Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) Page 3

  He stared into the fading evening, thinking about how unsettled he’d felt lately. Ever since he’d turned thirty last month, he’d been feeling dissatisfied with his life. Like he needed to make a move. Do something different. His mind felt heavy, and it didn’t help that his ma had been pushing Angelina Vitale his way for almost two months now.

  Yesterday, he’d dropped by Angelina’s place to take something wrapped in foil that the woman who endured twenty hours of labor to bring him into this world—he knew ’cause she liked to remind him—swore Angelina needed. Natalie Genovese wasn’t fooling him. She wanted Sal squared away.

  When Angelina had answered the door in a cloud of perfume, he spotted bridal magazines stacked beside the couch and had nearly broken out in hives. His mama wasn’t the only one hearing wedding bells, and something about Angelina in a veil made him want to chain-smoke a whole pack of cigarettes . . . even though he’d quit last April.

  He wasn’t ready to be headlocked and dragged to the chapel by the “nice” Italian girl his mother had handpicked for him. But it grew harder and harder to escape both women. He felt like they were both beating him with a stick . . . and eventually a guy got numb and accepting of his fate.

  His phone vibrated.

  Speak of the devil and she calls.

  If he didn’t answer, Angelina would call back. And then she’d tell his mother he was avoiding her calls again. And then he’d have to listen to what a rude man he was and how he didn’t respect family connections, his mother, or Jesus Christ himself. He loved his ma, but he didn’t want another lecture. He’d had enough for a lifetime.

  “Hey, Angie, what’s up?” he said.

  “That’s how you’re gonna talk to me? No hello or nothing?”

  Sal swallowed his aggravation. “Sorry. Hello, Angelina. How are you this evening?”

  “And now you’re a smart-ass,” she said. He could hear the clink of glasses and the roar of conversation in the background. Angelina did happy hour with her girls nearly every day . . . which was when she liked to call him, telling them she had to call her man.

  He wasn’t her man.

  But she didn’t seem to care. She had the power of Natalie Genovese on her side. “I told Gina I’d come to her grandparents’ fiftieth out on the island this weekend.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “You wanna come with me?”

  “Can’t. I gotta work,” he said, knowing he could probably get off but not wanting to move another step closer to something he didn’t want. Or didn’t think he wanted. Everything was clear as mud at the moment.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call Big Donnie. He can get one of your brothers to cover.”

  “Dom’s got a new baby and Vincent already covered for me last weekend. I ain’t getting out of this.”

  Her silence said more than anything else.

  “Hello?”

  “I gotta hang up now, Sal. We’ll talk later,” she said. Then she hung up.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Sal breathed, taking a final draw on his beer. How in the hell could he even entertain the idea of dating Angelina, much less marrying her, when she was such a passive-aggressive nightmare?

  He couldn’t breathe around her.

  When his mother had reintroduced him to Angelina at St. Ann’s Cathedral, he’d been pleasantly surprised to find little Angie Vitale all grown up. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been fourteen years old, obsessed with the Black Eyed Peas, and had followed him and Vincent around, playing silly pranks. But now she was full of honey, charming everyone with her devout Catholicism and sleek good looks. So like a good boy, he’d asked for her number. After she tapped it into his phone, she’d offered to go down on him in the church bathroom. He’d thought she was joking.

  She wasn’t.

  What kind of woman did that?

  The kind who obviously didn’t have a problem with giving blow jobs . . . unlike his friend Tony Pizzaro’s wife, who’d told him under no circumstances was she putting anything but food in her mouth. Tony already had a piece on the side, so maybe the blow job thing wasn’t such a mark against Angelina. Silver lining and all that.

  The day after he turned thirty years old, his mother stopped commiserating with him over his ex-fiancée dumping him and began a campaign designed to get him settled and focused on expanding the Mama Mello’s name. Sal knew he’d played a little too hard for the past year, trying to wash the stink of rejection off himself. And he knew he couldn’t continue being the black sheep of the family. After all, his other siblings were perfect fluffy white sheep—his older brother Dom was married with his first kid, Vincent was getting married at Christmas, and his two younger sisters, Brit and Frances Anne, had steady guys. So he’d jokingly told his mother he’d let her pick the girl this time.

