That's Amore! (16 page)

THERE GOES THE GROOM

Leslie Kelly

Dear Reader,

Having been raised in a primarily Irish family, I hadn't had much experience with Italian weddings … until my own. My husband and I actually had a very small, outdoor wedding, with our closest friends and family at a beautiful moutaintop shrine in
Maryland
. Yet my very dear mother-in-law did manage to bring a bit of her big Italian family culture into our private, but perfect, wedding.

I honestly had never seen nor heard of a "boursa" until she presented me with one she'd handmade for me. A silk and lace purse with bits of blue ribbon, this "purse" was something I was to carry at my reception, to gather gifts of cash from well-wishers. As I said, our wedding was pretty small … so the purse wasn't exactly bulging. But I did treasure it, and have held on to it for my own daughters.

My husband's family also brought a big platter of Italian cookies for the reception, decorated with "confetti" … the Jordan Almonds that do, as my mother-in-law informed me, represent the bitter and the sweet of life. Fortunately, the number of colorful almonds mixed in with the delicious cookies did not indicate the number of children we would have … I have three. Not three dozen.

I hope you enjoy this story of a non-Italian woman being welcomed into a big Italian family, with all the love, laughter—and food!—that goes with it.

Happy reading!

Leslie Kelly

***

To three of my very favorite people, Janelle, Lori and Tony. I love working with you guys!

CHAPTER ONE

I
t was a bridal gown
fit for a princess.

Carefully shifting the mountain of silk and lace on her lap, Rachel Grant stroked the delicate material against her fingers, nearly cooing at its softness. Any bride's dream, the dress was traditional in style, with a square neck and tight-fitting long sleeves. A slight sheen in the fabric gave evidence to the quality of the silk, and the lace was so delicate, she was afraid to breathe on it for fear it would disintegrate.

Its pure white color represented the ultimate virgin bride, which made Rachel shake her head. Was there such a thing these days? If so, she hadn't seen much evidence of it since she'd moved here to
Chicago
to open this bridal boutique with her aunt.

"Who cares?" she whispered. "I'll wear white, too." Then she sighed, acknowledging a few depressing truths. Not only was she pretty far away from a wedding dress of
any
color, considering she hadn't had so much as a date in six months. But also, white wasn't so far off for her. Nope, her only sexual experiences had been high school, back-seat-of-the-car type things where clothes never came fully off for fear of an unexpected pair of headlights.

And since moving to
Chicago
she'd been about as sexually active as a post-menopausal divorcee.

"Maybe you have to get married to get laid in this town," she muttered, returning her attention to the fabulous dress.

She carefully touched the tiny seed pearls decorating the bodice, telling herself she was merely testing the sturdiness of the sewing. Marveling again at their miniscule size, she peered at the small white roses which accentuated the waistline just above the scalloped layers of lace falling away into the ten-foot long train.

Beautiful. Perfect.

Too bad it belonged to the Nazi Bride of Taylor Avenue.

"Are you checking that over again?"

With a guilty start, Rachel jerked her rapt attention off the mounds of silk and lace, spying her aunt Ginny standing in the doorway to the front of their shop, Wedding Daze. She'd thought she was alone, and had been unable to resist one last, covetous look at the gown, which had arrived earlier this week for one of their clients. "I thought you were already gone. Don't you have to go to the bank?"

Ginny nibbled her bottom lip. "I forgot the money."

Rachel didn't say a word. God love her aunt, whose soft blond hair was showing its first strands of gray, and whose gentle brown eyes were now outlined by tiny laugh lines.

Ginny was only fifty—and a robust, healthy fifty at that—so that forgetfulness wasn't due to her age. It was just part of the loveable woman's personality. She sometimes said she'd forget to put her clothes on every day if she weren't so self-conscious of her mammoth bustline, which had, according to Ginny, been leading the way through her life since age twelve. Unfortunately, the fifty-year-old had been blessed with Grandma Josephine's hourglass figure, with emphasis on the
top
of the hour.

