That's (Not Exactly) Amore (20 page)

As the service concludes, Pastor Moore looks me in the eye and speaks. “God’s eyes are on you. He knows where you’re going. His greatest desire is for you to walk out the life He’s prepared for you. All you have to do is seek and you will find.”

The closing prayer follows and then Mom leans in. “I always feel like he’s preaching right to me.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Me too.”

I leave the church that day pondering: Do I turn my life over to God and start reading my Bible (thus, seeking Him) just so I can have my needs met? I don’t know. . . . Seems a little like I’d be using God for personal gain. On the other hand, it is in there, isn’t it? But maybe I could think about it for a while. Then if I can honestly seek Him, I will. Otherwise, I guess it’s just my loss. I suppose if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit I’ve turned a corner. I became a Christian when I was a little girl. Officially. But something about Dad dying and Mom changing so drastically made me a little bitter. Lately, though, somewhere between regular church attendance and off-the-cuff prayers, I’ve come to this place where I’m more aware of God. His presence, His power to direct my life, even conviction when I do things that don’t feel right. It feels like I’ve recently slid back into the Christian life. I’m still not positive what it all means. All I know is that I’m different. In a good way. And I’m not willing to go back to where I was before.

The phone starts ringing at eight o’clock the next morning as I’m sitting at the table with Nancy, eating the first breakfast I’ve had time to actually cook in two weeks. Spanish omelets and English muffins. Not exactly gourmet, but a nice effort. It makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. I’m especially gratified watching Nancy gobble up every single bite. Seeing skinny girls eat like truckers always gives me a sense of glee.

By eight thirty, I’ve gotten orders from two more coffee shops around the city and one sandwich shop that claims my sandwiches are the stuff legends are made of. Those Pantalones are serious about keeping me working. Orders for a total of twelve dozen cinnamon rolls and six dozen stuffed sandwiches. All due by Wednesday.

Nancy’s face clouds a little when I deliver the news. “Does that mean you’ll need the oven all day tomorrow?”

“All day today, tonight, tomorrow, and tomorrow night.” I’m disappointed in her lack of enthusiasm, to be honest. My former roommates would have been happy with this great order. It’ll help me out a
lot
financially. “Is that a problem?”

She shrugs. “I was going to cook for a couple of friends tomorrow night. But it’s okay. We can make it another time.”

My eyes go wide. “Oh, Nancy. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.” My mind calculates the possibilities. “How about if I cook here today and then go to my mom’s tomorrow?”

Her eyes widen. “Are you sure?”

“It’s your apartment too, Nancy. I sort of monopolize things. I’ll call my mom and just make sure she doesn’t mind.” Sheesh, I might as well move in with Mom for all the time I’m spending there lately. Except . . . well, she’s not going to be living there much longer, is she? In just a couple of months, she’ll be marrying Aaron. They’re moving into a rented apartment until the house sells. Heaviness presses against my chest.

I pick up the phone and okay my plans with my mom, who is, of course, thrilled to have me come to Long Island twice in one week. I nod at Nancy’s questioning glance when I end the call. “I’ll cook here today and then go to my mom’s after my class tonight.”

“Are you sure? I hate to throw you out of your own apartment.”

“It’s no problem. Actually, my mom said she has something she wants to talk to me about anyway. So I guess it’s timely.”

“Excellent. Then I’ll tell Joe we’re on for tomorrow night.”

“Joe?” I can’t believe it. I got myself out of the way so that she could reel Joe in?

I’m such a dope. For all of Nancy’s chatter about just being friends with him, she’s as taken with the guy as I am.

I barely have time to get the flour out of my fingernails before it’s time to go to school. My mind keeps going over the dozens and dozens of cinnamon rolls I’ve gotten done, and the stuffed sandwiches I’ll make tomorrow. I keep calculating how much money I’ll make with all of this. I know it’s probably tacky to think about money so much, but with my half of the rent due in a few days, it’s all I can think about.

I truly try to look interested during the lecture. But who can get excited about brocade when I have dough rising at home? It’ll probably be as high as the ceiling. Nancy promised to punch it down and knead it for me, but she was knee-deep in paperwork and sort of waved me away when I asked and she agreed, so I seriously doubt she’ll remember. My professor keeps staring at me—I’m sure he’s not too happy about my lack of attention.

