3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Marcy
As was tradition in the Russo family, my brothers and I stayed at my parents’ house after the annual picnic, which we held each year on the Sunday of the long holiday weekend, leaving Monday to rest.
That was a joke. My parents and grandmother could rest. We kids had the privilege of cleaning up after sixty-some-odd people had stormed through here. We disassembled the canopy tent, cleaned the yard, dealt with trash and recycling, and did any tasks in the house our parents assigned us.
As usual, my brothers were acting like idiots.
“I refuse to pick up your dirty sock that you threw on the floor.” My older brother Matteo stood in the doorway of the bedroom he and my younger brother Robby once shared, now a guest room-slash-computer room, featuring the second worst pull-out couch in existence. The first worst being the older tweed version offering questionable comfort in its final days in our basement.
Robby folded his arms. “You took laundry duty.”
“In high school! I’m not in charge of your laundry now. You’re a grown man! ”
“This is why we don’t share a room anymore.” Robby kicked the sock toward the hall. Which landed on Matteo’s foot. Matteo stilled, all focus on the sock.
See, Matteo was very particular about socks and cleanliness. Matteo wearing a clean sock and finding Robby’s dirty cast-off now laying over his foot? This led to a predictable end.
Matteo lunged at Robby.
Yup. Two grown men, who for a handful of nights a year were asked to sleep over at the house, couldn’t get through it without fighting.
Me? The only girl and the middle kid? I stayed out of it.
Ha! I wished.
I yanked Robby by the shirt collar and rolled him away from Matteo, as they’d wrestled each other to the floor. “Dang, you’re heavy.” I used my other arm to jack Matteo in the ribs. “Quit acting like a child. You’re turning thirty in a week.”
“Ow!” Matteo winced. All for show.
It stumped me how Matteo had so many girlfriends. Sure he was tall, dark-haired and marginally handsome, but also ridiculously immature. Then again, maybe that was why he’d had so many girlfriends. They didn’t exactly stick around.
Matteo pushed me with his foot toward the futon while he wrestled with Robby.
Loud clapping interrupted our chaos. Nonna Russo appeared, reprimanding us in Italian, which my siblings and I did not speak except for kindergarten-level words. And swears, naturally.
For a woman who barely cleared five-feet-three-inches, she could function as her own PA system. “What are you heathens doing?” She looked at me with disappointment.
“What? Like I can wrangle them?” So typical, I’d get blamed, being the supposed responsible one.
“Let’s go!” She ignored my protest. “Into the living room. Family meeting time. ”
All three of us groaned. We’d probably done a sloppy job packing the folding chairs and canopy tent into the storage loft in the garage (not my fault) or we hadn’t spent enough time with the older folks at the picnic. We usually got an earful about something.
We knew to report to the living room, to our usual spots, where we’d suck it up and agree to do better.
My parents had already settled in. Papá in his worn leather recliner. He was still recovering after emergency heart surgery earlier this summer. Mamá sorted mail at her antique desk in the corner.
Nonna took command in a wingback chair as Robby and I flopped onto the couch. We all talked over each other conversationally because that was what we did until somebody took the floor.
“All right,” Nonna announced. “I called you all here for a reason.”
“You didn’t hand dry the big platter,” Robby muttered to me. “You let it air dry.”
I ignored him. Air drying the platter was fine.
“We’re just a few days out from Matteo’s birthday,” she began.
Matteo, still standing, raised both arms and turned in a circle. “Thank you. Hold your applause, thank you.”
“Sit down, you clown.” I tossed a dog toy at him. Nonna’s terrier Biscotti bounded over and chomped on the squeaky toy.
Nonna scanned the room with calculating confidence. “I reviewed my investments. I’ve been saving money for each of you and want to live to see you inherit it.”
Okay, this was taking a turn. “Nonna, are you—”
She held up a hand. “I’m not sick. But I’m not getting younger, and if this year showed us anything, it’s how fragile life is.”
I glanced to Papá. Fine lines around his eyes and mouth had become more deeply etched. He struggled to stand more than he used to, as if his aging had accelerated overnight. But he was doing well. Recovered and on the road to better health with a lower sodium diet and regular exercise. Even enrolled in yoga, much to his annoyance. Much to Mamá’s delight, so she could join him for the classes.
“I’ve been growing my trusts for each of you,” Nonna continued. “We’d agreed as a family for your parents to take on the burden of supporting you each through college or job training. They worked incredibly hard to give you kids every opportunity, just as your Pop-pop and I worked to give them theirs.”
Our parents working long hours at good jobs meant me and my brothers spent our after-school time growing up at my grandparents’ bakery. When we were older, we worked a mix of afternoons and Saturday mornings, which allowed them to watch over us and helped keep their staffing costs down. A true family business.
Nonna continued. “When my Leo passed so suddenly, selling the business was the best choice, bittersweet as it was. I invested the money from the bakery to help you all in your next stage.”
