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Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

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BOOK: Bella Fortuna
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My eyes widened. “The Broccoli Brothers? How long has this been going on?”
Rita just smiled and waved as she pushed Connie, who was giggling, toward the door. And here I was thinking they weren't dating at the moment. I could feel a small pang of hurt at being left out of my sisters' lives once again. The moment we'd shared jumping and joking together had been quickly extinguished. Just when I thought I was finally entering their inner sanctum, the door was shut on me once again.
I watched them walking down Ditmars Boulevard, arm in arm, laughing as always—probably about how they'd managed to shock me with their revelation. The Broccoli Brothers were waiting for them outside of the 718 Lounge. I stretched my neck to get a better look outside the window. Both brothers kissed my sisters on the cheeks. I couldn't see any more once they turned around to enter 718.
The Broccoli Brothers were John and Lou Rabe, as in the vegetable broccoli rabe. The Mayor of 35th Street had given them this name when they were in high school. Whenever he'd see the two brothers, who lived on the corner from us, the Mayor would yell out, “Broccoli Brothers! Got any good broccoli for me?” He always erupted into laughter as if it were the first time he was making the joke. John and Lou were good sports about it. Now everyone in the neighborhood referred to them as the Broccoli Brothers.
Well, at least they were nice, respectable guys—and Italian. My mom would be happy about that, of course. But she wouldn't be thrilled that Lou Rabe owned a motorcycle. Of course, Connie was arm in arm with him. Their rebellious natures made them a good fit for each other. Lou was a paramedic and often looked exhausted from both the stressful work and late hours he tended to work.
John Rabe was more subdued than his brother. He was 6'3” and very broad-shouldered. Rita's bigger frame looked smaller next to his. He worked as a paralegal in Manhattan and was studying for his LSATs.
I push my sisters and the Broccoli Brothers out of my mind as I return to my dilemma. Frantically searching my mind for an answer as to how I can make my dress look different without ruining its original design, I sigh deeply when nothing comes to mind. My design is perfect as it is, just as Ma had said. My completed gown has been my ideal vision for months now. From sketching the design to drawing the pattern and cutting it out carefully over the fabric to the meticulous hand stitching and sewing the pearl beads on one by one, I have bonded with my dress, much like the unborn baby you grow to love day by day as it is being formed. I just can't imagine this dress looking any other way than it does now.
I glance back out the window and notice the snowflakes are falling more heavily, mesmerizing me as I stare.
“Snowflakes!” I cry out. “I'll add a few snowflake-shaped embroidered appliqués to the skirt.” Right now the skirt has no ornamentation. Then I can place crystals over the appliqués, making them sparkle.
I spin around for joy. If there is ever a time that I am happy it's winter and snowing, this is it! My enthusiasm suddenly freezes just like the icy temperature outside. Winter. It is winter now, but I'm getting married in June and in a Mediterranean country no less. Although Venice has its share of overcast, rainy days, I can't have snowflakes on my dress. What am I thinking? I smack my head and all but collapse onto the plush suede couch we keep outside of the fitting rooms for brides' relatives and friends.
“Think, Valentina, think!” I say aloud.
A
Modern Bride
magazine is on the couch. The glittering diamond necklace the model is wearing catches my attention. A thin strand of round-cut diamonds circles the model's neck.
That's it! It's even better than snowflakes. I can't believe I was actually entertaining the idea of putting snowflakes on a wedding dress! Diamonds. Yes! They're sparkly so I'll still get the same effect that the crystals over the snowflake appliqués would've given me. I can scatter crystal beads throughout the dress's skirt. I can even add a few to the floor-length veil I'm planning on wearing. The dress will be different but I won't have to alter the actual cut or style of my original design. But will it be enough? Michael probably won't remember such a small detail as crystals and whether the dress has them when he sees me in it. Then again, most men don't have good short-term memories. Maybe he doesn't remember most of the dress, and my mother is stressing me out for nothing?