As he dismisses us, he says into the mic, “Miss Sullivan, will you please see me before leaving this evening?”

Jazz tosses me a sympathetic look as she grabs her books and heads to yoga.

I huff my way down the bleacher-type steps. Why does Mr. Brooks constantly try to discourage me? Personally, I think if a teacher can’t be supportive, he has no business sitting behind that desk. Or standing behind the small, metal podium, as the case may be.

I make my way to the front, hanging back while he hands out missed assignments and answers quick questions as my fellow students file out of the room after a long and boring lecture.

I see and hear his sigh as I approach. “Thank you for staying after, Miss Sullivan.”

“No problem,” I say as nonchalantly as possible considering my hands are sweating and my knees are quaking. “You wanted to speak to me?”

He hands me a paper I recognize as the revised proposal that Joe, Nancy, and the contractor signed off on.

“Is this your work?”

“Mine and Jazz’s. We’re partners.” I give him what I know must be a confused frown. “Did we miss a step?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. I’m just wondering how much of this is you and how much is Miss Bates.”

“We pooled our ideas. I thought of Italian decor, and she started pulling ideas together with me.”

“And the floors? Whose idea were those?”

“The faux stone with cracks to mimic old Italy?” I swallow hard. “That was an afterthought. I just thought it would work.” And so did the architect. “I hope Jazz doesn’t get points taken off for my mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” He smiles the first real smile I’ve ever seen from this guy. “This is truly a wonderful design. How are the renovations coming along?”

“The contractors start knocking down walls this week. They say they’ll be done in three or four weeks and then we get to start painting and adding the new tables and stuff.”

“Three or four weeks?” His eyebrows go up.

“They’re willing to work around the clock. Two crews.”

I know, I know. It’s unprecedented. Contractors are notoriously slow and unreliable. But how can I tell this professor who is giving me the first genuine smile I’ve ever received from him that Joe’s dad most likely made the contractor an offer he couldn’t refuse? That I’m getting preferential treatment by association with the mob?

I refuse to do it. Seriously. I can’t.

He takes the papers back and stuffs them into a file that I can see is marked “Sullivan/Bates.”

“All right. I’ll look forward to the unveiling.”

“Yes, sir. So will I.”

The cool evening wind teases my hair, tickling my face as I walk toward the train station. Stars dot the sky, and I breathe in relief. I’m ready for a night without rain.

My cell phone chirps just as I reach the steps. I know better than to try to answer belowground, so I decide to take it before I descend. Oh, it’s Mark. I haven’t heard from him all weekend. “Hey, stranger,” I say, smiling to myself. “I thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”

He chuckles. “Liz had her baby.”

“She did? Boy or girl?”

“Girl.”

“That’s great. I bet she and Rick are thrilled.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I had to fill in for Pop while he passed cigars to everyone at the hospital.”

“You cook?” This information surprises and delights me for some reason. It gives us that much more in common.

“Of course. I grew up in a restaurant, remember? Pop had me running the grill and handling the deep fryer by the time I was twelve.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Yeah. But Pop figured I was his kid and nobody had a right to tell him what to do with his own flesh and blood. Liz has been working there forever too.”

“It was nice of you to help out.” I wait a sec to see if he’s going to add anything. I glance at my watch. Trains leave every few minutes, and I don’t want to miss the next one. “My train’s about to leave, Mark. I’d better let you go.”

“Okay . . . I’ll see you . . .” and the rest of his message is garbled as I hurry down the steps and through the turnstile and slide onto the crowded train just as the doors close.

I push my way out of the subway, through a sea of bodies, and up the steps to find Mark waiting for me, a bouquet of roses in his hands. His face beams.

My eyes widen. “Are those for me?” The words come out in a gasp. I’ve never gotten roses from a guy. From anyone. Ever. Well, from Dad, on my sweet sixteen, but that doesn’t count.

“Of course they’re for you.” He bends and brushes a kiss against my lips.

