Michael was the son of Joseph and Iva Carello, owners of Carello Accounting. The Italians in the neighborhood only trusted Joseph Carello to prepare their taxes and handle their other accounting matters. Like an obedient son of Italian parents, Michael worked in his father’s office in high school and during his breaks from college. But these kids of today have bigger dreams. After graduating, he became a stockbroker for Smith Barney. Olivia couldn’t complain too much. At least he’d be able to provide her daughter with a good income. And not only did Michael have impeccable manners, he had impeccable taste in fashion! He’d asked Olivia to make him a few custom-made suits. In fact, Olivia’s gift to her future son-in-law would be a custom-made tuxedo. She’d been afraid he would’ve preferred to buy a ready-made tux, but Michael was thrilled and accepted Olivia’s generous gift, much to her pleasure. The boy knew how to warm up to his future mother-in-law! And he never failed to compliment her cooking whenever he came over for dinner. But even Signora DeLuca knew no one was perfect. If Michael’s parents were Sicilian, instead of Venetian, then he would’ve been perfect.
Olivia’s nerves had been ruffled a bit that her daughter didn’t insist on getting married in Sicily, but she had to be grateful for what God had given her. Michael was a good man from a respectable family. They’d known him since he was a young boy. She had always secretly hoped that one day he would take a liking to Valentina. She could tell her daughter had harbored a crush on him since she was a little girl. Olivia had also noticed how Michael stared at Valentina once she became a beautiful young woman. And the way he’d checked in on her after Nicola had died. He’d taken off from school to attend the funeral, and he’d come to the wake every one of the three nights of the viewing.
But for some reason, they didn’t start dating until only two years ago. Valentina was twenty-eight and Michael was thirty-one. Olivia couldn’t understand what had made him wait so long to finally ask her daughter out on a date. Hmmm! In her day, when a man liked a woman, he didn’t waste any time. Now all anyone did was wait. Wait to get married . . . wait to have children . . . wait to buy a house.
Yes, Michael was a good choice for a husband. And Olivia was still thanking God that Valentina hadn’t done the unthinkable by marrying a Calabrese! Even though Calabria neighbors Sicily where it sits at the point of Italy’s boot, Olivia would rather have a Venetian as a son-in-law than a Calabrese. They’re too pigheaded and cafone! All one had to do was take a look at the Mayor of 35th Street, Paulie Parlatone—a Calabrese himself—to see cafone defined. The steam whistled through the espresso pot.
“ Vieni, Valentina! L’espresso è pronto!”
Putting her thoughts out of her mind for another day, Olivia sat down for her favorite ritual of the day—espresso and biscotti.
3
Evil Eye
I have to stop eating so many sweets if I hope to fit into my dress on my wedding day. It doesn’t help that Antoniella’s Bakery is so close to the shop. As Ma and I are finishing up our espresso and biscotti, my sisters finally stroll through the door.
Rita, the talker and complainer of the family, is twenty-six years old. Connie is twenty-four. Though they look nothing alike and have a two-year age gap, our neighbors call them the DeLuca Twins because they are rarely seen apart.
Rita resembles my mother with her fair complexion, onyx-colored eyes, and rich chocolate brown, thick, curly hair, which she wears long, way past her shoulders. She takes great pride in her crowning glory and rarely ties it back or puts it up, even in the sweltering heat of the summer. Of the three of us, she’s the tallest at 5’9”, taking after our paternal grandfather. As a size twelve, she has a full figure compared to the more petite frames Connie and I have. We attribute Rita’s curvier figure to her sweet tooth, which is worse than mine. Every afternoon, she walks into Antoniella’s Bakery for a cannoli and a café latte. Cannolis are her favorite. Some days, she even has two cannolis! She also loves to bake on her days off from work. Her Torta della Nonna is the best I’ve ever had—not even Antoniella’s can beat Rita’s recipe. And that says a lot, considering Antoniella has the best bakery in all of Astoria.
