ROSOLIO RED

 

a Franki Amato Mysteries short story

 

by

 

TRACI ANDRIGHETTI

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

"One of your back bulbs is burned out," I said to my sixty-something-year-old landlady, Glenda O'Brien, as I slid onto the barstool beside her at Thibodeaux's Tavern.

"Which one?" she asked, reaching behind her and feeling her bare skin.

"The one hanging over your, uh, Great Divide."

She grabbed the bulb resting smack in the middle of her bony buttocks. "Darn thing keeps coming unscrewed," she fretted. "Can you give it a twist?"

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed a bar napkin and reached for the offending bulb as the opening strains of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" began to play on the stereo.

In the spirit of the season, Glenda had organized a Christmas Eve senior stripper revue called "Let It Show, Let It Show, Let It Show" with some of her old exotic dancer colleagues from Madame Moiselle's on Bourbon Street. To prepare for the big event, she'd been trying out different costumes—Sexy Santa, Enticing Elf, Mischievous Mrs. Claus. Today she was dressed as Comely Christmas Tree, which consisted of a string of battery-powered lights and a few strategically placed decorations.

As I tightened the loose bulb on her bottom, I was sorely tempted to remind her that Christmas trees have skirts.

"What can I get you ladies?" Phillip, the bartender, asked. His nose was pink from a cold, and his cheeks were red from Glenda's costume.

"Eggnog for me," I replied, tucking a long, brown lock behind my ear. "With extra whipped cream."

Glenda pondered her empty shot glass. "Well, if you're having a Christmas cocktail, Miss Franki, then I'll have a hot titty."

"You mean, a 'hot toddy,'" I corrected as Phillip cringed.

She shook her head, causing the halo on her angel tree-topper hat to dislodge. "No, a hot titty."

"That doesn't sound very holiday-ish to me," I said, thinking it sounded more whorish than anything.

Glenda looked at me as though I'd just sworn on my life that Santa Claus was real. "Why, it's got cinnamon and peach schnapps, a grenadine floater, and an egg," she protested. "You can't get more Christmas than that."

I glanced over my shoulder and was relieved to see my best friend and boss, Veronica Maggio, entering the bar. I wanted to get this "Christmas Eve Eve" gathering with the girls the hell over with so that I could get on with the planning for my first-ever holiday with my honey, Bradley Hartmann. Between my PI work and his job as president of Ponchartrain Bank, we hardly ever saw each other. So, I was looking to make up for lost time—and then some.

"Sorry I'm late," Veronica said as she took a seat on the barstool next to me. "It took forever to wrap all the gifts for my family."

"No problem, Miss Ronnie," Glenda said. "I was just educating Miss Franki on Yuletide libations."

"Uh-huh," I said, shifting to face Veronica. "What time are you heading for Houston in the morning?"

"At five a.m.," she replied, adjusting her pink Santa hat. "I need to be there by three to help my mom with a few of the side dishes for Christmas Eve dinner." Her cornflower blue eyes sparkled. "Speaking of dinners, what time is Bradley coming over tomorrow night?"

I flushed with excitement. "Seven."

Phillip placed my eggnog in front of me. "You need something, Ronnie?"

She scanned the drink menu. "Can I get a mulled wine?"

He nodded and then, careful to keep his eyes averted, handed Glenda the hot titty along with an intact egg.

She batted her inch-long silver eyelashes. "Can I have a cherry, too, sugar?" she asked and then pursed her lips Mae West–style. "I just love cherries. I'll bet you do too."

Phillip's red cheeks turned maroon as he put a few maraschino cherries into a high-ball glass and slid it in her direction.

Glenda wasted no time in getting her drink on. She cracked the egg on the side of her glass, broke it open into her mouth, and chased it with the shot.

Veronica didn't bat an eye at Glenda guzzling a raw egg, probably because we'd both seen her put stranger things into her mouth. "Do you have everything ready for the meal?"

"Well," I began, "I'll have to do most of the cooking tomorrow—"

"That you will, sugar," Glenda interrupted with a knowing look. "That you will."

"I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" began to play, and suddenly I felt dirty. Ignoring her comment, I added, "But at least my apartment is clean."

"Not for long," Glenda intoned, jabbing me in the side with her elbow.

Veronica winked at Glenda. "What's for dessert?"