My cell phone rings. 8:20! I am supposed to meet Michael at Antoniella's for coffee at eight!
“Hey, Vee. I'm sorry. I'm running late, but I'm on my way. Were you waiting long?”
“No. No. I actually lost track of time. I'm still at the shop, so don't kill yourself to get to Antoniella's.”
“Great. I'll see you in about half an hour. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
My heart still skips a beat whenever Michael says he loves me. Will it continue to skip throughout our marriage?
I grab my cashmere camel-colored coat as I switch off the lights throughout the shop. My hand reaches for one of the many umbrellas we keep in a wicker basket by the door, but on second thought, I decide to leave it and enjoy the snow. I'm feeling lucky for a change.
4
Rotten Eggs
T
he radio in Antoniella's Bakery is broadcasting a blizzard. The meteorologists had gotten it wrong yesterday when they predicted only three to six inches. Since the time I left Sposa Rosa, the snow has been falling at a rate of two inches per hour. I am sitting by the window at Antoniella's, enjoying watching everyone trudge through the snow.
Kids are throwing snowballs at each other. Old ladies pushing their grocery carts are making their way carefully through the slippery pavement. Suddenly, a black poodle stands up against the bakery's window, its nostrils flaring and puffing up the glass, as it takes in the pastries' scent. Taking a closer look, I notice its milky white eyes and realize it is Mitzy, Betsy Offenheimer's blind dog.
Betsy and Mitzy slowly make their way into the shop.
“What will it be today, Mitzy? A black-and-white cookie or a mini
cannoli?
”
Mitzy continues sniffing, waving her head from side to side.
“Hi, Betsy. I see you're still spoiling Mitzy.”
I smile as Betsy hobbles over to me. She walks with a black shiny cane that matches her black cat-shaped eyeglasses, circa 1950, of course. Every Tuesday morning, she gets her roller set. Her tightly wound white curls are kept in place all week by a hairnet, which she removes only on the weekends. It's not like the weekends are any different for Betsy from the weekdays. She always stays at home or wanders the neighborhood with Mitzy. Maybe looking extra nice makes the weekends feel different for her? Today, she's wearing her navy blue pea coat that hides her breasts well. Normally, her double D-cup breasts stand out like two cocked pistols in her knit shirts, never bouncing in their ultra-supportive 18 Hour Playtex bra, à la Jane Russell.
The kids on my block teased her mercilessly.
“Hey, Torpedo Tits! Look everybody, she's got Torpedo Tits!”
“Stop that! You stop that right now!”
Poor Betsy's face would turn the shade of the cherry peppers my mother grew in our backyard as she stood toe to toe with the kids. After that first incident, the kids on my block nicknamed her “Torpedo Tits.” My mother and the other Italian women dubbed her
“La Vecchia Coi Mini”
or “The Lady with the Tits.” Even after knowing her all these years, it's hard not to stare.
“You look so PRETTY today, Valentina. You should always wear violet, it suits your GORGEOUS brown hair.” Every adjective that drops out of Betsy's mouth is always pronounced extra loud, especially if she's paying you a compliment.
“Thank you, Betsy. You're so sweet. Sit down and keep me company until Michael gets here.”
“No, no, thank you. I have to be home by nine tonight. Masterpiece Theater is playing
Pride and Prejudice
. That's my favorite Jane Austen novel. On that note, I'd better get going. Have a good night. Say hello to your mother for me.”
“I will. Be careful in the snow.”
I watch as she orders a quarter pound of miniature black-and-white cookies for Mitzy, who's still sniffing and waving her head from side to side like a blind man's walking stick, sensing where it's safe to walk. Betsy bends over and gives Mitzy a cookie.
“Can't make her wait until she gets home to get a taste,” Betsy says to Antoniella, who just nods with her trademark tight-lipped grin. Antoniella's eyes meet mine, and she rolls them when Betsy stoops over to feed Mitzy, as if to say,
“Quest' e pazza!”