More unfortunately, so had Rachel.

No, she wasn't in the quad-D sizes, but it sure was tough working around all these beautiful, strapless bridesmaid gowns when the last time Rachel had gone strapless was to her sixth grade dance. And that had been pushing it, particularly since her elementary school boyfriend's nose had been just about eye-level with Rachel's throat. If he'd leaned any closer while they danced, he may as well have used her breasts as a chin rest.

"I think I forgot to take my Ginko Biloba, which is supposed to help me stop forgetting," Ginny said with a helpless sigh. "How can I be expected to remember to take something for my bad memory, if my memory's too bad to remember to take it?"

Rachel chuckled, acknowledging again why they made such a good team in their fledgling—but thriving—shop. Rachel handled the financial, recordkeeping side of the business while Ginny usually focused on the seamstressing and creative stuff. Whenever they took over for each other, the weaknesses inevitably showed. Unfortunately, neither of them were the neatest, most organized people in the world, as evidenced by the back room, which looked like the inside of a white-lined box, with satin, tulle and lace strewn as far as the eye could see.

"I'll take care of the deposit."

Ginny shook her head. "Absolutely not. It's right on my way. Besides you're … busy."

Busy. Busy feeling up another woman's wedding gown.
Which was only moderately less embarrassing than feeling up another woman's man.
Or another woman.

"I can't say I blame you for drooling over that dress," Ginny said. "It's one of the loveliest I've ever seen."

"I'm not drooling," Rachel replied. I'm
lusting.

Only
over the dress, though. Not over anything else belonging to the Nazi bride. Particularly not her fiancé, who, to Rachel's continued surprise, was a member of a popular, much-loved local family. The Santoris owned an Italian restaurant a few doors down, and were the most warm, welcoming, full-of-life people she'd ever known.

All except Lucas. The Nazi's groom. Oh, he was gorgeous all right, like his brothers. Maybe even a little bit more so, since his brown eyes flashed a hint of danger, unlike his fun-loving, raucous siblings—at least the ones Rachel had met so far. Raucous Lucas was not. He was sarcastic and moody, an attorney who was about as warm and welcoming as a case of frostbite.
Which made him just about perfect for his psycho-bride, Maria Martinelli, who faced a mutiny—if not murder—at the hands of her own harried bridesmaids.

Not to mention her dressmaker.

She'd heard rumors that Luke had once been a charming, flirtatious playboy. According to the mutterings of some of the women on the block, the flirtatious part of him had disappeared the day he'd gotten himself engaged to the daughter of the don of the neighborhood. Rudy Martinelli's ties ran not only to the east coast, in
New York
, but all the way back to
Sicily
.

Interesting choice the D. A. had made. Daughter of a man much of
Chicago
considered a kingpin of crime.

"Seems a shame it's going to be worn by such a she-devil," Ginny murmured. "I bet it would look glorious on you. Have you…"

Oh, no, Rachel wasn't a strong enough—or pathetic enough—woman for that. She wasn't about to start trying on other women's wedding gowns. Doing so would definitely put the exclamation point on the sentence, "Rachel Grant: Loser."

Clearing her throat, she said, "I'm just giving it a last once-over before the bride comes in for her fitting tomorrow. The way she was squawking over hating to have to wear a traditional dress to please her father makes me think she's going to be more unpleasant than usual."

"I think I'll call in sick tomorrow," Ginny said with a heavy sigh.

"Not if I call in sick first."

"Do you think Maddie would…
"

"Maddie swore she'd quit if she ever had to deal with the Nazi bride again. Remember?" And they couldn't afford to lose their part-time seamstress. Not if Rachel wanted to have any personal life at all. Wedding Daze had been swamped in the few months since they'd opened and Rachel was only now getting some weekends off because of Maddie's part-time help.

"Come to think of it," Ginny said, nearly bouncing on her toes in excitement, "I have an appointment for my annual GYN exam tomorrow. I made it months ago." She clapped her hands together and lifted her smiling face upward toward the ceiling, as if sending up a prayer of thanks that some guy was going to be poking a big metal object up her… "So I can't be here."

