The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (6 page)

“Cowboying it, huh?” He picked it up, took a swig. Lowering it, he nodded approvingly. “Not bad. Special occasion?”

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but it stayed open with no words coming out as she stared into her uncle’s brown eyes, which looked even larger behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

“Camilla?” he prodded.

Maybe she’d gained some false courage thanks to the green slush, but it was dissolving, fast. She scratched her chin in an attempt to cover its quivering. No way she’d let waterworks happen. She was a grown woman, not some angst-ridden, heartbroken teenager.

“My baby girl Camilla,” he said in a surprisingly modulated voice. He set down the container and walked to her, his arms open wide. “C’mere.”

So much for being a grown-up. She more or less fell into his arms, her face pressed against his turquoise-and-black-frond Hawaiian shirt. He smelled like steak, cigarette smoke and his signature musky-lemony aftershave. He kept patting her back, saying things like “Let it out,” and “It’s okay, kid,” but she refused to cry. A whimper or two, fine. And that sniffling was simply to clear the sinuses.

Finally she pulled back and looked into his face.

“Sorry,” she croaked.

“For what?”

“Acting like a baby.”

“Because you needed a hug? Everybody needs to know they’re loved and cared about. That’s what hugging is for. Crying isn’t such a bad thing, either.”

“I never cry.”

“What? Is that a badge of honor? That first year of your life, that’s all you did was cry. And when you weren’t crying, you were eating or pooping. Since then, not so much. The crying part, I mean. The other two, though—”

“Uncle...”

“So? I tell it like it is. You get that from me, y’know. I was there changing your diapers, feeding you strained peas, burping you, too. You should really call me Dad, not Uncle, but I’ll forgive you. By the way,
never’s
a big word.” He steered her toward the dining room table. “You need to eat.”

“You always say that.”

“That’s because you never eat.”

“I eat all the time!”

“Never enough.” He pulled out a chair.

She slumped into it. “I thought you said
never’s
a big word. You’ve used it twice.”

“Okay, I’ll never use it again.”

She laughed despite herself.

“Good. I like that. Laugh. Eat. Life’s short, my li’l
figlia,
trust me on that one. Today you’re sad about a job or what somebody did or said or how they crossed their eyes, then one day you look back and don’t remember the bad stuff all that well. But you do remember a tree swing at a friend’s house that was torn down long ago or how sweet someone’s perfume always smelled, and you yearn for what used to be— Where’d I put that bowl? Ah, there it is.”

As he banged about in the kitchen, she stared at the picture of Pope John Paul II, who her uncle considered to be a man of the people even if he wasn’t born in Italy. She vaguely recalled how that picture had hung in the dining room at her grandmother’s house in Philly. Those walls had been covered in grayish wallpaper dotted with clusters of white-and-blue flowers. When she was four, she’d gotten in trouble for coloring some of the white flowers bright red. She’d imagined her grandmother walking into the room and gasping with delight at the bright addition.

Instead Cammie learned that some surprises aren’t good things. Her grandmother had wanted to spank her, but Cammie’s mother intervened. Those were the good days. When her mother still had the wherewithal to deal with life’s ups and downs. The small ones, anyway.

She shifted her gaze to the Sinatra photo that hung next to the pope’s. The singer leaned against a wall, his fedora pushed back, tie loosened, a burning cigarette dangling between his fingertips. He smiled languidly at the camera as though staring into the eyes of his lover.

Ol’ Blue Eyes had been the perfect nickname for the famous singer. In color photographs, his eyes had been shockingly blue. Like Marc’s.

She imagined Marc in that photo, leaning against a wall, looking into her eyes. She thought to that night so long ago, dancing on the lawn outside the party, their lips touching...

“
Buon
appetite!” Her uncle set a steaming plate of spaghetti heaped with marinara sauce before her. He sprinkled cheese on the food. “I grilled steak at Delilah’s, so I’m not joining you. Will grab a glass of your
fabuloso
spiked limeade, however, and sit with you.” He kept sprinkling. “Say when.”

He knew her downfall was cheese. If she could live on bread and cheese alone, she would. She waited until the shaved Parmesan began to resemble a snowdrift before making a stop motion.