"Miss Franki is!" Glenda exclaimed. Then she grew serious. "Now, if you need any toys, supplies, or extras, you let Miss Glenda know, okay?"

I was trying not to wonder what she'd meant by supplies or extras when my phone began to ring. My parents' number was on the display. Figuring it would be another guilt trip about me not coming home to Houston for Christmas, I was reluctant to answer. But then I realized that the alternative was to stay in this conversation. "Hello?"

"Francesca? It's your mother, dear."

"Yeah. Hi, Mom." I noticed that her usually shrill voice was missing that familiar dentist drill whine. "Is everything okay?"

"Now try not to worry," she said, ratcheting up my concern level from two to ten.

"What happened?" I immediately thought of my father and the long hours he worked at our family deli. "It's not dad, is it?"

"Actually, it's your nonna," she said, sounding surprised at her own news. "She's missing."

"Missing?" I repeated, stunned. "Hang on—I'm going to put you on speakerphone." As I tapped speaker, Veronica leaned in and put her hand on my back.

"Mom, are you sure Nonna's missing?"

"Yes, dear," she replied. "When your father and I got home from work at five, she wasn't here. She seems to have taken her purse, but there was no note, no voice mail. Nothing."

It was seven p.m. on the bar clock, which meant she'd been gone for at least two hours. This might not seem odd to a normal family, but to us Amato's it was nothing less than apocalyptic. My eighty-three-year-old Sicilian grandmother, Carmela Montalbano, left the house for only two reasons—to go to noon mass and to try to get me married, which involved a late morning meddling trip either to the church or the deli. "Have you checked with St. Mary's?"

"I spoke to Father Nolan a few minutes ago, and he hasn't seen her today."

That wasn't good. My nonna attended church with the regularity of a bar fly attending happy hour. "Did you call the police?"

"Your father did, dear. He's out looking for her now."

"Okay, I'm going to throw some clothes into the car, and I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Wait until morning, Francesca," she pleaded. "Your father will be sick with worry if he knows you're driving in the middle of the night. You don't want to put him through that at a time like this."

My mother was right. Adding to my dad's stress would be the worst thing I could do.

"Besides," she added, "Michael's out helping him look."

I rolled my eyes. My oldest brother, the accountant, was about as helpful as the IRS during tax time. "Listen, are you sure Nonna didn't leave a note?"

"I've turned this house upside down, dear."

"Was anything else missing? Or did you see anything unusual?"

"Now that you mention it, I did notice something odd. There were a few rose petals on the kitchen counter and the floor."

That was odd. My nonna didn't buy flowers. She considered them a frivolity reserved for engagements, weddings, and funerals, and even in those cases she maintained that it was someone else's responsibility to buy them for you. So someone must have given her the roses. But why? It wasn't her birthday, and I doubted that anyone would buy her roses for Christmas. Unless… No, it was too incredible to even consider. But given the seriousness of the situation, I had to ask. "Mom," I began, "do you think there's any chance that Nonna has a suitor?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she chided. "You know that she's in mourning for your nonnu."

"Right," I said. My grandfather died twenty years ago. And like a lot of elderly Sicilian women, my nonna had decided to mourn him for the rest of her life—at least for all outward appearances. But from the way she talked about his ear hair and table manners, I wasn't convinced that she was sorry he was gone. "Well, if you hear anything, call me. I don't care what time it is. And don't touch anything in the kitchen. It could be a crime scene."

"Oh, Francesca!" she exclaimed. "I think you're taking your detective work too far!"

"Mom, I'm serious. Until we have more information, stay out of the kitchen."

She sighed. "Whatever you say, dear," she said in a tired voice. "Now you be careful tomorrow."

"I will. Love you." I hung up the phone.

Veronica grasped my hand. "Don't worry, Franki. You can ride with me to Houston, and I'll help you find your nonna. With professional PIs like us on the case, she'll be home in time for Christmas Eve dinner."

"Thanks," I said softly. It goes without saying that I hoped she was right. But my initial shock was giving way to stone cold fear because there wasn't any scenario I could imagine that would prompt my nonna to leave without an explanation.

Glenda grimaced, and pulled a knotted cherry stem from her mouth. "I don't like the sound of this rose petal business. If you ask me, it was a date gone bad."

I blinked in astonishment. "You heard my mother. My nonna doesn't date. And even if she wanted to, there's not a man in the world who would try to get past her black dresses and black disposition."

"It could be the work of a sweetheart swindler," Glenda said.