I can imagine Antoniella pointing to her head with her finger.
I return my attention back to the scene outside. A lot of the shops have closed early, but not Antoniella's. As sturdy as the Abruzzi Mountains from where she comes, Antoniella always keeps her store open. Her only exceptions are Christmas and Easter, when she closes at noon.
“People need their
pasticcerie
to bring to family.”
She offers this justification whenever someone asks her why she isn't closed for the two most important Christian holidays of the year. But everyone knows how cheap Antoniella can be.
As the owner of the most popular bakery on Ditmars Boulevard, Antoniella—or the Hunchback, as my mother likes to call her—does well financially. But you'd never know it by her shabby coat that has a trailing hem and is missing one or more buttons . . . or by the many cracks in the sidewalk in front of her house, which is in sore need of a new coat of paint . . . or by the shoes whose soles have been glued on too many times before.
“What does the Hunchback do with her money?” Ma always wonders aloud. She's not the only one. Our neighbors also wonder. Antoniella has never had kids. Her husband died ten years ago. And as far as we know, there are no other relatives here in the United States.
Just barely five feet tall, the Hunchback wears beige wedge-heeled nurses' shoes so she can see over her sales counter. But all the customers can see is her head. Everything from the chin below is invisible. The towers of
panettone
from the Christmas season that line either side of the counter obscure her even more. Soon, Perugina chocolate Easter eggs will take the place of the
panettone
boxes.
Antoniella's shoulders and upper back are slouched forward, hence her nickname. The Hunchback dyes her hair dark blond, giving it the appearance of matted straw, since she colors it as soon as she sees a stray gray hair. I want to introduce her to conditioner so badly. Her brown eyes are always squinted, and her lips seem to remain in a perpetual tight-lipped frown, making her look like she's always mad. Her brusque manners match the scowl on her face.
I often wonder if it weren't for her pastries being so good, would Antoniella even have any customers?
“Are you still waiting for the Carello boy before placing your order, Valentina?”
Antoniella startles me out of my reverie.
“Oh. Yes, Antoniella, I am waiting for Michael, but you know what? I'll just go ahead and order now. You know me. I can't stay in here too long without sampling one of your sweets.”
“That's what I thought,” Antoniella says in a very matter-of-fact tone. I can see a little twinkle in her eye, appreciating my praise. She never allows herself to fully smile whenever her patrons compliment her baking.
“
Cappuccino
with skim milk as always and what will you have to eat?”
“I really shouldn't, with my wedding coming up, but I've been dying for a slice of your
Pastiera di Grano
. But can you do me a favor and cut the slice in half? I'll take the other half home.”
“You're getting too thin, Valentina. You lose any more weight and you'll have to keep taking that dress in. But I'll do as you wish.”
“Thank you, Antoniella.”
Another simple pleasure of mine in addition to people watching is smelling all the delicious pastries and cookies along with the brewing
espresso
in Antoniella's. I can just stay in here forever.
“So how's business been in these cold winter months?”
Antoniella carefully places the cup of
cappuccino
in front of me. She always fills the cup to the brim, lest any of her customers accuse her of skimping them.
I take a sip before answering.
“Business has never been better, actually. Usually, it slows up a bit in the winter, but this year, we're almost as busy as we were in the fall. Brides don't seem to care anymore if they have more than a year's time until their wedding. The dress is the first purchase they want to make. Of course, that interview
Brides
magazine did has brought in so many clients.”
Antoniella nods her head. “It's helped my business, too. I've had so many wedding cake orders since the magazine interviewed Sposa Rosa. Do you need business cards to place in your boutique?”
“We still have them, but you can give me more. This way as soon as we run out, I can restock them. You know I always personally recommend your bakery to all of my clients for their wedding cakes?”
