A Bouquet of Love (5 page)

“We can worry about where they will stay once they accept the invitation,” Babbas said. “In the meantime, I need to create a commercial with a superhero theme. And we will need a jingle. Something catchy.”

“A jingle?” Mama asked.

“Sure, you know. You hear them all the time on TV and radio.” He started singing one from an insurance company commercial and Mama nodded.

Then my father decided to sing every well-known jingle that came to mind. He covered everything from McDonald's to Burger King to Oscar Mayer Weiner. Soon Mama was singing along. So were my brothers and sisters, who'd drifted in upon hearing the McDonald's jingle, likely hoping we were going out to eat for a change. Like that would happen.

When they finally stopped singing, Babbas rose and paced the room. “We need a jingle with a superhero theme. Something catchy. You can help with this, Cassia. You're musical.”

I started to argue, but a couple of catchy ideas came to mind. Ten minutes later I'd written a tolerably good jingle for Super-Gyros. Where it had come from, I could not say. Still, Babbas fell in love with it, and even Mama offered a “Wow!” My siblings joined me and before long we were all singing—with harmony, even.

“It's perfect, Cassia! And just right with your singing voice on the lead.” Babbas snapped his fingers. “That's it! Our family will sing the jingle in the commercial!”

“Oh no.” No, no, no, no, no. I would not, could not, sing in a commercial for the family business, especially not if my father—

“I'll wear the Super-Gyros costume and you can sing. It will be perfect.”

The next thing I knew, we were talking about adding a stage in Super-Gyros where we could perform the song on a regular basis. No thank you. But how could I go about defying him when he looked so excited and so proud of my song?

“This will save the day, Cassia. Brock Benson will do a cameo in the commercial and your song will play in the background.”

I had to admit, the idea of my song playing behind Brock Benson did hold some appeal. But from the devilish grin on my father's face, I knew he was up to something more.

“We will put those Rossis in their place.” Babbas rubbed his hands together. “Wait and see.”

Ack. The Rossis. I still needed to let Babbas know about my new job at the flower shop. Marcella would be waiting on me tomorrow morning, after all. Maybe I could tell him without mentioning the Rossi connection. Sure. He didn't have to know that part.

After releasing a cleansing breath, I dove right in. “Babbas, working with family has been so much fun. But you know how much I love to design flower bouquets—”

“Flowers.” He snapped his fingers. “Excellent idea. You should wear a flower wreath in your hair when the commercial is filmed. All of the girls should. Oh, and your dresses—they must be traditional. Yia Yia can make them.” He clasped his hands together and his eyes appeared to glaze over. “We will all look so . . . Greek!”

I didn't mean to groan aloud but must've done it involuntarily. Not that it stopped him. Oh no. On and on he went, ideas flowing as freely as the honey my mother had poured over the sumptuous baklava.

By the time the conversation ended, Babbas had pretty much planned out my future. Apparently it included several thrilling commercial appearances with me dressed as a young Greek virgin. Terrific. Now I just needed to figure out a way to balance my career as a jingle writer with my job at Super-Gyros. Oh, and my new position at Patti-Lou's Petals. I couldn't forget about that.

Or maybe, just maybe, I'd
better
forget about that last one. And while I was at it, I'd forget about the ache that consumed my heart every time I thought about giving up on my childhood dream of working with flowers. Surely it would never come to pass now.

One thing remained clear—I couldn't do anything to stress out my father right now, not with Super-Gyros opening in two days. Our family's survival depended on keeping him in good spirits.

And so, with a smile plastered on my face, I rose and sang that goofy little jingle all the way into my room, where I climbed into bed fully dressed and pulled the covers over my head.

You might be Greek if you're 5
′
4
″
, can bench-press 325 pounds, and shave twice a day, but you still cry when your mother yells at you.

B
y Friday morning we nearly had the new shop ready for the following day's grand opening. Never mind the fact that my father flaunted our write-up in the local paper every chance he got and littered the island with flyers. Most of the passersby seemed genuinely interested. Many even promised to come by when the shop opened for business, especially those with the coupons for free gyros.

Midmorning on Friday Babbas prepped the fire to roast the lamb. Perfect opportunity for a getaway. He didn't even seem to notice I'd left. Then again, he rarely noticed anything
once he got busy doing what he loved to do. When a Greek father babied his lamb, the rest of the family could do as they pleased. My sisters headed off to the beauty shop, and I bought myself a few precious hours working at the florist shop while Babbas tended to the meat.

I jogged the length of the Strand, past the luscious smell coming from Parma John's, to Patti-Lou's Petals a few blocks down. The bell on the door jangled as I walked inside, and Marcella looked my way and clasped her hands together. “Oh, good! You're back.”

“I'm back.” A whiff of the fragrant flowers made me forget all about the lamb I'd been craving.

“I'm just so thrilled you're here.” Marcella rushed from one side of the shop to the other. “After you left the other day, I got on my knees and thanked God.”

“Thanked God that I left, you mean?”

She giggled and tossed me an apron. “No, silly. Thanked God you'd come in the first place. Thanked him that you'd seen the advertisement on the trolley.”