My throat constricted at the memory. I was fifteen. My Pop-pop, seemingly in good health, went into cardiac arrest. He’d been out doing a supply run driving the company van. Because he’d been alone, he didn’t get help right away. Lifesaving help.
He’d eventually made it to the hospital after a Good Samaritan intervened, but complications cost him his life.
The day he’d suffered the heart attack, Nonna put up a sign at the bakery reading: Temporarily Closed.
The sign only came down once the building sold. The few bakery staff she’d had on rotation completed the pending orders, but the bakery never opened again.
I’d been devastated. I’d tried to persuade Nonna into hiring me full time after school and weekends, even to come in at the punishing hour of four a.m. to get the daily orders started, but she’d refused. School was to be my focus. After all, the reason my family worked so hard was to ensure we had time for school activities and studying. I would be going to college, and a good one.
When Pop-pop died, Nonna retreated into herself for months. She rarely left the house and refused most visitors. We’d all been thoroughly freaked. Nonna was the social leader of our family. To see her shuttered away felt like she’d left us too.
But she emerged with a plan. She would fix up her house and put it on the market, then move in with my parents, who welcomed the idea. My parents worried over Nonna living alone in her grief. No one questioned that she was capable of taking care of herself, but more the loneliness we knew she’d feel.
So Nonna sold her house and the business.
Part of her profit was spent on renovating the addition on our house, which extended the house from the small family room into the backyard. A new wall and door were added in the interior to close off the area for privacy. Nonna had her own kitchenette, sitting area, and bedroom.
I’d spent my last years at home before college with my grandmother living with us. I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything, but I missed the bakery. Probably every day I missed the bakery. Losing Pop-pop and the bakery together was a hurt I’d never recovered from.
“Age thirty seemed a reasonable age to release the trusts,” Nonna was saying. “I aggressively invested the money this past decade, so we have a nice amount for you three and Lucas.”
Wait, what? My heart raced. Money…for us…when we turned thirty?
Matteo and Robby were already firing questions at Nonna while my head buzzed. I blinked and saw the vintage clock from the old bakery. The one I’d hang in a bakery of my own. My dream bakery.
Did I dare even think it? This money—I could use it to make that dream real ?
I had a business plan, after all. Tucked away in deeply nested files on my laptop.
Inherited money could fund my start-up costs. I might still need a small business loan, but I’d have a means to pay it back. To actually leave my less-than-thrilling accounting job and pursue my passion.
Now my parents volleyed questions to Nonna. I couldn’t make out the words over my all-consuming thoughts. Baking was, well, baked into my blood. In high school, it had never occurred to me to go to culinary school. Why would it have when my family insisted I choose a conventional degree like accounting at a four-year university? I’d done what they’d told me because it made them happy, and making them happy made me happy.
But guess what? I wasn’t happy. I’d done all the things I was supposed to and still what gave me the most joy was stress baking in my apartment and gifting bread loaves to anyone with a mouth.
Can’t have gluten? Girl, I’ve got you covered. I could bake it all.
The money—this was a sign. It was almost as if the stars had aligned. Patrick had been right. He’d texted me last night to remind me about the grant application. Maybe I wouldn’t need to bother with the grant.
Now I had the opportunity to make my own destiny. How proud would Nonna be that I wanted to rebuild our family legacy with money she’d grown for me, like dough slowly rising over time? Once she saw it, at least. Yeah, I’d need to work on finding the perfect space and then I’d show her. Like what Hudson tried to do, but the space was a dud. Still, I’d been inspired. If I could find inspiration in an out-of-business deli in a busted strip mall, what were the possibilities if I found the perfect little shop?
I just had to pitch this right.
Robby was currently whining how Matteo would get his money in less than a week while he had years to wait.
So did I. Thirty was coming up, but I was only twenty-eight .
I raised my hand. Nonna, she respected a raised hand. “Yes, Marcy.”
“What if I want the money sooner?”
Mamá made a hissing sound from across the room. “Marcia! Don’t be greedy. This is an incredible thing your nonna has done for you. Incredible .”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I understand age thirty is a nice round number and all, but what if…let’s say I have an idea of what to use the money for and it worked out to start now instead of in two years? Hypothetically speaking.”
Nonna sat back. She said nothing.
If only I could show her my bakery dream involved more than simply fantasizing over puff pastry. I wasn’t dazzled by romantic comedies with barrel-curled ingenues in pink aprons glopping frosting on cupcakes. I knew the grit and effort it took because I’d seen it. I wanted to bring back the family business. A new, modern bakery to honor the family legacy.
Silence threatened to crack the delicate vision in my head. “So…is there another option? A way to amend the trust?”
She smiled lightly. “Why yes there is. I added a specific clause for this very reason.”
Yes! A clause! Hooray for clauses!
Her sharp eyes gleamed. “You’d have to get married.”
I blinked at Nonna.
She blinked at me.
Matteo burst into laughter.
Robby shot up from the couch. “If I get married, do I get my money now, too? ”
Matteo laughed harder. “Who’s going to marry you ?”