Veronica's eyes opened wide. "You mean one of those men who prey on lonely women for their money?"

"Exactly." She pointed her cherry stem at me for emphasis. "And they don't care what your granny looks like, Miss Franki, as long as she's single and has a bank account."

I was silent as I considered Glenda's theory. It sounded too far-fetched to apply to my family. But I'd learned when I was a rookie cop that crime didn't discriminate. Case in point—sweetheart swindlers. Women from all walks of life had been fooled by those crooks, and many of them were too embarrassed to tell their families about it. Was it possible that my nonna had been one of them?

 

* * *

 

"Here we are," Veronica said as she pulled into the driveway of my parents' West University home.

"Yeah, Graceland," I muttered as I exited the car. But my family's red brick ranch-style home was anything but. My mom and dad bought the house in the late 1970s, before the neighborhood became gentrified. And they hadn't done a thing to the place since. Any money they had went back into the deli and, whenever possible, their retirement savings.

"I don't know why you dislike this house," Veronica said as she opened the trunk of her Audi. "It's so warm and cozy."

I rolled my eyes as I grabbed my suitcase and slammed the trunk. When it came to comfort, I'd pick Veronica's family home over mine any day. The Maggio's stately manor in Houston's posh River Oaks subdivision made The King's Memphis mansion look like a trailer home parked at the dump.

As Veronica and I headed up the walkway, my mother opened the door in a green gingham apron she'd had since I was a kid. Of course, that was my first clue she'd ignored my request to stay out of the kitchen. The second was the wooden spoon in her hand.

"I'm so glad to see you girls," she said as I bent at the waist to give her a hug. Compared to my five-foot-four mother, I was a giant at five-foot-ten. "I'm sorry about your dinner with Bradley, dear."

I knew she was. My mother wanted to see me married almost as much as my nonna, who'd labeled me a zitella, or old maid, at the ripe old age of sixteen. And since I was now twenty-nine, trust me when I say that if my nonna knew my romantic dinner had been called off because she was missing, she would've coldcocked the Pope, if necessary, to get back to this house. Come to think of it, I'd consider clocking the Pope too if it meant I could go back to New Orleans to be with Bradley. I sighed and said, "Nothing could've kept me away, Mom."

She turned and gave Veronica a quick squeeze. "This is just like the old days when you two used to come home from college together for the holidays."

"Never mind the reminiscing," I said, noticing tomato sauce splatter on my mother's reading glasses. "What are you doing using the kitchen?"

She pretended to examine a stain on her apron. "You know that cooking helps calm my nerves when I'm worried, dear. Besides, I thought you might be hungry for some pasta after your trip."

My mom pushed pasta like a drug dealer pushed powders and pills. When I was growing up, she would feed my two brothers and me enough spaghetti in a week to sustain a professional cycling team during all 21 days of the Tour de France. "We ate sandwiches in the car—at lunchtime?"

My mother's brow furrowed as she turned to open the front door. "A sandwich isn't a meal, Francesca."

"Is there any news about Nonna Carmela?" Veronica asked, changing the subject as she followed my mother into the house.

"Joe went to the police station half an hour ago, so I'm expecting a call any minute. He hasn't slept or eaten since she went missing." She frowned and took a seat on the living room couch. "You know Italian men and their mammas. They're such mammoni."

I gave her a pointed look as I deposited my bag next to my father's "antique" La-Z-Boy. "Speaking of mamma's boys, where are Michael and Anthony?"

"Your father told Michael to check with the hospitals, and Anthony's holding down the fort at the deli."

I shook my head and entered the adjoining kitchen. Anthony was the middle child, and even though we'd lived in Texas all our lives, he dressed, acted, and sounded like a cast member of Jersey Shore. Unfortunately, he had the same work ethic too. "Couldn't you just close Amato's given the circumstances?"

"You know the Christmas season is one of our busiest times, dear. With the economy the way it is, we need the money. And your father didn't want to leave our customers in the lurch for the holidays."

Veronica patted my mother's knee. "I'm sure the deli's in good hands with Anthony."

Riiight, I thought. If your idea of "good hands" involved customers serving themselves while Anthony played games on his phone. As I surveyed the kitchen, I detected a faint smell of ammonia, which shouldn't have surprised me given my mother's close, personal relationship with Mr. Clean. "Mom," I began, glowering, "don't tell me you cleaned in here too."

