Chapter 10
ENZO
“I’ll bet Lucy’s gonna choose the full-body photo for dart practice,” Giovanni says as he rocks back in his desk chair. “Get you right in the dick. She looks like a broad who could make a bull’s-eye.”
While Nonna runs the register and Nico handles the food orders, Giovanni and I are sitting in the cramped back office in Hidden Italy, brainstorming about what else we can do to dig us out of the hole.
Naturally my brother is more interested in giving me shit than in getting down to business.
It’s one of his favorite pastimes. All of my siblings enjoy the drive Enzo crazy game.
It comes from being the oldest, I guess, the one who used to chew them out for bad behavior after my dad checked out and stopped caring.
But Giovanni tends to work the hardest at annoying me.
Part of me is grateful for it. His dedication to screwing around is a sign he’s mostly unaffected by what happened to our family after our mother left. I’m even a little jealous, because I don’t have the ability to relax.
Unfortunately, Giovanni is sometimes too relaxed. Which is a contributing factor in the current state of Hidden Italy, no doubt. My brother’s a good face for the business, certainly better for that role than Nonna Francesca, but he’s not serious enough about success.
Then again, right now I don’t have much room to talk.
Stories about what happened at Santa Speed Dating have spread through town like wildfire, and despite what I said to Lucy, I’m guessing something about it will end up in the Lady Lovewatch column. That’s what happens when a dating event implodes.
The first thing Giovanni asked me this morning was if I’d had anything to do with what went down at the Sip. My response was to hand him a few photos to give to Lucy so she could make my BANNED flyer. A man is only as good as his word, after all.
Giovanni took that as a, Hell yes, I did.
Apparently, when he delivered the photos this morning, Lucy looked him dead in the eye and told him she’d be keeping all of them since I’d volunteered them to be dart practice. Then she offered him one of the elf whoopie pies from last night.
He took it, too.
It’s sitting on his desk right now, mocking me with its stupid little piped-on smile.
I’m tempted to tell him not to eat it, in case she tampered with it in some way, but he’d think I was crazy for considering the possibility. Maybe I am crazy. Lucy’s outspoken, but she’s obviously a sweetheart to most people. I bring out a darker side of her, though—just like she does for me.
“You think you’ll feel it when she makes a bull’s-eye?” he asks, rocking back in his chair again. I push the chair right back down and give him a level look.
“What are you, twelve?”
He snorts. “Says the man who short-circuited the Sip’s power supply because he couldn’t convince a woman to give him the time of day.”
“That’s supposition,” I say. “Besides, I don’t want her to give me the time of day. I was just trying to look out for the new girl in town. She hasn’t been here nearly long enough to know what she’d be getting into with Brandon.”
His expression suggests he doesn’t buy my bullshit, and that I shouldn’t buy it either. “Sure, brother. That’s why you snuck into Santa Speed Dating and then used the basement to access their power supply.”
“I never said I did that.”
He lifts his eyebrows and taps the side of his nose. “Plausible deniability. I got you.”
I swear under my breath, then very deliberately change the subject. “Say, did you ever meet the woman who lives down the hall from Aria’s old apartment? In the unit to the right with the window facing the street?”
She left me another note last night, written into a Christmas card with a smiling snowman on the front.
Dear Lobster Scout—
That is ADORABLE. But no, I will never do a polar bear plunge. Nothing could convince me. I might run hot, but I don’t run THAT hot.
I’m excited for the lobster trap tree you mentioned in your note! But I have to be honest, I can’t eat lobster. I’m not saying it doesn’t smell delicious, but the way they’re cooked makes my skin crawl.
Yes, I know. It’s not very Hideaway Harbor of me. But I was the kid who couldn’t stand to swat flies.
If I had to choose my favorite part of Christmas in Hideaway Harbor, I’d say the town square.
I LOVE the tree and the little huts they’ve set up for the Christmas market on one end.
I’ve always wanted to go to one of those Christmas villages in Europe, where they have mulled wine and you can walk around getting drunk in a classy way while you soak in all the music and lights and happy vibes.
In case you can’t tell, I’m not a Hidie born and bred, but I want to make my home here.