Rita is known for her bluntness. Sometimes her candid remarks cut far closer to the truth than any of us like, but you can never accuse her of being phony. She’s full of life and loves to party and can’t understand how I often find pleasure just with a good book to keep me company. She loves to dance and frequently goes out to the latest trendy nightclub in Manhattan with Connie and her friends.
In contrast to my classic fashion sense, Rita loves embellishment. Her clothes often sport beading or flashy sequins. You never catch her in anything understated. She doesn’t even own any neutral or solid-colored lingerie. Her bras and panties all have patterns—animal prints, polka dots, flowers. She shudders when I come home with a shopping bag from Ann Taylor and says, “B-O-R-R-R-I-N-G!”
“The more the better” is her motto. She’s a slave to fashion and wears all the latest trends. Right now she’s wearing a purple studded Marc Jacobs empire-waist tunic with black lace leggings. She loves the elaborate bridal designs of Oscar de la Renta and Pnina Tornai. I know when she gets married someday she’ll probably go all out with a full ballroom gown, heavy on the tulle, lace, and crystal beading. Of course, her dress will have a sweeping cathedral train with matching cathedral-length veil. Although she often makes cracks about brides and their “deluded princess fantasies,” as she puts it, I see the way her eyes light up whenever she tries on one of the dresses we’ve completed to see how it fits. And she often wastes no time in volunteering first to try on ball gowns that scream “princess bride.” Rita just won’t admit to us that, deep down, she has the same dreams most women have had since they were little girls of being a princess on their wedding day. So underneath her Teflon exterior lies a Cinderella waiting for her Prince Charming.
Rita had chosen to follow in my footsteps and had gone to New York’s famous Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT). She’d graduated with a degree in accessory design. When she isn’t baking on her days off, she’s designing and creating handbags, which she sells online. She even designs and makes a few clutch purses for the bridal shop, which are a huge hit. Ma keeps asking her when is she going to introduce more designs. But Rita’s true passion is designing non-bridal purses.
“It’s my escape from this warped world we work in,” she said to me once.
I think it’s a shame that Rita doesn’t take more interest in the shop, since she is very talented as both a wedding dress designer / seamstress and purse designer. Sposa Rosa is, after all, our mother’s legacy to us, and as such, we need to take it seriously.
Rita’s toughness comes through in her relationships with men as well. She really makes them work for her approval and love. But once they earn it, she showers them with affection while constantly reminding them she’s the boss in the relationship.
At 4'11 ", Connie matches my mother’s height and is the shortest. But that’s all she’s inherited from my mother. She takes after my father with her olive complexion and short chestnut brown hair. Her hair is also much straighter and finer than any of the DeLuca women’s hair. She usually wears it spiky or slicked back—a sexy look that plays up her large hazel-colored eyes. She accentuates her sultriness by lining her eyes in thick, smoky gray liner.
Connie is obsessed with her complexion, which leans toward the oilier side. She never goes anywhere without her compact, and throughout the day, she checks her face and powders it. She became fixated with her complexion after taking the bus home from school one day. Connie and Rita had chosen to go to Bryant High School instead of St. John’s Prep. My mother had warned them that the kids tended to be meaner at the public schools. But Connie and Rita reminded Ma how nasty some of the kids at Immaculate Conception were, where we’d all attended elementary school. Christine Murphy, who hated Connie for no reason, yelled out at Connie just as she was getting off the bus, “That’s right! Get off the bus, you grease monkey!” Co
nnie couldn’t help glancing toward the voice, as she was about to step off the bus. Christine yelled, “Yeah, I’m talking to you, you shiny grease monkey!”
Christine and her friends were howling with laughter. Connie came home crying. Maybe Christine hated Connie because she was jealous of her perfect hourglass figure that looked good even when she wore tattered jeans (her favorite) and a sweatshirt. Christine, on the other hand, was pudgy and looked as if she’d never grown. She must’ve been 4’8” even though she was fifteen. Rita said Christine could get a job at Ringling Bros. Circus as a midget, since she was certain she’d be a high school dropout.