She stood up and put her hands on her hips. "I had to sanitize the countertops before I could make the sauce, Francesca. There was something red and sticky everywhere."

My jaw dropped so low it practically came unhinged. "You mean, like blood?"

"No, like dried cranberry juice. Honestly," she huffed as she entered the kitchen, "ever since you've been in law enforcement you've become so melodramatic."

Gee, I wonder why, I thought as I scanned the white Formica countertops. There was no trace of the red, sticky substance, only my mother's marinara. "Do you even have cranberry juice?" I opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents. "I don't see any in here."

She sighed. "That's probably because someone spilled the last of it on the counter."

I slammed the door shut. Arguing with my mother was like throwing a boomerang—she kept coming right back at you with her circular reasoning.

The phone rang.

"That must be your father." My mother lifted the receiver from its wall mount. "Hello?"

I moved to stand beside her.

"Yes, they're here, Joe. But Francesca's refusing to eat." She shot me a look. "Like father, like daughter."

Veronica and I exchanged a smirk.

My mother was silent, and then she gasped and collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. "Oh, no! I can't believe that."

This time Veronica and I exchanged a frown.

"Now calm down, Joe. You know how much Mr. Holcomb drinks. He could have hallucinated the whole thing." She fell silent for a moment. "All right, honey, but try to come home for some dinner."

Instead of hanging up the phone, my mother cradled the receiver in her lap. She had a fearful look in her eyes.

"What did he say?" I asked, panic welling in my chest.

"The police haven't found anything yet. But Mr. Holcomb from next door called your father, and he said he saw your nonna getting into a black limousine here at the house yesterday at noon."

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. "Why the hell didn't he tell you that then?"

My mother turned and hung up the phone. "Because he didn't know she was missing. Last night your father canvassed the neighborhood knocking on doors and handing out flyers, and Mr. Holcomb just found one in his mailbox this afternoon."

"Did Mr. Holcomb say anything else?" Veronica asked.

She nodded and looked at her hands. "He said that a man wearing all black may have forced Carmela into the car."

"May have?" I exclaimed. "Either the guy did or he didn't."

"This man in black was probably the limo driver," Veronica said. "Is Mr. Holcomb sure that he wasn't just helping her into the car?"

"That's what he thought at first," my mother said. "But then when he heard she was missing, he realized that the man might not have been helping her at all."

I leaned against the kitchen countertop and crossed my arms across my chest. As worst case scenarios ran through my head, I noticed several dark elongated spots on a cabinet door beneath the sink. I stiffened and said, "Veronica, come here."

"What is it?" she asked as she entered the kitchen.

I pointed to the spots. "What does that look like to you?"

She knelt beside me on the linoleum floor, and her mouth formed a grim line. "It looks like blood spatter."

I nodded. "Mom, did you or dad cut yourselves recently?"

"Not that I know of, dear. Why?"

I exhaled deeply. "Because there's some dried blood on the cabinet."

She put her hand to her cheek. "Maybe your nonna cut herself."

"That's probably what happened," I said in an attempt not to worry her. But I wasn't convinced. In fact, I was starting to wonder whether the red, sticky substance on the countertop had been blood after all.

"What are you thinking, Franki?" Veronica whispered.

"That Glenda might have been right about the sweetheart swindler," I replied. "The man in black could've brought roses to my nonna. Then maybe she came into the kitchen to put them in a vase, there was a struggle, and then—" I choked back a sob. I couldn't bear to say the rest.

Veronica squeezed my arm and rose to her feet. "I'm going to start calling the limo companies."

"And I'm going to pay a visit to Father Nolan. If my nonna was carrying on with a man, she would have confessed—and often."

 

* * *

 

I eased my mom's Ford Taurus station wagon into a parking space at St. Mary's Catholic Church and cut the engine. Like Amato's Deli, St. Mary's was in the Rice Village shopping district and was less than half a mile from our house. As a native Italian, my nonna did as the Romans do and walked to the church, rain or shine. But as a true Texan, I did as the Houstonians do and drove. In my defense, my nonna's disappearance constituted a crisis of epic proportions. Plus, it was a balmy eighty degrees in Houston on this Christmas Eve day.