Rachel groaned. Because that left her. She was the lucky one who got to deal with the Nazi bride. Rising, she regretfully hung the dress back up and zipped it back into its protective cover. "I guess I get to do it. Lucky me."

"Maybe she'll be in a good mood," Ginny said, not sounding optimistic.

"Yeah, and maybe Prince Charming is going to walk through the front door and sweep me off my feet."

"It's possible."

"But it's not very likely," Rachel said with a sigh. "I might get hit on every day, but not by men who could be called Prince Charmings."

"Sure they can," Ginny said with a cheeky smile. "Unfortunately, they're
other
women's Prince Charmings."

Rachel knew exactly what her aunt meant. "More often other women's Sir Scumbags. I swear, if one more groom with cold feet makes a move on me while his bride's in the fitting room, I'm going to go postal on him."

Ginny winked. "Just don't do it near the stock. Blood really doesn't come out of white satin." Turning to leave, she blew Rachel a kiss. "See you tomorrow. After my appointment."

"What time is your appointment?"

"What time does the Nazi bride come in?" Ginny didn't have the guts to turn around and look her in the eye for that one.

"Ginny…"

"Oh, all right. It's at eleven. So I'll be in after lunch."

Nuts. Maria Martinelli's appointment was at ten-thirty. Which Ginny probably darn well knew, judging by the way her shoulders shook with
laughter.

Somehow, that laughter lightened Rachel's mood, even after Ginny left. She liked seeing Ginny happy, particularly since the two of them were each other's only family. Ginny had been a second mother from the time Rachel's mom had died ten years ago. After losing Daddy last year, there'd simply been nowhere else she wanted to be than with her only living relative—and very dear friend. The fact that Ginny now lived in
Chicago
had made the prospect of going into business with her even more exciting. Because Rachel had always longed to visit the big city, so different from her small hometown in
North Carolina
.

Hearing the bell tinkle over the front door, she smiled and shook her head. Ginny had probably forgotten the deposit
again.
"Maybe you should tie it around your wrist," she called as she entered the front of the store. "Or put it in your bra!"

But she didn't see her buxom aunt. Instead, she spied an eager-looking groom. One with whom she was all too familiar. She groaned softly, recognizing fat-fingers Frank Feeney, whose nice-but-stupid fiancée, Cassie, had left a half-hour ago.

"I'm sorry, we're closed," Rachel said, stiffening as she tried to stare the guy down. "Cassie's gone. You missed her."

Turn around. Turn around and walk out so I don't have to knee you in the groin because you
accidentally
touched me one too many times.

But he didn't. Instead, to her complete dismay, he came all the way into the store, shutting the door—which Ginny had obviously forgotten to lock—behind him. "Well, that's too bad," he said, licking those thick sausage-link lips that matched his thick sausage-link fingers. "But maybe you and I can have a nice chat, anyway."

A nice chat. The last time this guy had tried to have a nice chat, he'd asked her to help him make sure he was ready to be faithful to one woman for the rest of his life. He'd had the perfect suggestion on how to do it.

By having Rachel strip naked for him to see just how long he could resist her.

"I don't think so," she said, her jaw as stiff as her shoulders. "Now I'm going to count to ten, and if you're still here, I'm going to pick up the phone, call your fiancée and tell her what a jerk she's marrying."

The threat didn't appear to
phase
him. Neither did the numbers she whispered as he stepped ever closer in the shadowy confines of the store. She began to count aloud. "Three, four…"

"Don't be coy," he said, his steady steps never faltering.

For the first time, Rachel felt a twinge of concern. It was past closing time so she couldn't expect anyone to wander in. She had no after-hours appointments scheduled. And the semi-darkened interior, lit only by the lights in the back room, would make it difficult for anyone passing by to see a thing going on inside. "Eight, nine."

"You don't want to do that," he said, his confidence nauseating. "You don't have to play hard to get with me."