“So you've really needed help?” I tied on the apron, suddenly energized by its bright colors. My thoughts went back to Alex's comment about how it suited me. Yep. It suited me, all right.

Marcella continued to talk, oblivious to my thoughts. “Girl, you have no idea. I've been balancing motherhood with my work.” She stopped to brush a loose hair out of her face. “I love both. I really do. But with a little girl in the mix now, as well as the two older boys . . . well, let's just say I've got my hands full.”

She dove into a story about her husband and his work at Parma John's, and I swallowed hard. Great. Just what I needed
to hear. My boss's husband co-managed the pizza parlor with his uncle Lazarro. Perfect. Couldn't wait to share this news with the rest of my family.

Not.

Thank goodness the conversation shifted as customers flooded the store. We stayed busy until around noontime, when a familiar woman entered with a sleeping toddler in her arms. I recognized her as the young woman I'd seen across the street, the one the hunky cowboy had swept into his arms. The one with the picture-perfect life.

She headed Marcella's way, and seconds later the two were enmeshed in a quirky conversation about an upcoming wedding for Gabi, their mutual friend. Marcella made introductions, and the woman—Bella Neeley—drew me into the conversation. The three of us ended up chatting like old friends. Turned out the girl with the picture-perfect life had a picture-perfect personality too. And a great sense of humor to boot. And speaking of boots, she confirmed that the handsome cowboy with the Stetson was indeed her husband.

Bella had me laughing at least a dozen times as she shared stories from past weddings she'd coordinated.

“So you're a wedding coordinator?” I asked after a particularly funny story. “Where do you work?”

“At Club Wed,” she said. “On Broadway.”

“Wait, Club Wed?” I clamped my mouth shut, unwilling to voice the obvious question that came to mind.
The one owned by the Rossi family?

“Yes.” The little girl in her arms began to stir, and Bella comforted her. “My parents owned it for years, but they passed it to me. I'm the manager and coordinator there.”

Parents? But her last name's not Rossi.

“Bella's famous,” Marcella said. “You wouldn't believe all the people she's worked with. Even Hollywood stars. Her themed weddings have made the news, and she's even been featured in
Texas Bride
magazine.”

“Wow, that's amazing.”

“I think so.” Marcella sighed. “I hate to admit this, but I use Bella to promote my business. I mean, it's not every florist who has a sister-in-law who's been written up in a well-known magazine. You know?”

“Sister-in-law?”

“Yes.” Bella nodded. “Marcella is married to my brother Nick.”

Wait a minute. This girl—the really nice one with the great personality—was really a Rossi? If so, Neeley must be her married name.

I'd not only stumbled into my dream job at a florist shop, I'd also stumbled headlong into a couple of new friendships from the enemy's camp. And much to my horror, these Rossis seemed really, really great. At least the female contingent. But would they still accept my friendship once they found out who I was? The subject of my last name had never come up again after Marcella shoved my résumé into the drawer, but she was bound to find out sooner or later. All she had to do was look at the tax forms I'd filled out. The woman was so busy she didn't care about my last name. Yet. But she would. They all would.

Bella rested against the counter and gave me a closer look. “You seem really familiar to me. Have we met before?”

She'd probably noticed me watching her from the upstairs window, but I would never say that. “No. Nope. Never met before.”

“Strange. Feels like I've seen you before someplace.”

For a moment it felt as if my tongue got stuck to the roof of my mouth. I couldn't force any words at all. Not that I wanted to. Who could come up with something logical to talk about when everyone else in the room was from the Italian side of the street and I was from the Greek side? Once they figured out my dad was working overtime to take out their pizza business, they would hate me.

Bye-bye, florist job. Bye-
bye, new friends.

“You okay over there?” Fine lines appeared around Bella's eyes as she stared at me.

I finally managed to nod, then stammered, “Y-you're Bella Rossi.”

She shrugged. “I'm Bella Neeley now.”

“But you
were
a Rossi?” I asked.

“Sure.” She shrugged again. “Once upon a time. And trust me, once a Rossi, always a Rossi. It's like a disease. You can't shake it.” She and Marcella erupted in laughter.

I felt sick. “Well, that pretty much changes everything.”

“Why does that change everything?” Bella comforted the little girl in her arms, who had started to fuss.

“Because you seem really nice.”

Now she looked perplexed. “Well, thank you. But I'm not sure I understand what this is—”

“You're Bella Rossi. And you're related to Marcella.”

“Who's also a Rossi.” Bella put the little girl down in a chair and faced me. “My sister-in-law.”

“Right. I think I've got it all figured out now.” I smacked myself in the head and slid down into a chair, mumbling my epitaph in Greek. “You're all Rossis,” I finally managed, this time in English.

“We are,” they said in unison.

“I work for the Rossis and now I'm friends with the Rossis too.”

Marcella nodded. “Well, of course we're friends. Is that a problem?”

“A problem?” I echoed, then swallowed hard. “Oh no.”

Not unless
you happen to consider a half-crazed Greek father a
problem. Unless you're sure—really, really sure—the family
you're working for is probably going to end up
hating you in the end.