As he headed to the kitchen, she dug in, realizing she was famished. A moment later, Frankie returned with a wineglass filled with frothy green liquid and sat opposite her.

“Good?” he asked.

She nodded, her mouth full.

“You look better already. Got color in your cheeks.” He took a sip of the limeade as she spooned another bite. “So, yeah, Delilah and I, we grilled New Yorks. I made bruschetta. She whipped up a barley salad with those little baby corns. Corn on the cob for mice! She said they’re harvested mostly in Thailand. Who knew?”

Delilah cooked, tatted lace, decorated entire rooms with hand-printed wallpaper, carved intricate designs in pumpkins at Halloween...you name it. She and Martha Stewart were like twins separated at birth, except they looked nothing alike. Delilah, at sixty, looked more like the actress Lainie Kazan, who played the mother in the movie
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
. Except Delilah wore enough gold jewelry to fund a small revolution, dyed her hair champagne-blond—“the best blond for my coloring, dear”—and wore clothes that never let the world forget she had cleavage.

Delilah’s and Frankie’s only arguments had been in the kitchen. That’s what happened when two food divas fell in love.

As Cammie finished her meal, her uncle asked, “So...you gonna tell me what happened? ʼCause if anybody gave you a bad time at that job, you tell your uncle Frankie about it and I’ll make sure the problem goes away.”

“Like you’re a wise guy.”

“Don’t need to be no wise guy to protect the ones you love. Or the ones you do business with.”

“This is how you treated problems when you owned your taxi businesses?”

“Sometimes people need a strong talking-to, that’s all. Then, after they
understand
the situation, the world is a beautiful place full of lollipops and rainbows.”

“You like to act tough, but I got your number. Deep down, you’re a softy.”

“Keep it to yourself or you’ll ruin my rep. Through with that?” He nudged his chin toward her plate.

“Yes.”

“There’s still a few bites left.”

She huffed a sigh. “I’ve gained seven pounds since I moved here.”

“And so you should! Don’t know what they were feeding you in Denver, but when you got here, you were skin and bones! A scrawny little string of vermicelli.” He wiggled his pinkie finger. “Now you look stronger, healthier...just not...” He got up, took her plate to the kitchen.

After he returned and sat, she asked, “Just not what?”

“Just not what,
what?
”

“You said I look healthier, just not...”

“Oh.” He took another sip, shrugged. “Just not so happy. Not only today, but in general. Except today more so.”

“I could blame you for that, you know.”

“Me?”

She decided Italian men were the only ones who could look grossly affronted and incredibly innocent at the same time. “You told Marc where I work.”

“Marc...the nice gentleman who called the house today asking for you?”

“The
only
gentleman who’s ever called the house asking for me, yes.”

“First of all,
figlia,
I knew who he was, even though he was polite enough to introduce himself—full name, very mannerly like—and explain he’d been your employer back in Denver. You’d just gotten that job when I left Denver, ʼmember? I’d call there off and on to talk to you when I couldn’t reach you on your cell. Even if I’d never heard of him, you talked about him when you first got here....”

Yes, she’d talked a lot about Marc when she’d first arrived, but had never, ever admitted that she’d had a thing for the guy. If her uncle had thought somebody had broken her heart, even if that someone had never known how she’d felt, he probably would have hopped the next flight to Denver to have a man-to-man talk about his
figlia
and how to treat her right. Make sure Marc
understood
the situation, although she doubted that would have resulted in her world being showered with lollipops and rainbows.

Funny how she suddenly had men in her life ready to hop flights between Denver and Vegas to have one-on-ones.

“So, of course, I figured you were friends,” Frankie said.

“Right,” she murmured.

His features softened. “You like this man.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s not what you think.”

“I asked if you liked him, not what am I thinking.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s just not...you know.”

“Consummated?”

“Uncle Frankie, please! We’re not talking sex.”

“It tends to go hand in hand with love, y’know.” He clapped his hands together and gave them a shake.

Oh, this conversation was going so very well.

“I understand what you’re saying. I wasn’t born yesterday.” Oh, hell, this was a losing battle. She might as well talk about it...parts of it.

