That's (Not Exactly) Amore

by Tracey Bateman

  Well, I mean, in my defense, a $5,500 limit isn’t really fair. If the company had offered me, say, a $15,000 limit, I wouldn’t be nearly as close to maxing out. “Yes, but I always pay on time and usually over my minimum payment.” I mean, shouldn’t that buy me some points even if it’s only a few dollars each month? “Plus, I mean, I know I don’t exactly have a steady job at this moment, but I have Janine’s affidavit that she is hiring me upon graduation in May, and I have a supplemental income as well, which I’ve had for several months.”

  A condescending nod from him follows my speech. “I applaud that. It shows you will eventually be a wonderful candidate for a house loan. Just as your parents were. However, at this time, there simply isn’t enough of a credit history to qualify you for a mortgage.”

  The glasses go back on as he breathes a heavy sigh. That simple action raises my hopes more than I care to admit. I can tell he’d like to help. I mean, it’s not his fault. “I’m sorry to see you lose your parents’ house,” he says, real regret tingeing his voice. “Your dad was a friend of mine.” A kind smile curves his lips upward. “But without a current job, a credit history, or a cosigner, there’s not a lot I can do for you. However, if you do come up with someone willing to cosign the loan, that might make a difference, provided you are able to make an acceptable down payment.”

  I’ve never felt such defeat as I leave the bank. I don’t know why—even before I walked into Mr. Brady’s office, I knew a loan was out of the question. Mainly I wanted to know my options. I thought maybe a few thousand dollars for a down payment. But sheesh. I’d have to single-handedly line up the stars and achieve world peace before they’d consider me a candidate for their filthy lucre.

  How does anyone get ahead in this world if no one will give you a chance?

  25

  March is a creeping kind of month that never seems to end. Everyone looks forward to April and the promise of spring. But as far as I’m concerned, except for the name and expectation, April is no different from March. Weather patterns are pretty much the same: rainy, fifty or sixty degrees (which makes for cold rain), and not at all the pastel spring everyone pants for during January and February. So why the hype? Why the deceit?

  I’m so relieved to wake up on May first. Hopefully April showers are behind me and May flowers are about to bloom.

  Mom’s house is finally repaired and will go on the market this week. I’ve been living here since her wedding so that I can make use of the double ovens, and I have to say, I’m not ready to let it go.

  I didn’t bother telling anyone about my visit to Mr. Brady at the bank. No sense making Mom and Aaron feel bad. If only Mom and Aaron could hang on for a year. Give me time to establish some credit, build up some time on the job. But again, no sense making them feel bad. I mean, they have no choice about selling the house. They’re paying rent for a two-bedroom apartment while both of them own a home. Aaron’s has been getting some great bites from prospective buyers, though, so they think that one will sell very soon.

  One good thing about this past month is that part of Chad’s recovery program involves making amends. He’s been a real trouper, helping Mom and Aaron do chores around Aaron’s house and this one too. It’s given us all a chance to get to know one another. And when Chad’s not being a butthead, he’s an okay guy.

  But speaking of buttheads, I’m listening to one, and it’s all I can do to keep from socking the perky real estate agent, who is doing a quick look-see through the house. A plump woman wearing a yellow jacket and sensible but noisy shoes. Her voice is a little too loud and her smile a little too wide. Maybe she needs counseling to deal with her self-esteem issues.

  A four-hundred-dollar Sony digital camera hangs around her neck, and every so often I hear her say something like, “Oh my goodness. That has to go up on the Web site.” Flash.

  Mom is accompanying the woman through the house while I sulk in the kitchen and stuff smoky Swiss cheese and turkey into pockets of dough.

  The agent practically squeals when she reaches the kitchen. “Double ovens, stainless-steel refrigerator.” She makes some scribbles and gets out the camera. “May I?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble. “I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Oh, no. Stay there. This is perfect. A kitchen lover’s delight. You make a perfect picture of the happy little housewife.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “That’s okay. We’re not selling you, are we?” She giggles like she just made the cutest joke.