As I approached the entrance of the Gothic-style cathedral, I gave a little shudder. My brothers and I were baptized and confirmed at St. Mary's, where we also endured countless hours of Sunday school at the mercy of Sister Cecilia. Contrary to her religious title, the woman was no saint. When I was twelve, I saw her reading a romance novel and asked whether she pretended that the male love interest was Jesus. My "impertinence" landed me a suspension from her class. Dissatisfied with the grounding I got from my parents, Sister Cecilia told my nonna I was "sex-obsessed," and for that I had to recite the rosary until my fingers went numb. Now that I think about it, my nonna's lucky she didn't disappear back then, because I might not have looked for her.

With a heavy sigh, I pulled open the wooden door and crossed myself as I entered the church. It only took a second to spot Father Nolan's barrel chest and balding head—and for my clergy allergy to kick in. You see, after the Sister Cecilia incident, I started skipping church the way that other kids skip school. And like a good bad Catholic girl, I'd felt guilty about it ever since. As a result, I broke out in hives every time I had to talk to a priest or a nun, which didn't exactly bolster my attendance.

Gathering up my courage, I marched to the altar where Father Nolan was conferring with a much younger, frail-looking priest. "Father," I began, scratching my elbow, "may I have a word?"

"Why, Francesca Lucia Amato!" He grasped my arm with his clammy hands and pulled me over to a pew. "It's been quite a long time since we've seen you at St. Mary's."

"Y-yes," I stammered, furiously scratching my bicep. There was nothing like a guilt trip from a Catholic priest. Trying to cover for my lengthy absence, I said, "You know I moved to Austin and then to New Orleans."

"Of course." He flicked a piece of lint from his cassock and angled a glance at me from beneath his brow. "But we hadn't seen you for some time even before that."

By now my cheeks were so hot it felt like they were burning in the flames of inferno. I decided to remind him that my nonna was the one who was MIA. "Actually, I didn't come here to talk about me. My nonna Carmela is still missing—"

Father Nolan clucked his tongue. "Shocking business," he said, giving me a reassuring pat on the leg. "The whole congregation is worried sick about her disappearance."

"My family is too," I replied, raking my nails over my jean-clad thigh.

He crossed his arms and pursed his lips. "Have you considered the possibility that your nonna decided to go away for a few days?"

I stared at him open-mouthed. For a man who'd listened to my nonna confess for the past thirty-five years, he didn't seem to know the first thing about her. In her world, getting away meant spending a night in my parents' guest room, which was right next door to her bedroom. "As I'm sure you're aware," I said, raising my eyebrow for effect, "a vacation is out of the question for someone as control—er, devoted to her family as my nonna."

"True, true," Father Nolan concurred with a vigorous nod, his turkey neck bouncing up and down to reveal the white of his clerical collar.

"To be honest, I have reason to believe that my nonna may have been victimized by someone she knew. Has she mentioned anyone to you in confession?" I hesitated before uttering this next phrase in the presence of a priest. "Like a love interest?"

He let out a hearty laugh and then quickly cleared his throat. "Now Francesca, you know I can't disclose the things my parishioners say in the confessional."

I can't say I blamed him for laughing. Under any other circumstances, the notion of my nonna with a man would have been pretty darn hilarious, not to mention pretty damn gross. "I just thought that given the urgency of the situation—"

"Well, you thought wrong, young lady," he interrupted. "The only thing I can tell you is that I'm not the least bit worried about Carmela Montalbano taking care of herself. Frankly, I'd be more concerned about the poor soul who tried to put one over on her."

I narrowed my eyes. Maybe Father Nolan did know my nonna.

"But while we're on the subject of lovers," he began in a patronizing tone, "what are you now? Thirty-four?"

"Twenty-nine," I snapped—after I'd swallowed the small amount of vomit that came up when he'd said lovers.

He sized me up like a Mafia Don at a shakedown. "Has your boyfriend proposed to you yet?"

Jesus, I thought, scratching my neck. These priests really know how to pry. "Uh, like I said before, I came here to talk about my nonna."

Father Nolan looked at his Rolex and practically jumped from the pew. "No more time for chatting, I'm afraid. I've got to get ready for the five o'clock service." He shook his index finger at me. "Now, you keep us posted about your grandmother, you hear?"

"Will do," I muttered as he hurried away. The whole congregation might be worried about my nonna, but Father Nolan sure didn't seem to be.

As I pondered my next move, the young priest approached. "I'm Father Ryan," he said in a soft voice. Then he glanced from left to right before taking a seat next to me. "Did I hear you say that Carmela Montalbano was missing?"