Connie’s weakness is expensive shoes, and when she loves a particular style, she buys them in every shade of the color spectrum. Her most recent splurge was a pair of Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps in what she loves to call Barbie pink—a cross between fuchsia and light pink.
But Connie also goes crazy for jewelry, whether it’s real or fake. She has a degree in jewelry design from Parsons. And just like Rita, Connie sells her designs online. As a gift, she’s going to make the jewelry I’ll be wearing on my wedding day. To show her my appreciation, I decide to fully place my trust in her skills and let her come up with the design. She hasn’t begun designing the jewels yet since she needs to see my dress first.
Connie has more of a rebellious, avant-garde style. Her favorite fashion designer is Betsey Johnson. Of course, she thinks Sposa Rosa is the perfect name for the boutique.
“If it were up to me, I would’ve called it Loca Esposa.”
“We’re Italian, not Spanish,” Rita reminded her.
“In the Sicilian dialect, loca means ‘crazy,’ just as in Spanish,” Connie informed Rita.
“Whatever!” Rita rolled her eyes, hating it when her little sister bested her at anything.
Yes, that’s just like Connie, calling a bridal salon the crazy bride. She loves the bridal couture designs of Badgley Mischska and Matthew Christopher. Our more rebellious and daring clients go wild for Connie’s designs. On her wedding day, I can see Connie wearing a basque-waist mermaid dress with a sheer lace corset bodice or even a daring short dress. Then again, I can also see my youngest sister foregoing marriage completely.
Connie never has a problem making friends. She doesn’t let things get to her the way my mother or I do—well, except for Christine teasing her about her oily complexion. She’s always smiling or telling a joke. It’s no wonder that people flock to her and that she embraces as much as possible the serene New Age lifestyle.
Connie is a hopeless romantic and falls in love with every guy she dates. Unlike Rita, she doesn’t believe in ever dating casually. Her favorite movies to watch are romantic comedies. At the moment, neither she nor Rita are seeing anyone. Usually, I’m the one not involved with anyone while both of them are either dating or have boyfriends. Now, here I am engaged, while my two bubbly, popular sisters don’t have prospects for a serious boyfriend anytime soon. Secretly, I’m relieved since I am the oldest, and as the oldest, I feel I should be the first one getting married. I always thought Rita would be first, even with her tough brand of love. Two of her relationships had lasted three or more years, and she almost got engaged to her last boyfriend. But she said something just didn’t feel right, and like Ma, she’s learned to always trust her gut instincts.
Because of their ages, it’s natural that Rita and Connie are closer to each other than they are to me. I know they love me, but I also realize that as the big sister, I represent an authority figure to them. Still, I can’t help wishing I were more a part of their inner circle. Yes, I’m jealous of my sisters’ bond with each other. No one knows this—well, maybe Ma—nothing gets past those eagle eyes.
Ever since grade school, I’ve always longed for that one special girlfriend with whom I can share secrets and do everything with, as so many other girls have. Though Tracy had been my best friend growing up, I only saw her at school. Her mother wouldn’t let her come over to my house while we were in elementary school. And then when high school came, she’d come over, but there was something lacking. I guess it was because at that point I didn’t fully trust her anymore with all the lying she’d done. She was also hanging out with other kids, who got drunk a lot and sometimes even snorted coke. She still called me almost every day, though. And I knew there were certain things she told me that she didn’t tell her new friends.
“Hey, Vee! Hey, Ma!” Rita and Connie sing out in unison, as they swing through Sposa Rosa’s doors. It had started out as a joke between them, since everyone calls them “the DeLuca Twins.” But after the third time in a row of their announcing themselves in this ridiculous way, I told them how incredibly stupid they sounded. Instead of stopping, they just continued with it. I love my sisters even though they can be a huge pain in my butt. I’ve decided my best course of action is to ignore their antics as much as I can.
“Hey! What took you guys so long?”
“We got stopped along the way by the Mayor of Thirty-fifth Street. What else?” Rita elbows Connie, and then they break out into laughter. Rita almost drops the cake platter wrapped in foil that she’s carrying. No doubt she’d been baking last night.