“
Si, si
. You and your family have helped me out a lot. I am so grateful. When I get customers who come in to place an order for their cakes, I ask them if they have already bought their dresses. If they haven't bought the wedding dress yet, I make sure to tell them to go to Sposa Rosa. Usually, though, they've already bought their dress. So then I ask them if their bridesmaids have ordered their dresses. Or I tell them if they know of anyone who's just gotten engaged to go to your shop. I always refer them to you with the highest praise.”
“
Grazie,
Antoniella.”
My mother and Antoniella had agreed upon this promotional arrangement when Ma first opened the shop. In addition to both shops displaying the other's business cards, customers get 15 percent off if Antoniella or Sposa Rosa refers them. To thank us for all the business we've given her, Antoniella has insisted on making my wedding cake, free of charge. And though she may be thrifty when it comes to her own possessions, she's been very generous and encouraging of me to choose the most elaborate design and not worry about the costs.
The cake comes in third as the most important element of the wedding, followed by the venue first, and the dress second. Although I want my cake to look gorgeous, I care more about how it tastes. So I've decided to stick to a simple whipped cream frosting with a cheesecake filling. The cheesecake is actually Michael's idea. Have I mentioned the guy has taste? The cake will have four tiers. Its whipped cream base will feature a basket weave design. Pale green and ivory ribbons, my wedding colors, will cascade down the sides. Cream-colored peonies and roses, my flowers, will be adorning the sides of the cake. The top will be an elegant bow. “So what's his excuse for being late this time?”
Antoniella interrupts my thoughts.
I smile. “Ahhh . . . You know Michael well. It's always work these days that's keeping him.”
“Hmm.”
Antoniella wags her index finger at me and says, “Watch out for him. Make sure the eggs are fresh before you buy them. You can never be too careful.”
With that, she walks off. What does she mean by that? Whatever. I take a bite of my cake and let its sweetness soothe me.
“
Ciao,
Antoniella!”
Michael's voice booms loudly. I look at my watch. At least he was just half an hour late this time. After he gives Antoniella his usual order of double
espresso
with a shot of Sambuca, he strides over to me. Instead of Antoniella hurrying over to the
espresso
machine to get Michael's order ready, she makes eye contact with me behind Michael's back and tilts her head in his direction as if to say, “Remember what I told you.”
Damn Hunchback! So what if she's making my cake for free! Who does she think she is, criticizing everyone as if she's God? My mother's easily frayed temper is making an appearance in me.
Michael bends over to kiss me. As he's about to pull away, I continue kissing him. I can tell Michael is aroused by my aggressiveness. When he pulls away, his hand lightly, but subtly, brushes against my breast. I don't think the Hunchback sees that, but she definitely hasn't missed the long kiss. Her lips are pursed even tighter than usual before she finally walks off to make Michael's
espresso
.
“Well, that was a reception. I thought I was going to get my usual ‘Thanks for keeping me waiting yet again' lecture. You must've missed me.”
Michael winks at me as he takes off his Armani cashmere overcoat and sits down. His infamous winks had returned once we started dating.
“You should take charge like that more often. I like it.”
“If you start being on time, I'll consider it.”
I smile at him to let him know I'm really not mad.
Antoniella comes over and brings Michael's
espresso
. She isn't as careful carrying his cup as she was with mine, and some of the
espresso
spills over onto the saucer.
“Can I also get a slice of
tiramisu?
I wasn't hungry when I walked in, but suddenly I'm famished.” Michael grins from ear to ear then very slowly licks his lips in the most suggestive manner. I turn away, feeling my face flush.
“Why don't you go have a real meal then if you're that hungry?”
Antoniella plops his
espresso
cup hard onto the table, spilling more of the
espresso
. She storms off.
Michael and I look at each other and laugh.
“You're terrible!”
“I know. That's why you love me, baby!”
“You know that's not true!”
I swat him playfully on his arm. Even though I hate to admit it, I am also drawn to the bad boy side of him that comes out on occasion. Seeing him making out with Tracy that night certainly has cast him in a bad boy light. But more of him is good, and
that's
the real reason why I love him.
BOOK: Bella Fortuna
2.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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