"Since yesterday," I replied, wondering why he seemed so nervous. "She's my grandmother."

His bright blue eyes seemed to pop from their sockets. "I would have said something sooner if I'd known. But I haven't seen you in church before."

I scratched my side. These catty clerics were never going to let me live my lapsed Catholicism down. "So, what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"Well," he whispered, clutching his crucifix necklace like a lifeline, "I've been gone for the past few days, so I was surprised when you said she was missing." He looked over his shoulder and then shielded his mouth with his hand. "I saw her in church just this morning."

"This morning?" I exclaimed. "Are you sure?"

"Shh!" He waved his hands. "I'm breaking her confidence as it is."

"What do you mean?" I asked, my eyelids lowering to slits.

He leaned forward. "She made me swear on the Bible not to tell anyone that she came to mass today."

"I don't understand why she would do that," I said, bewildered. "Besides, how could anyone miss her? She wears the same black dress every day of her life."

"That's what threw me off at first. She was wearing a 60s-style, double-breasted brown wool suit."
"Brown?" I repeated, stunned. "That's…blasphemy!"

He nodded. "I didn't recognize her until she passed by me on her way out of the church. Her face was covered by a veil that was attached to a pillbox hat." He straightened and folded his hands in his lap. "I don't think it was vintage."

I struggled to process the news that my nonna was in disguise and apparently as Jackie O. "Did she say why she was dressed that way?"

He took a deep breath. "She's in hiding," he gushed. "From a man."

I couldn't believe my ears. So, there was a man in my nonna's life! And he was bad news, from the sound of things. But was it the man in black? "Did she tell you anything about this guy?"

"No, after that she left. But listen to this," Father Ryan said with a nod. "She got into a black limousine."

I wondered whether it was the same one Mr. Holcomb had seen. "Did you happen to get a look at the driver?"

Father Ryan crossed his arms. "He was careful not to show his face. But he was wearing a black cashmere turtle neck, a black Armani Exchange jacket, black pants—a non-designer label—and black Prada loafers."

The man in black! Given Father Ryan's obvious eye for fashion, I asked, "Did you notice anything else about him that might be important?"

"I did indeed," he said. "He kept patting the right side of his jacket."

"You mean, like he had a weapon?"

"He was packing heat, all right," he replied in the tone of a man who'd spent more time in the slammer than the sanctuary. Then he rose to his feet. "I'd better get going before Father Nolan comes looking for me."

"Sure." I stood up and reached into my bag. "Thank you so much for your help," I said, handing him my business card. "Please call my cell if you see my grandmother again."

"Absolutely." He slipped the card down his clerical collar. "Carmela's such a character. I'd hate to see anything happen to her."

"Thanks," I breathed. "Me too." As I watched Father Ryan hurry away, I couldn't stop thinking about the gun. From the sound of things, the man in black wasn't my nonna's captor—he was her protector. Otherwise, he never would have allowed her to come to mass alone. But who was he protecting her from? And why?

Until I had more information, I did the only thing I could do—I gave myself a thorough scratching and uttered a quick prayer for my nonna. Then I flew out of St. Mary's like a bat out of hell.

 

* * *

 

I climbed into the Taurus and breathed a sigh of relief. The way I saw it, that thirty minutes at St. Mary's was enough church to last me for the next year. In fact, I fully intended to count Father Nolan's third degree about my relationship as confession and the overall visit as mass. And every Catholic knew that going to mass on Christmas Eve earned you more religious mileage than your ordinary service.

As I reached into my purse for my Versace sunglasses my phone began to ring. I saw Veronica's name on the display and pressed answer. "Any luck on the limos?"

"Nothing," she replied. "And I've called every company in the book."

I slid my sunglasses onto my face. "Based on what I found out at St. Mary's, I'd say the man in black is a private driver."

She gasped. "He was at the church?"

"This morning. Nonna went to mass, and one of the priests saw a guy dressed in black pick her up in a limo. I'm sure he brought her there too."

"Apparently, he also took your nonna to the deli yesterday afternoon. Anthony called your mother a few minutes ago and said that a customer mentioned seeing your nonna at the deli with a man wearing black at around two o'clock."

When the lunch rush is over, I thought. "Did she get the customer's name?"

"Larry from the drycleaner's," she replied. "He's waiting for you at the deli. Your mom told Anthony that she would have you go over there to question him."

