The Queen of Minor Disasters (6 page)

When my phone rings at seven
the next morning, my first thought is that it’s Drew, calling to tell me that
he’s made a big mistake.

Instead, it’s my future
sister-in-law Gina, calling to tell me that I’d better high-tail my ass up to
the Bronx because we have an appointment with her caterer at the Botanical
Gardens at ten.

As I listen to her talk, I
contemplate canceling, but then I realize that if anyone can help me get Drew
back, it’s Gina. After all, she changed my brother from an uncommitted playboy
to a whipped, love struck puppy in just under two years. Honestly, the girl has
talent. She’ll know just what to do.

Gina has hundreds of close
girlfriends, but no sisters, so she chose me as her Maid of Honor, which really
surprised me. She and I were never such close friends, but that gesture made it
clear; she thinks of me as a sister. Since then, I’ve looked at her the same
way, and though the whole wedding process can be a bit much at times, I’ve
tried
to be excited and supportive through
it all.

Of course, no one’s perfect.

There was that one time when
Gina was interviewing photographers and made me look through
thousands
of slides. It would have tried
anyone’s patience. Trust me.

But anyway, besides that, I’ve
been really keen on wedding plans, even when I really don’t feel like looking
at another color swatch.

Today is going to be a big
effort for me, given the circumstances. But as I walk towards the D train I
know I’m doing the right thing. I just need to build my strength with a little
Food Therapy. A good breakfast will give me the stamina to make it through this
day, so before getting on the train, I stop at Café Reggio for a chocolate
cornetto and overpriced cappuccino. 

My phone starts vibrating the
minute I get my cappuccino.

“Stella, how are you?” my mom
asks, and for a split second I’m tempted to break down and tell her everything,
but I stop myself because she already can’t stand Drew.

“I’m ok,” I lie. “I just left
Julie’s apartment.”

“I wanted to tell you some
good news,” she says in a voice that is a little too chipper for this hour.

“What’s up?”

“Roberto is back from Italy.”
She pauses and waits for my reaction. Thankfully she can’t see me roll my eyes.

She’s talking about Roberto
Lancetti, the only son of our bread providers, who also happen to be our close
family friends.

Roberto spent the last eight
years in Rome doing a PhD in Latin or something, and apparently just got home.

Since I’ve been about five, my
mother and Mrs. Lancetti have been planning an arranged marriage between Roberto
and me, even though the kid made my childhood a living hell. One time, he threw
gum in my hair and laughed while his mom had to cut it out. I had to get my
hair cut all short to even it out, and my brothers called me “shaggy dog” for
an entire year. The whole thing was pretty traumatic. Granted, I was eight, but
still, these are the things that stick with you. I could have been permanently
damaged. Come to think of it, I haven’t had short hair since.

The wedding talk went on
hiatus when Roberto left for Rome, but apparently it’s still fresh in my
mother’s mind. “That’s nice,” I reply.

“Maybe the two of you can see
each other. I think he’s living on the Island this summer.”

“I’m sure we’ll bump into each
other then,” I start walking down the steps of the subway. “I gotta go, Mom.
I’m meeting Gina in the Bronx.”

When I get to Fordham Road in
the Bronx, Gina is waiting in her car at the subway stop. She’s dressed like a
bride in a light pink strapless sundress with a white mini cardigan on top. Her
long chestnut hair is freshly highlighted and pulled into a low ponytail and
she’s even taken the time to curl it so that the ends unravel like a ribbon on
a gift box. She wears the large diamond studs my brother gave her last
Christmas. Her makeup is fresh, as would be expected on a Bobbi Brown makeup
artist, enhancing her naturally thin nose, bright eyes, and pursed lips.

 I’m dressed exactly how I
feel, dark and depressed.

Honestly, I have no idea why I
packed black wide leg trousers and a black tank top. It’s like
I knew
I’d be getting dumped or something.

But that’s in the past. Today
is a new day and I have a fresh take on life.

“What’s wrong?” Gina asks in
her nasal New York voice as soon as I take a seat. “You look like death.” She
fishes through her purse and pulls out a concealer stick and some light pink
cream blush. “Dab this under your eyes, and dot this on your cheeks.”

 I do as I’m told. Gina has
been working the Bobbi Brown counter at Saks for three years now and knows how
to make a girl look good in a pinch. Instantly, my eyes look bigger and
brighter. I hand them back to her.

“Keep them,” she says. “What
happened to you?”

“Drew dumped me,” I reply,
still in a sort of shock. “He thinks we’re not right for each other.”

“What?” She rolls her eyes and
then says exactly what I hoped she’d say. “It’s just cold feet. You’ll get him
back.”

The New York Botanical Gardens
are vivid with luscious pinks, golden yellows, deep purples, and fields of green.
As we walk through the flagstone paths, Gina describes every detail of the
reception, pointing out the outdoor cocktail hour area before we get to the
restaurant. “Pray for good weather,” she says as we pass it.

We’re meeting the caterer in
the private ballroom to go over a few options for the cocktail hour. Pietro and
Gina already selected the menu choices, but the caterer called last week, about
new options for the hors d’oeuvres.