“Is there something you need to tell us, Cassia?” Bella asked.

“Just promise me one thing,” I said at last. “Promise you'll never judge me based on my family.”

This got Bella so tickled that she actually doubled over in laughter. “Me? Judge you because of your family? Oh, girl . . . you have no idea.” She told a humorous story about her aunt Rosa and uncle Laz, and I felt myself relaxing as the truth surfaced—they were just as nutty as my dad. Maybe more so. Thank God.

“If you want to get together to talk family stuff, I'm your girl,” Bella said. “But I'm pretty sure I can one-up you on any story you might tell. Just saying.” She and Marcella shared a wacky story about the time Rosa chased a neighbor boy across the lawn with a broom, and my nerves lifted. By the time they covered their fourth—or was it fifth?—story, they'd long since forgotten about me.

Or not.

“Look, Cassia.” Bella gazed at me so intently I thought she could read my mind. “Let's take a vow.”

“A vow?”

“Yes. We'll never be offended by the other person's family members. I won't if you won't.”

“Promise?” I asked. “Even if it turns out my family—well, at least one person in my family—is a little on the wacky side?”

“No offense.” She stuck out her hand. “I promise.”

I shook her hand and did my best to relax. Sooner or later they would have to know my deep, dark secret. For now, though, I would keep it to myself. Why ruin a new friendship on the very first day?

“Speaking of being offended, I might as well give it to you straight. Being in Texas is quite a wake-up call,” Bella said. “I know this from my own experience. You'll have a thousand opportunities to get offended. You can't take anything personally, especially if it's spoken by someone with a Texas drawl.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for instance, you absolutely can't be offended if someone calls you ‘honey' or ‘sweetie.'”

“It took me a while to get used to that too,” Marcella said.

“Aunt Rosa hated it at first, but now she calls everyone ‘honey' or ‘sweetie.'” Bella laughed.

“Except Uncle Laz.” A familiar male voice sounded from the door, and I looked over and saw that Alex had entered the shop with a bucketful of roses. “She's got a few other choice names for him. He tends to run on the hot-tempered side at times.”

I'd seen that firsthand in the middle of the street during the photo shoot.

Alex's comment clued me in to the fact that he was a Rossi too. Maybe not by blood, but he knew the Rossi family well enough to say something like that about Rosa and Laz.

Man. Was everyone on the island connected . . . except me?

“So you're all friends?” I gestured from Alex to Bella to Marcella, then back to Alex again.

“Sure.” He nodded. “I was supplying flowers to Bella and her family before they switched the name of the business to Club Wed. We've known 'em forever. Our families go way back.”

“Of course, we've got the Splendora connection too,” Bella said. “Gotta factor that in.”

I didn't have a clue what all of this stuff about Splendora had to do with anything but just offered a shrug.

“Cassia's on a learning curve,” Marcella explained. “She's from California.”

“Santa Cruz,” I said.

“Well, things are probably a little different here.” Alex gave me a wink.

“No joke.” I could lay out some of the differences, but I didn't want to run the risk of offending anyone by glowing about the home I missed so much.

“Maybe you should look at what the two have in common,” Alex said.

“Like . . . ?”

“Like, both are coastal towns, right?” Alex said. “Can't be all that different.”

“Oh, but it is,” I countered. “Have you ever
seen
the blue waters of the Pacific? The Gulf of Mexico doesn't begin to compare. What color do you call that water, anyway?”

I fought the temptation to go off on a tangent, and all the more as Alex and Marcella began to brag about Galveston's newest attraction, Pleasure Pier. Clearly they had never been to the boardwalk in Santa Cruz or they wouldn't waste their
breath. And they'd obviously never seen a true coastal area, one complete with mountains and redwood trees, carved into a beautifully scenic landscape edged up to vibrant blue waters.

When they finished their lengthy, glowing report about Texas, I just shrugged.

Bella laughed. “Give her a break, y'all. She's only been on the island a few weeks. It takes time to win people over.”

“But if you're not that keen on Texas, why come?” Alex's question seemed genuine enough.

“I, um . . . well, I moved here after someone in the family made an impulsive decision. Let's just leave it at that.” Biting back a sigh, I offered a little smile.

“Well, God bless whoever made the impulsive decision then.” He gave me another wink, which sent tingles all the way down to my toes. If all Texans were as welcoming as this guy, I might be swept away after all.

“Besides, if anyone understands impulsive family members, I do.” Alex dove into a crazy story about his controlling, over-the-top sisters, and I chuckled at how animated they sounded.

When his story ended, I gave all of my new friends a nod and released a slow breath. “I want you all to know that you're terrific people, and it's been great getting to know you.”

“Well, it's been great getting to know you too, Cassia.” Bella threw her arms around me and gave me a big hug. “Welcome to the island.”

“I hope we can be friends,” I added. “I really do.”

“We're already friends.” Little creases formed between her eyes. “At least, I thought we were.”

“We are, but . . .” I paused and thought about my next words very carefully. I needed to prep her for the truth, even if I didn't share it all today. “You ever read
Romeo and Juliet
?”

“Sure. Didn't everyone?”