"I'm on my way," I said as I started the engine. "Now, why don't you go home? I know your mom could use your help."

"I've already talked to her, and my whole family agrees that finding your nonna is far more important than our Christmas Eve dinner."

"Listen," I began, pulling out of the parking lot, "between my dad, Michael, and me, we've got this covered. If I need you, I'll call."

"Well, all right," she conceded. "But are you sure you're okay?"

"I feel a lot better now that I know my nonna went to church this morning," I said. "Whatever mess she's gotten herself into, we can handle it."

"You call me the minute you hear anything, you understand?"

"I promise. Talk to you soon." I tossed the phone into my bag and hooked a right onto Rice Boulevard.

As I drove past the eclectic shops, restaurants, and pubs of the Rice Village shopping center, I noticed a lot of people in the vicinity of Amato's Deli, which wasn't all that unusual. Houston had a large Italian-American population but no Little Italy, so a lot of older Italians had been hanging out at my parents' place since they'd opened its doors in 1979. My family had gained credibility with the community after it became known that my father, Joe Amato, had gotten his start in the deli business at New Orleans' Central Grocery, a famous Sicilian-owned establishment and the home of the legendary muffuletta sandwich.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the charming red brick building, a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. My mother's best friend, Rosalie Artusi, was addressing a crowd of about twenty or so of my parents' regular customers, who were gathered around the two sets of tables on either side of the front door. Now, it was known clear to Galveston that Rosalie dished gossip like old Italian women dished ravioli. And one look at her round, red face and shifty eyes told me that the dish du jour was none other than my nonna.

I charged from the Taurus like a bull from a pen and stomped up to the entrance, ignoring the curious looks of the customers. When I tried to go inside, Rosalie took an expertly executed sidestep to block the door—and I do mean block. The woman was built like a beer keg, and her tacky Christmas sweater only accentuated her girth. It had an actual fake tree on it complete with tinsel, flashing lights, and glass decorations. It was hideous, but even I had to admit that it was a vast improvement on Glenda's model.

"Oh, Franki," she began, contorting her face and wringing her hands. "We're all just devastated about your nonna's disappearance." She shot me an inquiring-minds-want-to-know look. "Has there been any news?"

I gave her a cold stare. "Please step aside, Rosalie. Larry is waiting for me."

She harrumphed at my slight to her spokesperson status and jutted out her chin. "I can tell you everything he knows."

I was sure she could. By now she'd worked him over like a crack CIA agent at an interrogation. I reached around her for the doorknob and jabbed my elbow into her side. "I'd rather hear it from the source."

She gasped and leapt to one side, causing her ornaments, among other things, to jiggle and jingle.

I slammed the door behind me and turned the lock to the surprise of twenty-something sets of prying eyes.

Anthony's head jerked up from his phone. "Yo, sis!" he exclaimed in faux New Jerseyese. "I didn't know you was in town."

Unfazed by his obliviousness, I said, "Um, Mom told you I was coming here to talk to Larry?"

"Oh, right, right." His head bobbed up and down, but his blowout didn't budge. He opened his muscle-bound arms wide. "But first, c'mere and give your big brothuh a hug."

While I submitted to his signature squeeze, I smirked at the "Forza, Itala!" in red and green ink on his bicep. Not so much because it was a tattoo, but because the artist had forgotten the second i in "Italia." So, instead of having "Go, Italy!" on his arm, my brother had a tattoo urging some random Italian woman named "Itala" to go for it. "So," I began, wresting myself from his embrace, "which one is Larry?"

"He's the one in the cornuh," Anthony replied, pointing to a surly looking old man wearing a gray flat cap. "Yo, Larry!" he boomed. "This is my kid sistuh, Franki."

Larry frowned as he looked up from his prosciutto panino. "I know that," he said in a defensive tone. "I met her at her Sweet Sixteen." He gave me the once-over. "She was a lot thinner back then."

Anthony doubled over with laughter. "You know them Italian women. They're like pizza dough—they sit and expand."

I bit my lip to keep from saying something I'd regret. It was Christmas Eve, after all. Plus, I knew from years of experience that older Italian-American men were notoriously direct and that my brother was notoriously dense, and there was nothing I could do to change any of that.

Forcing myself to be civil, I approached Larry's table. "I don't believe I've ever known your last name."

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Del Bel Belluz."

