Chapter 11
ENZO
By the time the parade starts that afternoon, Lucy has already put up a flyer next to the door of Love at First Sip with a giant X over my face.
It says:
This man has been banned from Love at First Sip. Turn away without service.
There’s a little frowny face sketched beside it.
After I read the flyer, I pull out a pen and add:
Am I allowed to order takeaway?
That evening, there’s an answer. Someone has painstakingly written out the dictionary definition of “banned” beneath my question.
The next morning, I get a special delivery at the shop—an electrical fuse, along with a handwritten note:
I know what you did.
Since we’re sending each other gifts, I order her a delivery of a lobster candy cane from Portia’s shop, hoping she hasn’t heard about them yet and assumes it’s a flavor people want to eat. The note suggests it’s from a secret admirer.
We close at noon on Sundays, because Sundays are family days, so I leave before Lucy can make her rebuttal.
It snows that night, big thick snowflakes coming down, and I find myself wondering if it snows much where Lucy is from. Does she like it?
Will she dance around in it and try to catch the flakes on her tongue?
Yup, I’m officially losing my mind.
I walk to Hidden Italy early on Monday morning, finding the cold refreshing.
Although I wouldn’t care to admit it, I like the crisp crunch of the fresh snow drifts beneath my boots, and the sleepy way the town looks when it’s covered in a fresh layer of snow with smoke curling up from the chimneys.
Even the Christmas tree in the town square is covered in snow, so scenic it’s as if someone came in and strategically placed the white drifts in the middle of the night.
This is the part of Hideaway Harbor I love, the town when it’s at rest. Not performing. Not trying to impress. But covered in a snowy blanket and looking much the same as it probably did after George Locke and Alma Keye founded it all those years ago. Sleepy and sweet. Quiet.
When I get to the shop, I’m not surprised to find the lobster candy cane taped to the Hidden Italy sign with another note:
Is that the best you can do?
I’ll be honest, it makes me smile.
The sidewalk in front of their café is covered with snow, so I shovel it after clearing our steps. Eileen’s elderly, and if Lucy’s working, she may not be used to shoveling snow.
No big deal. Just doing the gentlemanly thing.
Later that morning, Nonna comes into our shop, looking especially sour.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
I spend most of my time in the back office, but I also like hanging out in the front of the shop, seeing what people look at, what they order. It’s supposed to help ideas germinate, but so far all it’s done is keep me up to date on a bunch of town gossip I couldn’t care less about.
She waves her hand toward the door. “Those women next door have a cappuccino special. Che chazzo! I’m the one who taught Eileen to make them years ago.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t mean it as an insult,” I say, remembering what Eileen told me the other night. “She wants to get along.”
“And this is how she tries?” my grandmother asks incredulously, waving a fist at the door as if she wants to break it.
I exchange a glance with my brother, Nico, behind the sandwich counter, and feel a grin tugging at my mouth. Shifting my attention back to my grandmother, I say, “So we’ll show them how it’s done, Nonna.”
I don’t have to look at Nico again to know he’s shaking his head. Giovanni’s off today, so at least I only have one brother giving me a hard time.
A few minutes later, I head outside with a sandwich board sign and a dry-erase marker.
Sure enough, Love at First Sip has a cinnamon-stick cappuccino advertised on their own whiteboard sign as their daily special.
So I offer one too, setting our little sandwich board sign next to the staircase leading down to Hidden Italy.
I make ours a quarter cheaper and add that it’s an authentic Italian cappuccino, underlining “authentic.”
At around noon, I go outside to hang up a wreath on the bracket under our sign—a wreath at least twice as big as the one hanging on the door of the Sip.
Our cinnamon broom was nowhere to be seen when I arrived this morning.
Either the snowstorm swept it away, or Lucy sent it to sleep with the fishes.
While I’m outside getting the wreath to hang straight, Lucy marches out of the café with a red dry-erase marker. I can only assume she’s been watching for me to come out here.
She gives me the finger and then changes their sign to make their drink a quarter cheaper than ours.
I laugh as she adds,
The best cappuccino in Hideaway Harbor!
Then laugh harder when she underlines “best.”
“You’re really testing my grandmother,” I caution. “I couldn’t care less, but those are fighting words. Especially since she claims she taught Eileen how to make cappuccinos.”