After losing my mother, I feel like a plant that has plenty of water and sun but no soil. So I’m trying to put down some roots here, even if a few people have made me feel like that’s not possible.
—The Dancing Queen
P.S. Yes, let’s stay anonymous! I would NEVER be able to look a Hidie in the face after admitting I don’t like lobster.
It’s kind of fucked up, but Dancing Queen has become the one person I’ve genuinely confided in since returning home to Hideaway Harbor.
Part of me likes that I don’t know who she is. Still, I can’t help but wonder.
“Wow, you must be truly desperate to change the subject,” my brother says, kicking back in his chair again.
“I’m curious about my neighbors. It’s natural for a person to be curious.”
He looks less than convinced, but he shrugs.
“Sure, I ran into her once or twice. She looked like she was in her forties. I think she works in data entry or something else with computers, and she cooks a lot of cabbage. The only other thing I remember is that her favorite show is The Golden Girls. Her hearing’s not too great, so she always pumped up the volume.
It was loud enough that Aria could hear it down the hall. ”
“Cabbage?” I’ve never smelled it in the building, and it’s a distinctive smell. I haven’t heard The Golden Girls either. Which isn’t to say none of that’s happening, I suppose. I don’t spend much time at home.
“It’s disgusting,” he says with a theatrical shudder.
I’m surprised by his description of Dancing Queen, and honestly a little disappointed.
I wasn’t romantically interested in my neighbor—a person can’t be romantically interested in a shadow and a handful of letters—but it felt like we were making a personal connection, and my mental image of her wasn’t of a shut-in, data entry clerk with a thing for old sitcoms. It’s hard to imagine being friends with a person like that.
But I still want to write her back. Partly because she opened up to me about something so personal—losing her mother.
Even though I lost my own mother in a different way, I lost her all the same.
After she left, she used to call a few times a week.
But she never asked for shared custody, and then she got remarried.
All of us kids had gone to the wedding. And it was one of the last times we ever saw her.
Her husband didn’t like kids, and it turned out she didn’t like them much either.
Every now and then a random birthday or holiday card will arrive, and that’s the extent of our relationship with her.
I’ve tried to protect my siblings from the pain as much as possible, and God knows my grandparents stepped up, but fuck. That doesn’t make it easy.
Losing someone to death isn’t easy either. I’ve lost other people that way. My nonno. Friends. Work colleagues.
I push the thoughts down and try to shift back to the present.
My neighbor…cabbage…
“Well, she seems nice, anyway,” I say with a sigh.
Giovanni looks surprised by this, probably since I just made it very clear I’ve never met her.
“We’ve exchanged a couple of notes,” I explain.
“Notes?” He furrows his brow.
“Neighbor stuff.”
“Okay, champ. I think you’re just trying to shift the subject off a certain difficult woman.”
“Devil Woman,” I say.
“Sure. Speaking of devil women, Portia told me my taffy pulling debut will be next Saturday afternoon, before the lobster trap tree lighting. She figures she can gather a big crowd and then send them out to the harbor.”
He looks amused, not pissed, so I know he doesn’t mind too much.
“You got a thing for Portia?” I ask with interest. She’s friendly with our sister, Aria, so she hung out at our house a few times when we were younger. Even though I’ve seen her at least a dozen times over the past few years, I still remember her as a skinny goth teen.
He shrugs. “Nah. We just like giving each other shit. Besides, I’m pretty sure she’s into women. Both of us were checking out Amanda Willis at the tree lighting in town square.”
“I mean, it’s Amanda Willis,” I say with a half-smile. “She’s a movie star.”
“You weren’t checking her out,” he says pointedly.
No, because I hadn’t gone to the tree lighting. I’d just arrived back in town, and I’d spent that night in Aria’s apartment, poring over Hidden Italy’s books and trying to tap into the brilliance that seems to have seeped out of me.
“If I’d been there, I’m sure I would have been checking her out too,” I hedge.
“Or checking out Lucy.”
“She hates me,” I huff.
“You know, I really think she does. I have to say, you have your work cut out for you.”
