the hell? Nonna thought she was still living in 1964? An elderly woman all alone in the house in this neighborhood, and she was leaving the front door unlocked? Jesus. Maybe Nonna was losing her mind.

  “Nonna?” Shelly called. “Nonna, I’m home.”

  “Shelly?” Nonna tottered out from the kitchen. “Oh, sweet girl.”

  Heat built behind Shelly’s eyes.

  “I’m so happy you’re home.” Nonna reached out and cupped her hand around Shelly’s cheek.

  Nonna’s skin was soft, thin as tissue paper, and dotted with the brown spots of old age. Her diamond engagement ring and wedding band loosely circled her finger, grown thin with age, and she smelled of oranges and espresso.

  Nonna wrapped Shelly into her arms. Shelly’s chest tightened, and she couldn’t swallow. The pain. The hurt. The fucking…shit that she’d done and put her family through. Her heart raged and a horrible want, this fucking need clawed up through her belly and into every cell in her body. Screaming for a hit, a shot, a something to take the feelings away. Her hands clasped and unclasped. One hundred eighty-two days sober. She closed her eyes and set her feet, mentally stuck herself to this spot in Nonna’s house.

  No, she wouldn’t run from these feelings. She wouldn’t drug them away or get high to escape—she’d feel them. Fuck. Emotion was some tough shit, especially when the wave of emotion came from being around someone you loved.

  Tears rolled down Shelly’s cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away. Instead, she squeezed her arms tighter around Nonna. She hadn’t been sure, not since she ran away, not in all those years she been using, not even in the 182 days she’d been clean, she hadn’t been sure that she’d ever see Nonna again. This woman, who had loved her at her best and kept loving her even at her worst, and who had always, always offered Shelly a home.

  “You’re here now, that’s all that matters. You’re here and you’re safe and you’re with me for Christmas.”

  Shelly dropped her head to Nonna’s shoulder, and for the first time in a very long time, she let go and let herself cry.

  Chapter 3

  Anthony pulled to a stop in front of Mrs. Bello’s home. Tank Tabanetti waved to him as he pulled down the street. That guy hadn’t changed since high school. A lazy, complaining sack of lard. Here it was six days before Christmas, with every house on the street already decorated for the holidays, and Tank was just getting his ma’s lights up on the house? And knowing her, Mrs. Tabanetti had probably asked him to put up the holiday lights right after Halloween. What a waste of space.

  Anthony parallel parked in front of Mrs. Bello’s. The box of baked goods from Carmine’s sat in the leather passenger seat. Anthony had exactly no one other than Mrs. Bello to share the confections with, so he had driven straight over from his meeting with Joey. Blinking red, green, and white lights outlined the eaves and windows and door of her house. A Walmart Santa, in a sleigh drawn by four plastic reindeer, was anchored halfway down the roof. The day a
fter Thanksgiving, Anthony had sent a crew of workmen out to decorate the house exactly the way Mrs. Bello wanted, just like he did every year. Christmas was important to Mrs. Bello, and this year even more so, because she believed that Shelly would come home for Christmas.

  Anthony sighed. Damn, that was supposed to be today. His gaze flicked toward the door. Time to do damage control. No Shelly meant a sad Mrs. Bello. He’d try to make her holiday nice, even if Shelly had disappointed her grandmother again.

  Anthony grabbed the box of goodies and climbed from his car. He’d tried since summer to manage Mrs. Bello’s expectations, because he knew damn well Shelly wasn’t going anywhere for Christmas, except maybe jail or, God forbid, the morgue. She’d been on a downhill slide ever since she’d run from home, right after Vincent died. When he’d found her that once, deep in Texas, he’d hoped he could bring her back, save her, but she’d only run from him too.

  In the decrepit roadhouse outside of McAllen, Shelly had been heroin-thin, with dark half-moons beneath her sunken eyes, her body unclean and her skin the color of a cloud-filled sky. He’d tried for a week to get her into rehab, and the entire time Shelly had tried to peel his wallet off of him. Then, finally, when he’d thought she was convinced, and the rehab people were on their way, Shelly’d disappeared. Slid back into the muck she resided in.

  He couldn’t find her. He’d gone back to the seedy roadhouse where he’d originally tracked her down. Nothing. He’d left Texas disgusted by his inability to help, demoralized by Shelly’s fall into the abyss. He couldn’t break Mrs. Bello’s heart with all the details, but the sadness in her eyes told Anthony that she knew about Shelly’s life in Texas without him having to say a word. Still Mrs. Bello hoped and hoped and finally, actually believed that Shelly was clean and living near her great-aunt, Mrs. Bello’s sister, in San Francisco. And with that belief came the conversations, ever since this summer, about Shelly returning home for the holidays.

  Frozen foreboding, like a block of dirty ice, pitted in his belly. He almost hoped Shelly wouldn’t come home for the holidays, because with her arrival came emotions and complications and memories Anthony did not want to revisit. Sure, he hoped she was clean, and he hoped she could be happy, but he also hoped he never saw her again. Or to be honest, part of him hoped he never saw her again. Another part, the inner eighteen-year-old who still carried a torch for the girl he’d been mad for, hoped to God that the beautiful version of Shelly Bello turned up for Christmas at Mrs. Bello’s door.