I catch movement from the corner of my eye and lo and behold, there’s Joe. Watching and scowling. Mark turns. “Oh, the coffee shop guy.” He slips an arm around my waist. I recognize the action as territorial.

Joe’s eyes narrow and I know he heard Mark’s comment. He steps forward.

“Hi, Joe,” I say, my voice a little shaky because I realize Joe witnessed Mark’s kiss. “You remember Mark.”

His gaze sweeps the flowers in my arms, then goes to Mark. “Oh, yeah. The cop.”

I feel Mark tense up next to me. It’s tragic, really, and shows the true state of my character, that I’m so glad he’s jealous. What I can’t figure out is why Joe is here.

“Excuse me,” Joe says before I can humiliate myself by thanking him for meeting me. “I need to catch the next train. I’m meeting some friends in Jersey.”

I could kiss the ground, I’m so grateful I didn’t voice my assumption that he was there to walk me home.

Mark gives a short humorless laugh as we walk away from the subway station. “I just bet he’s going to visit friends in Jersey.”

“What would be the point of lying?”

“I’m not saying he’s not going there, only that . . .” His eyes scan my face. He smiles and squeezes me closer. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

“What are you talking about?” I don’t like surprises, and I definitely don’t like being out of the loop. But by the smug look on his face, I start to get the picture. He’s talking about taking Joe down. Legally. “Is this about the mafia rumors?”

“Maybe. But I can’t talk about it right now. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. But the way that guy looks at you . . .” He hugs me tighter to his side. “It drives me crazy, the thought of you seeing him.”

“I’m not. Actually, I think he’s sort of seeing my roommate, Nancy. She even invited him over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Pantalone’s coming to your apartment?”

I nod. “Yeah, but I won’t be there. I have orders out the wazoo and Nancy needs the oven, so I’m going to my mom’s tonight.”

“Oh.” I hear the disappointment in his voice and turn to look up at him as we walk.

“Did you have something in mind?”

“Just being with you. I should have called earlier. Or yesterday. I’m not so good at making arrangements ahead of time. With Kellie I never had to.”

I just bet. “Well, with me you do.”

We reach the stairs of my apartment and he pulls me close. He smells lightly of Polo and I have to admit my stomach does a little bit of a flip. But not like before. As a matter of fact, the mention of
Kellie
has ruined any chance this guy has of being kissed by me tonight.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Not really. I just have to pack up and get to my mom’s before it’s too late. She goes to bed by ten.”

“Can I go to the train station with you? I could help you carry stuff.”

All I have is a small duffel bag to take. Mom went out and bought all my food ingredients so I don’t have to cart any on the train. I didn’t ask her to do that, mind you, but it was awfully sweet of her.

Still, Mark looks a little lost, so I suppose I can let him redeem himself for the Kellie comment. “Yeah, you can tell me all about Liz’s baby.”

Relief floods his face. “I can do that.”

It’s not what he
can
tell me that I’m most interested in, though. What in the world does he have on Joe?

19

T
he greasy, smoky aroma of bacon frying awakens me the next morning. I stretch and turn onto my back. I usually wake up and bound out of bed, but today my body refuses to move. I think my crazy, hectic life of late is catching up to me. School, baking, the stress of what will happen after I graduate—provided I do graduate. And last but not least, juggling two guys, even if one of them is more interested in friendship than anything else.

The faint sound of “I Surrender All” carries up the steps. Mom’s singing again. I snuggle deeper under the covers and smile. Feels like old times. The only thing missing is my dad’s wonderful, all-consuming presence.

It occurs to me that I’ve been spending an awful lot of weeknights here lately. I’m beginning to get used to waking up in my old house more often than just weekends. I have to say, I’m enjoying it. As more items disappear into boxes, however, I also have to admit to a sense of grief. Maybe it’s more nostalgia—no, it’s definitely grief. Gut-tightening, reduced-to-tears-at-times grief. I wonder what it would have been like to watch my parents grow old together in this house. To bring my kids to see the grands on the weekends. Family barbecues, Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter dinners. Of course I might have to give up the occasional holiday for my husband’s family. I suppose I could allow for Easter at the in-laws’.

I’m so caught up in my nostalgic look at what might have been that I don’t realize Mom has stopped singing until she taps on my door.