“Why is that especially funny today? He’s been chewing our ears off since we were kids.”
“Well, there is more to it.” Connie gives Rita a sly smile.
“Okay, quit it. What’s going on?”
“He told us that he ran into you this morning, and your upcoming nuptials in Venice came up. He said that it would be a shame if he missed out on your wedding, and even though it’s so far, maybe he will be able to go.”
“You’re lying, Rita. Wipe that smug grin off your face. Paulie Parlatone is not about to part with his money. When have you known him to take a vacation? Hmmm? Never! You expect me to believe he’s going to take a trip?”
“He did say he was long overdue for a vacation, especially since he never took one before he retired.” Connie says this while looking at her complexion in one of the shop’s many mirrors. She continues looking at her face while she quickly whips out her compact, which she keeps in the front pocket of her purse for easy access. She pats feverishly the shine on her nose and forehead.
“Your face looks fine, Connie. If you put any more powder on, I’m going to have a hard time telling if you’re alive or dead!”
Connie scowls at me. “With your dry skin, you have no idea what I go through! I never see a bead of grease on your face.”
“I’d rather have your skin. Mine will start cracking soon from how dry it is. At fifty, you’ll probably still look like you’re twenty. So take it easy on the powder.”
“Yeah, I keep telling her that all the supermodels go for that glow over their nose and cheeks now. It’s in. But does she listen? She’s still hearing that midget Christine’s taunts in her head!” Rita tries to grab the compact from Connie, who jumps away in time.
“We’re getting off the subject. So we were saying that Paulie is going to fly all the way to Venice just for you and your wedding!” Connie is always a master at taking the attention away from Rita.
“So you’re not putting one over on me?”
“Vee, would we do that?”
If they are lying, they’re doing a great job of it.
“Uggghhhh!!! Now I have to suffer the Mayor of Thirty-fifth Street at my own wedding! Why me? I must’ve been a bitch in a former life.”
“Do you want to come with me to my yoga studio next Monday night? They’re having a workshop on past lives.” Connie looks at Rita, trying to keep a straight face.
“Ha! Ha! Really funny.” Squinting my eyes narrowly, I give her my most dirty look.
“He said he was heading over to Kyle’s Travel to book his trip before all the flights were sold out. You know how anxious he gets!” Rita laughs.
“Girls, you know I always book my trips to Italy at least six to nine months in advance. It’s better to play safe than sorry. Paulie has a point, even though I hate to admit h
e’s right about anything,” Ma chimes in.
“I can’t believe this! He’s going to be so crass at the reception with his usual obnoxious questions and picking his teeth.”
I sink down on the office chair behind the receptionist’s desk.
“Psych!” Rita and Connie scream out in unison, giving each other a high five as they laugh hysterically.
I throw two fat spools of thread at them, missing Connie, but hitting Rita on the arm. “I’m going to kill you both!”
“Oh, Vee, the look of desperation on your face when you thought he was flying to Venice! Priceless!” Connie looks at Rita, nodding her head to gain her sidekick’s approval.
“Yeah, you looked so tortured. I almost broke and told you we were kidding almost as soon as we announced he was going. But you know us, Vee, we can’t miss a good laugh.”
Rita lifts her curls on top of her head with one hand and fans her face with the other. She always does this when she gets excited. Like me, she flushes easily.
“Or the chance to tease your older sister. It’s a good thing I have a soft spot for you guys or else. And, Connie, isn’t lying against your Buddhist ways?”
“I never said I was a Buddhist just because I practice yoga and meditate.”
“If I ever catch you changing your religion, you’ll be out of this family!” Ma looks up from the hem she’s stitching on one of the bridal gowns and waves her index finger, which is covered with a thimble, at Connie.
“I know. I know. Catholic till I die.” Connie makes the sign of an X over her chest. Rita and I laugh.
“So what’s up, Vee? Why did you want us to come in on our day off? Dare I ask?” Rita’s lips turn up in her trademark crooked smile that matches Ma’s smile. She hates it, but I love it.
Bella Fortuna Page 5