  I feel the blood drain from my face as her flash nearly blinds me. “Just keep working,” she urges.

  I’m so stunned and revolted by this scene that I don’t have the guts to rip that camera out of her hands and blow it up in the microwave.

  “Your mother tells me you’re staying in the house until it sells?”

  “That’s right.” My defenses go up because I figure she’s going to start telling me to keep it clean, don’t leave underwear lying around, flush the toilet, take out the garbage, keep the yard nice, etc.

  Instead, her too-bright grin widens even farther. Any second she’s going to lose her eyes behind those cheeks that have risen to crazy heights on her face.

  “That’s perfect. You bake for a living?”

  “Well, to supplement my income while I finish design school.”

  Her gaze sweeps over my mismatched outfit. I scowl. “Interior design.”

  She nods in understanding. “Well, if we coordinate the times I show the house with your baking, we should be able to get this place sold in no time.”

  “You mean you want me out of here when you show it?”

  “No, no, no, sweetheart. You stand there doing exactly what you’re doing, and this house will practically sell itself—well, with a little help from me, of course.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.” I glance at Mom and silently congratulate her for picking a real winner of an agent here.

  “Honey,” the agent says, “the smell of baking combined with this fabulous kitchen is going to sell your mother’s house in no time. You stay in here using these appliances, and every woman with a smidge of domestic tendencies is going to beg her husband to buy this house. The smartest thing you did was move in here.” Her face clouds a little. “Only, you might want to wipe down the counters before we show it. We can’t have a mess, can we?”

  “Well, don’t you think a woman would realize that baking involves a little mess?”

  “Oh, I’m sure, but we don’t need to advertise that part of it, do we?”

  It’s at this point that I think my mom realizes I’m still holding a knife because she steps forward. “Well, if that’s all you need, I’m late for a meeting and my daughter needs to get back to work.”

  The woman looks anything but ready to leave, but she nods in agreement just the same. “Of course.” Mom escorts her to the door, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  When Mom returns, she gives me a sympathetic smile. “I know this is hard for you, honey. And you do not have to be a circus monkey for that woman. The house will sell in God’s timing and not a second before. No matter how much the real estate agent tries to manipulate things.”

  “I don’t mind helping out and keeping the kitchen smelling yummy.” I smile.

  “Do you have time to come to the church for the prayer meeting?”

  “Prayer meeting?”

  “It’s the National Day of Prayer. Pastor Moore set up that prayer and praise service. You mentioned you might like to attend.”

  “Oh, yeah.” A surge of regret sweeps me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “I have sandwiches in the oven, not to mention finals to study for. I’m sorry. How about if I pray here while you’re there?”

  Mom hugs me. “All right. You do that.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “I have to go. Aaron’s waiting.”

  One thing I have to admit: My mother has done a 180 since she started seeing Aaron. She’s active and happy and really facing her
twilight years with optimism.

  I’m starting to wonder if my best days are truly ahead of me like Pastor Moore says. But I can’t help being concerned sometimes when he mentions it. I mean, are the good days to come only a little ways ahead of me, or way out there? That’s the part that isn’t exactly comforting. If my best days are coming tomorrow, I can wait. But if we’re talking retirement, that’s going to be tougher to swallow.

  Right now, though, I turn my attention to more immediate issues. The table is cluttered with textbooks, notebooks, and handouts from this semester’s class. I’m so overwhelmed. Reading back over the notes from September and October, I’m at a complete loss. I know for sure I wasn’t absent from any of those classes. So why is it that all the information I’m staring at seems like rocket science?

  Jazz has started working on Bev’s house and is too busy to study with me. Also, I’m a little bitter about that whole deal. Turns out, Janine will give me a twenty-five percent bonus for every job I bring into the shop. And I just turned that one over to someone else. That really stinks. I mean, I’m glad for Jazz, but who are we kidding? Between the two of us, who is going to have the most trouble making ends meet in this profession? I’ll give you a hint. It’s not Jazz.