  His mother hadn’t taken his words as a joke. Obviously.

  Sal set the empty bottle in the dying palm tree someone had pulled out back to give it a fighting chance, and his thoughts flickered back to that tourist chick who’d given him such an easy smile and a maybe earlier that day. He didn’t know why he was so intrigued with her.

  Probably because she reminded him of Hillary, the woman who had chosen a life in Connecticut playing tennis at the club over sweating in a Brooklyn apartment with an Italian pizza maker. Yeah, Hillary had tossed him out like last week’s Chinese takeout three months before their wedding. Sal had been so certain she’d been perfect for him. But she’d been more certain Franklin Thurgood Cohen III had been perfect for her . . . and her bank account.

  He’d heard “I told you so” from every member of his family. Okay, they’d bought him a few beers and cast him a few sad smiles. Wasn’t like they nanny-nanny-boo-booed him to his face or anything, but he’d been wearing blinders when his sister mentioned how Hillary seemed so wrong for him and he’d flat-out threatened to punch Dom when he called Hillary a spoiled bitch.

  Though Rosemary reminded him of his ex, the women weren’t exactly alike. They were both soft, with good manners and pretty in a wholesome way. But Hillary had been very polished and put together, all cool sophistication. Whereas Rosemary’s cheeks had been flushed from the heat, her bangs damp with sweat. Mississippi looked like money, even if her clear gray eyes and trim little waist made him think of old photographs from the fifties, the ones of his grandmother and her friends at Coney Island, smiling innocently at the camera. Old-fashioned, but in a good way. In a way that made a guy glad he was a man.

  Still, wanting high-class broads who threw guys like him under the bus was way off the menu for him. And tourists like Rosemary were a dime a two dozen in this city. Yet, there had been something in the way she’d said what was on her mind. The way she looked so adorably nervous, but at the same time straightforward. Being around Rosemary for only a minute felt like taking a deep breath.

  So maybe if she came by, he’d sit with her for a while. Maybe he’d ask her out.

  God, that would piss off his ma good.

  Somehow staring up at the night sky gave him clarity. Either that or the alcohol content of the beer was off. He couldn’t go on like this, connecting the dots on the picture someone else had designed for his life. But did that mean he should jump at the opportunity to spend time with a soft southern beauty when she was likely here for only a few days? And that was even if she showed up again. Eh, had to be better than avoiding Angelina, who had pulled up an article about the best bakeries for wedding cakes the last time she’d shown up to his parents’ house for Sunday lunch. Then she’d volunteered to help pick the fabric for the chairs at the new deli. Like she was already part of his life.

  He’d kissed the woman only once . . . and that’s because she’d asked him to. Strange as it was, Angelina hadn’t been a bad kisser. That had scared him. Made him wonder if he’d already started that slide toward accepting someone else’s vision for his life.

  Sal took one last look at the sliver of moon hanging over his corner of Manhattan.

  Maybe.

&nb
sp; Eh, it was a good word for his life right now.

  Chapter Three

  Rosemary zipped the empty suitcase and jammed it under her cousin’s bed.

  Unpacking done.

  She’d made it to her cousin’s apartment and huffed up five flights of stairs, learning exactly what a walk-up meant. Essentially, she’d be getting much-needed cardio over the next few weeks. After retrieving the key from a very strange neighbor, she’d opened the door to a loft that could not have cost as much as her cousin said it had. Way too small for almost a million bucks.

  Halle was a partner in a shoe design company with some Italian guy whose name Rosemary couldn’t pronounce. Her cousin had teamed up with Benny right out of design school when he got pissed at the designer he worked for and quit. They’d lived together in a cracker box apartment in Harlem for almost a decade before finally catching the attention of magazine editors and stylists with their spring line. Their high-end shoes were now worn by starlets everywhere, enabling Halle to get her own place. Several months back B&H had been invited to do a show in Italy. Benny and Halle had left for Florence two days ago to “get inspired” for their 2017 spring line and put together their fall show in Milan . . . and that’s why Rosemary was in New York City.