She straightened, looked her uncle square in the face. “Look, Marc’s a friend. And my former boss. He wasn’t very happy with how I conducted some research, something you and I have discussed in the past so no need to rehash it, and I ended up moving to Vegas, and you know the rest of my story after that. Can we consider this conversation over?”

“No.” He brushed at his shirt. “I want some explanation for your sniffling on my favorite Hawaiian shirt, then after that, there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you.” The last two words sounded like
wi-choo
.

“What’s that?”

“No misdirecting the conversation. But first, I need some more liquid refreshment.” After setting the drink down, he leaned his forearms on the table and clasped his hands. “So...you like him, just not enough to have him visit you at work.”

“I wasn’t ready to...talk to him...especially at that dive—” She caught herself. “
Dive
doesn’t include Delilah’s gift store, of course.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” he said, gesturing to the heavens. “Tourists love that stuff—today she sold two of those little knitted Las Vegas rat-on-string sweaters. Seventy a pop.”

She let that sink in for a moment. “Seventy dollars for a hand-knitted sweater for a Yorkie or Chihuahua?”

“Yeah, and other small-like dogs. Maybe cats, too. Hey, how’s that stray?”

“Trazy’s still there. Thought she’d go home after a day or two.”

“Sorry you can’t bring her here.”

“You’re allergic to cats. No way. I’m going to make an appointment at a vet’s, see if Trazy has one of those chips. Have to at least try and find out who her owners are.” She thought of those little doggie sweaters. “Seventy bucks. That’s more than I’ve ever spent on a sweater for
me.
”

“But they’re hand-knitted. Sparkly thread the color of her hair...you know...”

“Champagne.”

“Yeah, champagne. She knits little pictures in them, too. Tiny dice. Martini glasses with olives. Girl dog sweaters have little faces of Marie knitted in them, too. Boy dog sweaters get her brother, what’s his name?”

“Donny.”

“Yeah.”

“She knits the faces of
Donny
and
Marie
in them?”

“Tiny faces, but they’re good, y’know. Big toothy smiles an’ everything. That Delilah, she’s talented. Has lots of plans...” He flashed Cammie an expectant look.

“Like what?”

“You’re misdirecting the subject.”

“I think you did.”

“Then I’m going back to the other one. Okay, where was I...? Ah, right... Sounds like you’re bothered he saw you in that outfit, right?”

A rush of heat crawled up her chest as she thought of Marc this afternoon, seeing her in that cover-nothing getup. “Right,” she said quietly.

“Men who like women tend to really like them in outfits like that.”

“Uncle Frankie, he likes women, just not
this
woman in
that
way.” She flashed on Marc’s former fiancée Gwen, who liked to call herself “Swagtastic”—gag—and had that hot-bod, bad-girl Cameron Diaz thing going for her. Sometimes her spray-on skirts had been so high and tight, Cammie wondered if she’d accidentally worn her Spanx to work. Especially annoying was the baby talk and the way Gwen’s eyes would get all big and her fake lashes would flutter, and Marc would melt. How could he be so dumb to fall for such a cliché?

A thieving cliché, come to find out. Maybe that sexy act had been just that. An act to gain access to the firm’s money. If only Marc had allowed Cammie to finish her investigation...

“But he liked you, right? In that hotsy-totsy number.”

Took her a moment to realize her uncle was still talking about Marc seeing her at work. “I doubt it. You see, we had a disagreement.”

“In the casino?”

“Outside. On my break. Work stuff.”

“He flew out here to talk about work stuff? You left there over a year ago!”

She closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly reopened them. “I love you, but I don’t think I can talk about this anymore. It’s just—” She swallowed, hard.

He paused, seemingly weighing the scenario. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t know it’d be that uncomfortable, his showing up at the casino and all—”

“No need to apologize.”

“So, wanna ask him over for dinner now that he’s in Vegas?”

“You’re incorrigible. No!”

“He could come over, see you in regular clothes.”

“The answer is still no—”

“I’ll make my famous marinara sauce. Delilah can make a salad with those baby corn on the cobs. You can make your electric limeade. I mean, this stuff alone could make a guy fall in love.”