“I can find someone to marry—easy.” Robby mimed playing guitar. “I’ve been working on a new jam. Chicks love when you write them songs.”
“Both of you boys need partners with maturity and common sense.” Mamá spoke over Robby’s air guitar antics and Matteo’s cackling. Then quieter, “I pray every day someone is willing.”
I couldn’t have heard Nonna right. “I don’t understand. What’s the deal with needing to get married?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “This money is meant for a wedding or a down payment on a house. It’s no surprise. I’d like to see you settled.”
Did she see me as some kind of drifter? I’d lived in the same apartment for three years now, only a short drive away. I had a job I wouldn’t leave for fear of disappointing my family. I was actually boringly stable at the moment.
She sensed my irritation. “The money is meant for you to start your next phase of life without debt. Your Pop-pop and I had nothing when we started. We came here with only the clothes on our backs.”
Papá snorted. “Yeah, from Cincinnati. Not by boat from Naples.”
Nonna glared at him. She was the reason we’d all perfected the art of glaring. “My Italian heritage makes me who I am. Regardless of being born in Ohio, I was raised by Italian immigrants.” She smoothed her hands over her light blue slacks. “As I was saying, we had no money for real wedding rings. The one I wore for years turned my finger green.”
I’d heard the story. It was sweet and all, but…this was wacky. This was a wacky clause.
“That was hard work, what we did with the bakery,” she mused. “For years, working out of a small rented space in someone else’s commercial kitchen before we could afford our own space. We practically lived there, but it’s what we had to do since we couldn’t pay staff. I never wanted my own children to work in such a labor-intensive profession, so we worked harder to give them that option. And look—your parents are successful. Your uncle, he’s got a great career too.” She beamed. “Your folks gave you kids a good life. Now I have the joy of gifting you what I have so you don’t ever have to work a job like that.”
Like the bakery I treasured so much.
“But we did work in the bakery.” I hadn’t realized I’d said the words out loud until Nonna nodded at me.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Part-time. Hours here and there. We never wanted it to be your life. Never.”
But I’d loved it. I missed it. I wanted it back.
My body grew heavy. This all felt utterly impossible, yet again. Nonna didn’t want me working long, physically draining hours. Specifically, in a bakery. She’d spent her life providing for her family so they wouldn’t follow her path.
But I wanted to. She’d been the one to give me my first sourdough starter. My grandparents taught me everything about baking, and beyond that, how to make regular customers happy, and how to run a tight payroll.
Even my skill with numbers had come from them. But skill didn’t necessarily equate to passion.
I chewed at my lip, willing my emotions to behave. “What if I don’t get married?”
“Then you get the money at thirty.”
Okay. “Are there stipulations on what I can do with the money if I don’t ever marry?”
“Once you have access to the funds, I can only suggest what I think is best. I trust your judgment.”
The whole age rule seemed so arbitrary. I couldn’t give up yet. “Why not now if I have a good idea for the money?”
“Your CPA?” Papá chimed in. “You’re finally considering graduate school?”
No, I was definitely not thinking of graduate school or the CPA exam. My friend Jillian, who’d recently earned her PhD, lamented she’d spent her hottest years sequestered in an academic lab. I wasn’t sure more school would ever be in the cards for me. Unless it was a baking course at a cooking school…
All eyes turned to me. Shoot. The plan! If I could only show my family the dream and dust off that hidden business plan, that would fare better than what they’d hear now. They’d hear I was leaving a stable job for an expensive risk.
I needed time.
“No, um…just like, an idea.” I winced as Papá barely contained rolling his eyes and Mamá muttered about my rudeness. Meanwhile, Matteo was glued to his phone. He was probably looking up sports cars with sweet rims. That was mainly what Matteo cared about—cars and their sweet rims.
At least he worked at a car dealership where he co-existed beside his favorite things all day. Living his own dream.
I leaned back against the couch. If I truly wanted to go for the bakery, I needed a solid plan to convince my family. And marriage? The last thing I needed was some spouse who’d only hold me back. Besides, I wasn’t even dating anybody.
On top of that besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to date anybody. Finding decent guys was exhausting.
Meanwhile, Robby and Nonna were discussing Robby’s music. Credit to Nonna, she actively supported his creativity. He’d made it through several scattered semesters of community college before leaving that behind to go all-in at Costco. He spent free time writing songs. He was a pretty good singer, and decent at the guitar. Just generally no real direction beyond that.
My parents, once clued in that my brothers weren’t academically driven, had thrown all their energy at me and my schooling. Papá would have loved if I’d gone on for my CPA or heck, a Master’s degree in something . I’d been their little show pony of academic achievement.
I couldn’t bear hurting any of them. Not after all Nonna had gone through and what she’d sacrificed. Giving up her home and her business to see us taken care of? She’d see leaving my stable job as an insult.
I sighed and grabbed my phone, texting my sob story to Patrick. Even if I went through with my idea and applied for the grant, I’d still end up a disappointment to the people I cared about most.