  To cat-sit Halle’s darlings, who would not tolerate being boarded.

  Melbourne and Moscow seemed highly indifferent to their illustrious cat-sitter. Essentially, when Rosemary had burst into the apartment, gulping for air like a fish on a muddy bank, the cats had turned their sleek heads, blinked once, and returned their attention to the fat pigeons lining the eaves of the building next door.

  So much for a welcome committee.

  “Hey, kitty-kitties,” Rosemary had cooed, between horrible sucking noises that affirmed she needed to join a gym. They never even looked at her. “Okay, with that attitude, you’ll not be getting any catnip.”

  They didn’t seem to care.

  Rosemary shut the door, locked it like she promised her father she’d always do, and found a plug on the stone kitchen counter to charge her dead phone. Then she took a look around at her digs.

  The loft looked chic, with a high, open ceiling, industrial lighting, and a modern kitchen featuring a huge stainless steel Viking range that Rosemary would bet a week’s pay her cousin never used. The bedroom had been partially partitioned off with a half screen. Privacy for the bathroom was offered by a rolling metal door, and the huge walk-in shower tiled in vintage black and white didn’t have a door. The whole place felt strange and far removed from her cozy carriage home behind her parents’ sprawling house.

  But surprisingly, she liked the feel of the place. Felt sophisticated. Very New York.

  Her cell phone rang as she walked back into the living area. She had 10 percent of battery power left, which would last long enough to allay her mother’s fears. “Hey, Mama.”

  “You said you’d call when you got to Halle’s. Are you at Halle’s?” her mother asked, worry edging her words.

  “Lord, I haven’t even had time to pee, much less call. Yes, I’m at Halle’s.”

  “Don’t be crass. I’ve been worried sick. You should have been there over an hour ago. I made your father do the calculations so I’d know when you were supposed to be there, and you never called.”

  Sweet Jesus.

  Rosemary flopped onto the white couch. “Well, my phone battery died, and I got a little turned around and went the wrong direction, but I made it safe and sound with all organs intact.”

  Her mother made a disapproving cluck. “I suppose you think I’m amusing. Well, let me tell you, missy, that whole organ-harvesting thing is real business. I read things.”

  Rosemary propped her feet on the cement coffee table, not bothering to remove her cute Sam Edelman sandals. She’d scored them in Jackson when she’d ventured there last month. “I’m being serious.”

  “Fine. Be that way. You didn’t talk to anyone, did you?”

  “Are you serious, Mama? Of course I talked to people. What do you think I’m here for?”

  “I don’t have a clue why you’re there, but I hope your cousin appreciates what you’re doing for her over a bunch of cats. Silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Maybe it was absurd, but when Halle had called and asked, Rosemary jumped at the chance. Ever since Lacy passed away, Rosemary had been stuck in a case of doldrums that not even strawberry cake could cure . . . and she loved Mimi’s homemade strawberry cake with buttercream frosting. But, of course, she’d known it would be this way. A gal didn’t lose her best friend and not feel like crap for months to come. But her mini-depression seemed to be about more than the enormous loss in her life.

  It had started with the letter.

  Rose—

  I already miss you.

  I’m pretty sure I’m in heaven, but maybe not. I’m not exactly the poster girl you are. And about that . . . you have to stop being so damn good. Seriously. You’re treading water here in this one-horse town. And you know what treading water gets you (besides a pass on water safety at Camp Cedar Cove)? Nothing but a cramp . . . and eventual death, because a person can’t tread water forever. When we were at Ole Miss, you broke away from your suffocating mother. You were you. But then you came back to Morning Glory and slipped into being . . . not you. Oh, there are always glimpses, but you never let Rosemary out to play.