  By the time the clock on the wall bongs seven o’clock, I’ve baked four dozen stuffed sandwiches and six dozen cinnamon rolls. Even a few bread bowls, though they don’t sell as well in warmer weather and people are already starting to look forward to summer.

  I call two of my customers, Uncle Tony and Uncle Sam, and put them off until first thing tomorrow because I simply don’t have time to make deliveries today. They both offer to send a boy to pick up their order, so I agree. Reluctantly. Like I want the mob to know where I live. But then, according to the annoying realtor, this place is going to sell fast so I won’t be living here long anyway.

  The doorbell rings barely after seven. I pad barefoot to the living room and yank open the door.

  My stomach drops. “Joe,” I whisper.

  He grins. “Hope you don’t mind. Uncle Tony asked me to pick up the stuff for his shop. I’ll just take Uncle Sam’s while I’m here too. If you want.”

  “Uh, sure.” I’m still trying to recover. I know for sure I look horrible. No makeup. Hair pulled up into a ponytail. And even with valiant effort I know darn well that curls are springing out everywhere.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to get it together today.”

  I unlock the screen door and move aside as he enters. “What’s that?” I ask as I realize he’s carrying food.

  “Uncle Tony sent you some dinner. He said you sounded tired.”

  Tears spring to my eyes as my stomach rumbles at the aroma. It’s not often someone who loves food the way I do forgets to eat. But Tony struck the nail on the head. The thought of walking into the kitchen and fixing anything else is so overwhelming, I just haven’t eaten. Even picking up the phone to order takeout seems like too much. I try to hide my tears while he follows me to the kitchen. But I’m so exhausted, I’m on the verge of a total meltdown.

  “Just put that on the counter,” I choke out.

  “Hey,” he says, setting down the Styrofoam containers. He touches my shoulder and turns me toward him. “You okay?”

  My shoulders slump in complete defeat. I look up at him, unable to say a word.

  Tenderness washes over his face, and he draws me into his arms. I cling to him and cry out my exhaustion and disappointment.

  “Come on,” he says.

  “Where?”

  “You need to get out of here for a few minutes. It’s a pretty night. Come for a walk with me.”

  “I should keep studying.”

  He shakes his head. “Fifteen minutes to clear your head. Then you come back and eat and I’ll take off. By eight o’clock you can be clearheaded, full, and ready to study all night if you need to. Plus, I’ll have everything delivered, so that’s off your plate. Please? I’m worried about you.”

  The concern in his tone squeezes my heart. I nod. “You’re right. I have to get out of here before I go crazy.”

  I grab a sweater, and we step out into a cool spring night. The air smells of freshly mowed lawn, and the insects are happily chirping to one another.

  “I’ve missed you, Laini,” Joe says. “I’ll be glad when the shop opens again and you get back to coming in. You still plannin’ on baking for me?”

  The memory of the handoff between Joe and some guy shoots through my mind. I guess I’ve been avoiding him. Jazz and I have been doing design work for the last week. “I’m not sure I can handle it, Joe.” It’s an honest statement. “I’m swamped. And as soon as I pass this final and get my degree, I’ll be working sixty-plus hours a week for Janine.”

  A scowl mars his features. “You don’t have time for me anymore?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  He stops and turns me to face him. “Look, what did I do? If it’s about that night I saw Cindy, don’t worry. That was all Nancy’s idea. I haven’t asked her out. And nothing happened on the cab ride home.”

  “Don’t assume I was jealous.” I glare. “Besides, I don’t dump my friends because of who they date. So I basically don’t care if you were dating Cindy or not. Or Nancy. Or whoever.”

  “Then why the brush-off? I’ve been calling for a month.”

  It’s true. He has. “I call you back, don’t I?”

  “Yeah, barely. Just long enough to tell me you’re too busy to talk.”