“I’m not interested in dating anyone,” I say flatly. “I don’t even know how long I’m going to be here.”
He gives me a quizzical look. “Taking off on us already, brother?
“No. We’re gonna get the business right.”
He nods, a dimple forming in his cheek. “Well, hallelujah. Then you’re never going to leave. Anyway, if you want an in with that woman you’re totally not interested in, maybe you should tell her that Portia wouldn’t be opposed to some matchmaking from Eileen.”
“You want to set up Portia with an international celebrity?” I ask with a skeptical laugh. “I guess you do like her.”
He grins. “Hey, if I can’t impress Amanda, I might as well make a play for my friend. Besides, maybe Portia will take it easy on me with the taffy crap if I can get her a sit-down with Amanda.”
“Yeah, good luck with that,” I mutter as my phone buzzes in my pocket. It buzzes again, and then again, texts coming through rapid-fire. It happens that way in Hideaway Harbor. Your phone won’t be able to find a single bar of service for hours, and suddenly the texts all arrive in a gush.
I’ve been spoiled in my apartment building, where the Wi-Fi seems to work better than in other places.
My brother picks up the whoopie pie and bites it, cream spurting onto his shirt.
“Damn,” he says with a moan. “That’s good.”
My phone buzzes again.
I know my brother, and there’s no way I’m getting his full attention until he’s inhaled that whole whoopie pie, so I pull out my phone and find a screenful of texts from Erica that were sent half an hour ago. They’re written in all caps, so it looks like my phone’s screaming at me.
HELLO, BACHELOR #1!
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THAT BASKET OF TREATS. JOHN GOT HEARTBURN FROM THE SARDINES, BUT I DON’T BLAME YOU FOR THAT, OF COURSE. IT’S HIS OWN FAULT FOR EATING THEM ALL.
I MADE HIM SHARE THE PANETTONE!
HE SAID HE NEEDS TO GET INTO SHAPE TO PLAY SANTA CLAUS, BUT WE BOTH KNOW THAT IT WAS JUST THAT GOOD. :-X
NOW, I HOPE YOU WON’T MIND, BUT A CERTAIN YOUNG LADY WE BOTH KNOW WANTED MY PRIZE FOR HERSELF, AND I WAS *MORE* THAN HAPPY TO SHARE THE WEALTH.
YOU KNOW EILEEN AND I ARE ALWAYS THRILLED TO HELP YOU YOUNG PEOPLE. ;-)
SHE ASKED ME NOT TO REVEAL WHO SHE IS UNTIL SHE SHOWS UP AT THE RESTAURANT. ISN’T THAT EXCITING? YOU CAN MEET HER AT HOOK, WINE, AND SINKER THIS THURSDAY AT 7:30 P.M.
I’VE HEARD YOU’RE A BIG FAN OF THEIRS.
THE RESERVATION IS UNDER YOUR NAME, DEAR.
I glance up sharply as Giovanni polishes off the rest of the whoopie pie, then dabs his shirt with a napkin.
“Damn,” he says. “This is the first one of these things I’ve ever tried. They’re from that place next door to the Sip. It’s too bad Nico can’t bake like this. If he could, we’d have people in and out that door all day.”
The thought sparks something in my brain, an idea waiting to be born. It’s related to whoopie pies and maybe even Portia, but I can’t flesh it out yet. I’ll have to coax it, feed it…and right now the front of my brain belongs solely to Lucy.
Something tells me this invitation to dinner is no olive branch. She’s making her next move against me, but what is it?
And why the fuck do I feel so turned on by the thought?
“Check it out,” I tell him, showing him the screen of my phone. “Erica’s talking about Lucy. Has to be.”
He moans. “No fair. You came up with this dumbass idea, and you get to go on a date with your dream girl, while Nico freezes his ass off and I have to pull taffy like a pazzo.”
“Life isn’t fair, Giovanni,” I say with a shit-eating grin. “Besides, she’s definitely up to something.”
“You think she’s going to poison you or slip Ex-Lax into your drink?” he asks with a laugh.
“Maybe,” I say, half serious. Lucy did look pissed off enough last night to try something like that. “But I tell you what. I look forward to finding out.”