  I know this probably offends you, and that’s why I never said anything until I died. Feel free to give me the silent treatment. LOL. I’m not being mean. I say this because I love you, Rosemary. You can’t live beneath your mother’s thumb your whole life. Be strong. Be bold. Find something more than sewing costumes for the second-grade play. Don’t settle for some man your mama drags in front of you. You deserve more than that. Stop being scared, Rosemary. Stop treading water. There is a big world out there waiting on you to taste it. See it, bathe in it, breathe it in. And if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for me.

  This money is to help you realize a dream. Dig up one you had long ago. Remember who you are supposed to be. Take care of Jess and Eden, but most of all, take care of yourself. It’s okay to be selfish. Oh, and don’t be afraid to inhale. LOL.

  Hugs and ladybugs,

  Lacy

  PS. I’ve enclosed an article from Cosmo that I stole from my mother’s magazine after she told me about sex. Totally works. ;)

  Rosemary had pulled out two ragged pages from Cosmopolitan magazine, July 2000, titled, “50 Tricks for Outstanding Orgasms,” which Lacy had slipped into the envelope.

  Only Lacy would care about Rosemary having outstanding orgasms. Which was quite touching, since Lacy had been her mortal enemy in pre-K. Of course since Prestwood Academy was so tiny, they’d had little choice but to graduate to friendship by the third grade, thanks to their mothers signing them up for Girl Scouts. They’d bonded over poison ivy on a campout and had been thick as Mississippi kudzu from then on.

  Lacy had been diagnosed with bone cancer when she was three years old. She’d gone to St. Jude’s hospital, and with treatment had gone into remission. Every year her PET scan was clear . . . until her senior year at Ole Miss. Ironically, the cervical cancer she’d developed wasn’t related to the earlier bone cancer. As Lacy always said, her body was a cancer magnet. Wasn’t funny then and it wasn’t funny now.

  But Lacy had gotten the last word with the letter she’d written to Rosemary, a letter packed in her suitcase serving as a challenge for her life.

  Treading water?

  When she’d first read the letter, Rosemary had been offended. Was she treading water because she stayed in Morning Glory? Because she still ate breakfast with her parents? Because she thought the good ol’ boys who stampeded into town on Friday nights to raise the roof of the Iron Bull were a bit too dangerous?

  Whatever.

  But then she’d pulled back and studied her life from a different vantage point . . . from the vantage point of a woman who’d been facing the end of her life. She saw what her frie
nd had seen—a woman plain scared to live, a woman who’d forgotten the things she’d always wanted to do. What had happened to becoming a fashion designer? Living in a big city for a few years? Learning French?

  But she knew the answer—she’d packed them away like the crayon drawings her mother kept in a plastic box. Yes, her mother had saved ALL of Rosemary’s drawings from age two through high school. Patsy Reynolds was the ultimate smotherer.

  The day after Rosemary had this revelation about her life, her cousin Halle had called and asked her to come to New York City.

  Rosemary hadn’t thought twice before saying yes.

  “I need this trip, Mama,” she said into the phone.

  “I don’t know how New York City is something you need, but if that makes you happy . . .”

  “It does.” Or at least she hoped it would.

  “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to worry.”

  “I’d never take that away from you, Mama.”

  “Oh sure, poke fun of me, but one day you’ll understand what it is to be a mother, what it feels like to have your baby living in a jungle all alone for over two weeks.”

  And there was the biggest problem in Rosemary’s pathetic life—her two adoring, overprotective parents. From the time Rosemary was a baby, her life had been insulated with quilted down. Rosemary had worn bike helmets on her tricycle and sunscreen every time she stepped outside, and she’d carried an EpiPen even though she wasn’t allergic to anything. Her mother had said it was a precaution. She hadn’t been allowed to eat junk food because of the preservatives, go swimming without a life jacket, or wear open-toed shoes at the county fair. Nor had she dated, gotten her driver’s license, or pierced her ears until she turned eighteen. If a person looked up the word sheltered in the dictionary, there’d be a picture of Rosemary wrapped in bubble wrap.