From the Moment We Met (11 page)

“I guess the Morettis are very devout.” ChiChi rubbed her thumb over her fingertips in the universal sign for big tithers. “She had her priest call Father Giuseppe, asking for a few weeks to put things in order and come pay respects to her grandson. She even showed her devoutness to Deidra Potter, offering her all kinds of payment if she’d lay flowers at his feet daily.”

Oh boy.
Deidra Potter was not only the owner of Petal Pushers: Buds and Vines, the local bouquet goddess of wine country. She was also ChiChi’s sworn enemy, which meant that if she was involved, Abby was screwed.

“I offered to call Richard’s grandmother and tell her just what kinds of things other women did at his feet when he was married to you,” Lucinda said loud enough to carry three towns over.

“Lucinda,” Pricilla chided, then just as loudly turned back to Abby and picked up the earlier thread, “Only, that Deidra beat us to it. She knows ChiChi is thinking about running for the Garden Society Chair this year, and the only way she can win is to make your grandmother look bad.”

“She knew having him in your yard like this,” again with the sign of the cross, “showing off his wayward boys to the town, would get my blood boiling, so she hijacked the Garden Society, held a secret meeting, and they voted.”

“Voted on what?” Abby asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“Project Primrose,” Lucinda said.

Abby waited for them to continue, but when they didn’t, she motioned that she needed more information, because she had no idea what they were talking about.

“The St. Helena Garden Society will now bring sunshine and support to the grieving families of St. Helena, one petal at a time,” Pricilla explained.

Abby let this sink in, then she understood. “And their first recipient is Richard,” she finished. That explained the mountain of flowers at the statue’s feet.

“Yes, siree,” Lucinda said, her eyes going hard. “And Deidra’s planning on announcing her candidacy on your front lawn with the media here at the unveiling of Project Primrose.”

Abby didn’t point out that St. Helena’s only “media” was a single photographer for the
Sentinel
. “So if I get rid of the statue, Deidra will make it look like ChiChi wasn’t thinking in the best interest of the society?”

“Oh, child, I don’t care about what those old biddies think,” ChiChi lied. If there was one thing ChiChi cared about, it was her reputation in the community. The other was beating out Deidra.

Abby eyed the cuffs and the public dramatics on display and knew Deidra was in for one tough campaign cycle. ChiChi was poised to hijack Project Primrose and turn it into a spectacular, raving success, more than Deidra could ever dream. She wasn’t going to fight Deidra—she was going to join her—and in the end, Deidra would rue the day she ever thought she could beat ChiChi.

Then it would start all over again between them.

“I was thinking about his grandmother,” ChiChi whispered, blinking a little too much for it to be part of the show. “Thinking of what she must be going through. Knowing her grandson was a rotten SOB, but wanting to do right by his will and visit his statue while it sat in its resting place. Trey was a pain in my backside before he met Sara, and between him and Marco, I am sure there are a hundred women who would love to take a chisel to certain parts of their anatomy. But, former Casanovas or not, I would hope I’d get the chance to say good-bye, in my own way.”

And there it was. The only thing that could have Abby wavering. She knew all too well what it was like to wish for one last moment with someone. After being trapped in a car with her dying parents while emergency workers struggled to get them out, wondering if her mother heard her whispering just how much she loved her, how much she needed her to live. Even begging her, when it got grim, to take her with them . . .

No, Abby could never deny another person the chance to get closure.

With a sigh she felt all the way to her bones, she whispered, “All right, I can give his grandmother until the end of the month. But then Richard has to go. For me and for Regan and Holly.”

The last thing Abby wanted was for her niece to come home from her family vacation and find out her dad was dead by seeing his ashes—and other parts—on her front lawn. Richard had created enough heartache for this family to last a lifetime.

“I know it wasn’t the easy decision,
mia piccola bambina
.” ChiChi leaned in and gave Abby a kiss on the cheek. When she pulled back, the pride in her gaze had Abby squirming in her shoes. “So much compassion and heart. A grandmother could wish for nothing else from her favorite granddaughter.”

Abby smiled at the familiar statement. “I’m your only granddaughter.”

“Yes, well, favorite all the same. Now, if you’ll take a small step back, I have to make sure Deidra doesn’t win this one,” ChiChi whispered.

Abby wasn’t sure what her nonna was going to do, but she could tell by the giddy flutters of her lashes that it was going to be epic. And embarrassing. And most likely come back to bite Abby in the butt. Because when it came to getting her way, ChiChi was a ninja.

At that, Abby smiled. Maybe she could harness ChiChi’s antics for good. “I’ll step back, but only if you’ll get me into the Memory Lane Manor meeting with the HPC next Tuesday.”

All three women gasped. “You’re asking for a miracle.”

Didn’t she know it. “And you’re asking me to live with Richard for another three weeks
and
take the fall so you can beat out Deidra Potter.”

All three women looked at Richard’s boys then back to Abby. Lucinda gave a curt nod. “My cousin Perkins sits on the board. I gave him one of my kidneys back in sixty-seven. He owes me.”

“Then make the call,” Abby said and took a huge step back right as ChiChi faced her adoring crowd.

“So by the power vested in me, as the official presidential candidate for the St. Helena’s Garden Society, devoted member to Project Primrose, and this young man’s grandmother-in-law, I hereby proclaim that Richard stays, God rest his soul,” ChiChi declared, and with a quick sign of the cross, the three ladies rallied, pulling the circle in closer until they were pressed against the statue. “Cheating bastard or not, family is family. And we’re Italian.” She sent a sly wink Abby’s way. “Put that on Facebook, Nora. And make sure you tag that sneaky Deidra Potter.”