Lucy gives me a feral smile as she tucks a curl behind her ear. I notice her red lipstick and feel a lurching sensation. Is she wearing it to taunt me, or did she put it on for another man?
I shouldn’t care—this woman really does seem to loathe me, and I enjoy arguing with her too much to try to change that. But I do care. Far more than I’d like.
“Speaking of really testing people, how’s the power in your shop?” she snaps. “Funny how our building was the only one affected on the whole block, and the power was perfectly fine in the morning.”
I rub the back of my neck, avoiding her gaze. I feel hot all of a sudden. Like I need to plunge my head in a snowbank.
“How are you adjusting to the snow?” I blurt.
“What? I—” Her brows knit. “How do you know I’m not from a place that has tons of snow?”
“The way you dress.”
She scowls at me. “I run hot.”
“I certainly believe that.”
She wraps her arms around her body. “I like the snow.”
Her gaze strays to the town square. The snow is still fresh other than a few track marks across it. No yellow spots yet.
“It’s beautiful. Like it was plucked from the pages of a fairy tale.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “I take it there’s some service that comes through and cleans the stoops?”
“Maybe it’s the Hideaway Elf. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.
Word is, some mysterious altruist cleared your snow and ours in the middle of the night a couple of weeks ago.
Just doing something good for humanity.” I’m not totally making this up.
I overheard a few people gossiping in the shop earlier about random acts of Christmas kindness.
“Sure. Whatever. Someone cleared the snow today. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t Charlie or Lars, and it definitely wasn’t Eileen, thank God.”
“Must be a really great person to have done something like that. Possibly a god among men. Or a goddess among women.”
She narrows her gaze at me. “Did you—”
“Did you take our cinnamon broom?” I ask, not wanting to confirm or deny that I shoveled the snow.
“You think I stole your stupid broom?” she asks in a tone of disbelief.
I tsk-tsk. “My grandmother made that broom.”
“I would never steal anything.”
“You should have,” I say. “They smell really good, and she already sold out of her latest batch. I’ll talk to her about making some more.”
From the expression on her face, I’ve confused her. Good. We might as well both be confused.
A moment of silence hangs between us. A breeze whips her hair into her face, and I watch eagerly as she tucks it behind her ear.
“You better not do anything to interrupt Crochet Club tomorrow.” She glowers at me, wielding the dry-erase marker she’s still holding as if it were a sword.
“Or else you’ll beat me with that dry-erase marker?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Consider me intimidated.”
A scowl creases her brows, but then she uncaps the marker and attacks the BANNED flyer with it, giving me a red mustache that makes me look like a cartoon villain.
“You know, I don’t look half bad with a mustache,” I muse, knowing I shouldn’t needle her but enjoying it too much to stop. “Maybe I’ll stop shaving. How about adding a kiss mark on my cheek? Red’s the perfect color. You wouldn’t even need to use the marker. You could—”
I start laughing, unable to finish the thought, because she just added a zit to my face on the flyer. She adds another before shooting me a smug look. “I recommend salicylic acid. It works wonders.”
Laughing, I ask, “Are we still getting dinner on Thursday night? If so, can I request that you bring the dry-erase marker? Maybe I’ll even let you draw on me. You can bring a green one too, if you’d like. Make it festive.”
She nearly drops the marker before tucking it into the pocket of her coat. Giving me a holier-than-thou look, she says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’d rather not find out.”
“Of course not. By the way, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t poison me. My grandmother and siblings are fond of me.”
“God only knows why.”
“I agree,” I say, rocking on my heels. “Say…I have a hot tip for you and Eileen.”
She plants a hand on her hip. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t fall all over myself in excitement.”
“I think I’d like to see that.”
She glares at me.
I lift my hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. But you’ll want to hear this. My brother Giovanni told me he thinks Portia wouldn’t be opposed to spending more time with Amanda Willis. I guess they had a moment at the Christmas tree lighting.”
Interest sparks in her eyes, immediately extinguished by suspicion. “Why are you telling me? Does this have something to do with the lobster candy cane you sent? Are you going to bribe Portia to—”
I’m already shaking my head. “No, I just know Eileen likes her matchmaking. I figured I’d help out. The spirit of Christmas compelled me.”
She snorts. “I’d be less surprised if I caught Santa eating my milk and cookies.”
“Is that a euphemism about Santa Speed Dating?” I ask, cocking my head. “You got a thing for men who dress up like the big guy?”