  I wish I could explain to him that I don’t date mobsters. I know what goes on in that life. I’ve watched enough of The Godfather and The Sopranos to have a pretty good education on the lifestyle. The thought of Joe creeping around at night with guns and clubs, knocking off anyone who owes Frank money, makes me quiver inside.

  “You cold?” Joe asks.

  “No.” I start walking again. “I just think we come from different backgrounds. You’re a good friend to bring me dinner and be my delivery guy tonight. But . . .”

  “You think I did that just to be a good friend? Laini, you just don’t get it.”

  A car honks and breaks up the conversation. I look up to find Liz’s smiling face poking out of a car alongside the curb. “Laini! I thought that was you!” Her gaze sweeps over Joe, then returns to me as I walk toward the car.

  “How are you?” I ask. The baby is sleeping in the backseat and my heart nearly melts when I see her. “She’s even more beautiful than ever.”

  Liz beams. “Thanks! Her uncle Mark thinks so too.”

  Maybe Liz just doesn’t get it that I stopped seeing Mark the second I found out Kellie moved in with him. Besides, I thought she was pro Mark and Kellie being together. “Liz, this is Joe Pantalone. He runs the coffee shop a couple blocks from my house.”

  “Oh, the one you’re renovating?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looks at Joe. “Nice to get a free designer, huh?”

  Joe stiffens, clearly picking up on her animosity. I want to tell her to be careful. She doesn’t know who she’s insulting.

  Joe’s jaw twitches. “If you say so. But you have me at a disadvantage. You are?”

  “This is Liz,” I pipe in.

  “Laini dates my brother, Mark.”

  Joe turns to me. “The cop?”

  “That’s right. My brother is a police officer.”

  Joe doesn’t even bother to look at her. His gaze pierces me and I nod. It would be tacky to mention that we’re no longer dating right in front of Liz, so I decide not to bother.

  “Well, I’ve gotta go,” Liz says. “I’ll tell Mark I saw you.”

  And with a last scathing look at Joe, she’s off, disappearing as quickly as she appeared.

  Instead of continuing our walk, Joe predictably turns back the direction we came. “I guess I’d better get the boxes delivered before closing. Uncle Tony needs the cinnamon rolls for the morning crowd.”

  We say very lit
tle as we walk the few blocks back to the house. I feel I need to say something before he leaves. I help him carry boxes to the delivery van he’s driving from Tony’s. “Tell Tony I slipped in a few rolls he might want to use for his deli sandwiches. They’re better than the ones he buys in bulk.”

  “You going to start making them for him?”

  “No. But he could find someone else in the city to do it. I’m not the only person in Manhattan who knows how to bake bread.”

  I follow him out to the van for the last time. “Look, I’m sorry about Liz. That was awkward.”

  He walks around the van and stares at me over the hood. “You don’t have to explain. Just be careful about that guy.”

  Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to get hurt. Trust me—I can take care of myself.” I’m about to tell him I’m not seeing Mark anymore when he sneers.

  “I’m not talking about some girlie heartbreak. I’m saying, he’s not everything he seems.”

  “That’s funny, Joe.” I jerk my chin. “Because he says the same thing about you.”

  26

  Somehow, I’m not surprised the next day when I have four calls from Mark in my voice mail. I’ve left the phone off all day while I study. My knees are shaking when I walk out of my class. I can’t say with any degree of certainty that I passed the written portion of the test.

  The rest of the final occurs tomorrow night at the reception to show off Nick’s new look. Jazz and I just have a couple of final touches left—greenery, a picture here and there that we couldn’t hang until the paint on the walls dried. . . . But Jazz will attend to that tomorrow.

  I’m catering the affair with pigs in a blanket (my homemade croissants, of course, as the blankets), stuffed sandwiches, and my very own lemon-blueberry bundt cake.

  I look forward to tomorrow more than I can say. Baking will help me relax before the big event. My professor will be there, along with Janine, my new boss, and Nick’s family, including Joe’s uncles, whom I’ve been baking for. It’s a pretty big deal for the family.