One hour and a nice chat with her girlfriends later, Abby pushed through the doors of the Spigot. It was still early into the first quarter of the game, but the sports bar was already packed, a sea of red-and-gold-clad fans taking up every booth and stool. Pitchers littered the tables, shot glasses lined the bar, and the giant red-and-gold San Francisco 49ers light flashed boldly.

Game face on, Abby scanned the bar for her brothers, her mental war paint cracking a little when she spotted them sitting on the far side, taking up an entire booth and shouting at the flat screen hanging from the ceiling. She patted her briefcase, which held the one thing she needed to ensure her plan would work, but it didn’t help.

Even the sight of the blow-up doll in a Seahawks jersey and a green thong hanging from the ceiling by a noose—just in case a tourist wandered in and wasn’t sure exactly whose territory they’d entered—wasn’t enough to calm the anxious feeling in her stomach that she always got when walking into a confrontation.

“Hey, Abby,” Marc said, standing and pulling her into his arms for the best big-brother hug she’d had in a while. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

She looked up, way up since she only came to his chest, and he flashed her that trademark DeLuca smile, which was so contagious even she wasn’t immune. Which was how she found herself smiling back, damn it. “Kind of a last-minute thing.”

She was passed to Trey and finally Nate, and with each hug it became progressively harder to let go—and progressively harder to stay angry. Especially when all three brothers remained standing, waiting for her to sit—because they were good guys. Good, loving, respectful, Italian men who—

“Want to tell me why the hell Nora Kincaid just posted on Facebook that she is heading up the Occupy Krug Court in protest of the”—Trey picked up his phone, scrolled and swiped, then read from the screen—“Illegal Placement of Dick? I thought you said he’d be gone today.”

—Men who were overprotective, bossy, and knew just how to push her buttons.

Frustration burned up her spine, and a kink started in her neck. “Will you all stop looming over me and just sit!” When they didn’t move except to gesture for her to take a seat first, she waved off the gentlemanly offer. “I’m not staying long.”

Not to mention even in her take-charge stilettoes they had well over a foot on her. Sitting next to them at a table was like being Alice after she’d taken the shrinking pill. And with the conversation they were about to engage in, Abby needed all the height she could get. She wanted to be looking them in the eye when she told them to butt the hell out, not looking up to them.

Something she was fast learning was part of the problem.

Abby loved her brothers, admired and respected them, tried really hard to live up to the kind of capable and successful people they had each become—and somehow always managed to come up short. It had been easy in the past, when things got messy and hard, to step back and let them handle it, because they were so damn good at fixing her life.

But Abby was ready to fix her own life. Ready to stand on her own two feet and see how she fared—success or failure, it wouldn’t matter as long as it was all hers.

“I can handle Nora. I can handle the Richard mess. And I can most definitely handle securing a job without my big, scary brothers bribing my clients.” They didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Nope, they looked proud and stubborn and as though they were in the right.

“We’re not scary.” Marc smiled. “It’s called charm.”

“I’m going to say this once, so listen up. I married Richard, I messed up, and I am going to fix this . . . my way. And that includes me handling his remains and the investors.”

Ignoring the worried looks flying around the table, Abby pulled out the spreadsheets and detailed plan of action she and her accountant had drawn up. It showed who had received what and her aggressive plan for paying back the remaining balances. It relied on her firm becoming a success, depleted what was left of her savings account, and would leave her with very little money to live on. It also meant selling her shares in Ryo Wines, which broke her heart because it was the company she and ChiChi had started, but that money would mean finally being able to right the wrong.

Finally being able to move on.

When Nate looked at her over the top of the paper, she swallowed—hard. “I didn’t include our family on the list, but I plan to pay you guys back as well. It will just take me a little more time.”

“We don’t care about the money, Abby.” Nate dropped the paper and looked up at her with those soft, caring eyes—no judgment, no blame, just concern. And she felt her eyes sting.

“We just want this to be over. For you and for us,” Marc said softly. “We just want to help.”

“Good, then you can help me by butting out.” To make her point, she sent them her most intimidating look. It was one that scared her piano students into a practicing frenzy and got results no matter the age.

Not a single one of them looked concerned in the least. To her utter frustration, they actually appeared amused. Then they shrugged in unison and she knew they were merely placating her.

“I know this is hard, and that meddling is what you guys do.”

“We don’t meddle.” Trey looked so offended she would have laughed if she hadn’t felt like strangling him.

“Yes. You do. You are like a bunch of little old ladies, sticking your noses in everyone else’s business.”

“We’re just trying to make this whole mess a little easier,” Nate, the ever-rational brother, explained as though she were the slow one.

Unbelievable. Abby looked at them and shook her head. “I don’t want easier. I don’t want to be coddled. And I sure as hell don’t want you guys treating me like a child,” she shouted, very childlike. “I’m not that same scared person I was when Richard left or when Mom and Dad died, so stop treating me like I am.” That got their attention. And then she brought out the big guns. “So as of today you will no longer manipulate my life.”

Abby reached into her briefcase and pulled three envelopes out and slid them across the table. Inside were personalized contracts ensuring they would butt the hell out. But what had Abby smiling were the three swirly signatures at the bottom, which from the looks on her brothers’ faces were more terrifying than the actual contracts, titled
THE BUTT OUT AND PUT OUT RESOLUTION
.
Because they were handcrafted and signed by the women who shared their respective beds.

“What the hell is this?” Trey asked, pointing to the third clause on his resolution, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “No dance skirts after seven p.m.?”

“If you participate in a level three meddling violation, then Sara will only wear her dance skirts during studio hours.” Something Trey’s fiancée had so creatively devised. “If you think that’s bad, then check out the ‘No Tent Making’ clause.”