The room was designed
specifically for weddings and other special events, so I should have expected
it to be beautiful, but as we enter the opulent room, I’m stunned. The walls
scream elegance, with their hand painted murals, soaring windows, and Palladian
Architecture.

Ok, I’m not really sure what
Palladian Architecture is, but the brochure says that it adds elegance to the
room.

And, believe me, it does.

“Do you love it?” Gina asks.

“It’s amazing!” I squeal and
for a minute, I actually try to imagine Drew and me sitting at a sweetheart
table, on our wedding day. I did go to Fordham, and that’s right across the
street. We could get married in the church there and take pictures next to
Keating Hall.

My head starts to spin
remembering our break-up. But as Gina pointed out, it’s just a minor glitch in
the plans. No big deal.

***

I arrive on the Island on
Thursday evening just before sunset. After New York, I spent a few days at home
near Philadelphia, and then came down the shore a day early. This is the last
time I’ll have the house to myself all summer and I want to savor every bit of
it. Plus with Operation-Get-Drew-Back in the works, I needed to get out of my
parents’ house.

Of course, they found out
about the breakup even before I got home. That’s the problem with my family—no
one can mind their own business. As soon as Gina dropped me off at Port
Authority she called Pietro and told him the news, who in turn called Mario,
who just happened to be at Lorenzo’s apartment. Dante was the last of my
brothers to know, as usual. Of all of us, he’s the only one who sort of steers clear
of family drama. I’m not sure who exactly told my parents, but as soon as I
walked through the door my mother came running up to tell me how I’m better
off. My father added that, even though he liked Drew, I’d be better suited with
an Italian. I ran up the stairs before my mother could start matchmaking. So
you can see why I needed to get to the Island as fast as possible. Plus, just
being there has a calming effect on me.

Our house on 99
^th
Street, which overlooks the bay, is prime real estate. My grandparents bought
the house in 1952 back when this town was nothing more than a bunch of shacks
on the beach. Land down here was cheap because, unless they were going to Cape
May, no one ventured this far down south, especially no one from Philadelphia.
In those days Atlantic City was
the
place to be, but my grandparents couldn’t afford a piece of land on those
beaches.

Over the years, my
grandparents, and eventually my parents, put a lot of their money into the
original little shack, which has now morphed into a four-bedroom home, with bay
views in three of the bedrooms. Not that it’s even big enough for everyone
though.

My room is the smallest in the
house but the best view, and when I wake up the first thing I see is water.
It’s lovely, it truly is.

I open the door and step
inside.  The floor boards creek to welcome me. I switch on the lights and see
that the house has remained exactly as I left it on Monday morning. A flannel
blanket is draped over the plush plaid sofa, the coffee table is centered perfectly
in front of it, and the woven rug sits firmly in place. The TV cabinet doors
are shut. To the right, a big wooden staircase leads to the upstairs bedrooms.

 To the left of the living
room is the dining area, which is home to our old kitchen table and eight
chairs. When we were young the dining set was in our kitchen, but since all of
my brothers have moved out of my parents’ house, they downsized to a smaller
table. The big table looks out of place in this small dining room, yet also
surprisingly comforting. The kitchen is modest to say the least, but since
we’ve opened the restaurant, we never make anything more than a bowl of cereal,
some toast, or a sandwich in here.

I open the fridge to see what
we’ve got. I really hope there are some meatballs in there. Whenever I’m
stressed, I need a meatball.

It’s empty besides a large
tank of water, some mayo, and a jar of Dijon mustard. I make a mental note to
hit the grocery offshore later on.

I pour myself a glass of water
and flip through the mail. We never really get anything important at the house.
Most people know to send stuff directly to the restaurant. But still, there’s
something calming about looking through the mail.

 I flip through grocery store
flyers, and a Val-U-Pack addressed to Dear Residents, and the postcard
invitation to the Lancetti’s Fourth of July barbeque.

Honestly, I don’t know why
they even bother sending out the invites, they know we go every year and have
been for the past fifteen years. It’s a staple of the summer. I guess Roberto will
be there this year. I have to admit, I’m curious as to what he looks like
nowadays. In my head he has an overgrown beard and long hair pulled into one of
those man ponytails that people with PhD’s in Latin have. Gross.

I hang the postcard on the
fridge and throw the rest of the mail out, then decide to call Lorenzo to see
if he wants to come off shore with me.

Out of everyone in my family,
Lorenzo is the only one who doesn’t love the shore house. Well, I shouldn’t say
he doesn’t
love
it, he probably
does. But what he doesn’t love is the fact that my family eats together, works
together, and sleeps all in the same place.

I don’t blame him. It’s a bit
much at times.

Anyway, last year, he nearly
gave my mother a heart attack when he announced that he found his own apartment
to rent for the summer. She thought it was ludicrous to spend money on a tiny
apartment when we have a big house. “No one’s even there during the week!” she
shrieked and looked at my dad for support. My dad listened to Lorenzo’s side of
the story and finally agreed with his son. My mother still hasn’t gotten over
it.

The phone rings three times
before he answers. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Do you want to go
grocery shopping?” I ask.