No wonder my family called him "Larry from the drycleaner's." "Well, Mr. Del, uh, Larry," I began, taking a seat, "I heard you saw my nonna here yesterday."

"That's right." He popped a potato chip into his mouth and proceeded to stare blankly at me.

This was going to be harder than I'd thought. "Could you elaborate?"

He shrugged his shoulders and opened his arms. "What do you want me to say? She came to the deli."

I looked away in frustration and caught sight of Rosalie peering in a window and scrutinizing my face. Certain she was trying to read my lips, I turned my back to her. "Well, I heard that you saw her arrive in a limo and that the driver was wearing black. Can you describe his appearance?"

Larry blinked. "He had black clothes on."

When it came to detail, this drycleaner was no Father Ryan. "What about my nonna? Did she say or do anything in particular?"

He wrinkled his mouth. "She took a few twenties from the register."

Now it was my turn to stare blankly at him. My nonna was fiercely independent. She lived with my parents, but I'd never known her to take money from them. Ever.

"And that ain't all Nonna took," Anthony chimed in from behind the counter. "She copped a salami too. Right, Larry?"

"A salami?" I said, shocked.

Larry nodded. "A whole Genoa salami. Still had the green, white, and red wrapper on."

Leave it to the old Italian guy to know the salami specifics. "But Nonna would never eat salami from Genoa. She only eats Sicilian brands."

Anthony smacked himself in the forehead. "True that! Yo, sis, this is whack."

"Speaking of whack," I said, giving him the Clint Eastwood eye, "where were you when all this happened?"

He scratched his temple. "Uh, I was in the back. Sweepin'."

You mean, sleepin', I thought. I rested my chin on my hands and contemplated the significance of the salami. It was one thing for my nonna to take cash. If she were on the run, she'd need money. But deli meat? As hard as I tried, I couldn't come up with a single reason she would take a salami—unless, of course, the mysterious man in black was Italian.

Whatever her motivation, I was starting to get the feeling that something was rotten in the state of Texas. And it wasn't the Genoa salami.

 

* * *

 

I peeled out of the parking lot as Rosalie rounded the corner of the deli with her game face on. It hadn't been easy, but Anthony helped me sneak out the back door to avoid the clamoring customers. As I sped away I was euphoric, like Rocky Balboa running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. My elation faded, however, when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Rosalie giving me a Mike Tyson–style stare down. If there was one thing I was certain of it was that this match wouldn't be over until she delivered the final blow—and probably in the form of a sucker punch.

Easing the Taurus to a stop at a red light, I pressed the power lock button just in case. I glanced at the time on my phone—four thirty. Then the name Bradley Hartmann appeared on my display.

As always, my stomach got fluttery when he called. "Hey, babe," I answered, but all I heard was static. "Bradley?"

"Hey, honey," he said, sounding far away, "any news on your nonna?"

My stomach went from flutter to free-fall. "I have some leads but nothing conclusive yet," I said, dejected. "Where are you? The connection is terrible."

"That's ironic because I'm in Houston."

The flutter was back. "You're what?"

"I finished up some things at the bank and then flew standby. I didn't want to mention it before because I wasn't sure I'd be able to get a flight out."

"I can't believe you would do that," I said, and I wasn't just referring to the romantic gesture. Bradley had met my family back in April, and after that grisly experience, I was genuinely surprised that he would want to come back.

"I want to help you look for your nonna. And besides," he added in a low, sexy tone, "it wouldn't be Christmas without you."

I started to reply, but my voice caught in my throat. That was the most wonderful thing he'd ever said to me, apart from I love you, of course. I instantly fantasized that we were in a fancy downtown hotel suite curling up on a comfy couch in front of a fire with a glass of brandy. Then reality came crashing down on me like a fully decorated Christmas tree—my nonna was still missing, and even if we found her, my mother would insist that Bradley stayed at the house. "Please tell me my mom doesn't know you're in town."

"Actually," he began in a sheepish voice, "I called her before I flew out to ask whether it would be all right if I came. I couldn't crash your family Christmas, especially under the circumstances."

I put my forehead on the steering wheel. There went that hotel suite. Bradley and I would be spending the holidays at my parents' house, curling up on their lumpy old sofa in the humid Houston heat with a glass of iced tea.

A car horn honked behind me. The light was green.

I hit the gas. "Do you want me to come pick you up at the airport?"

"I rented a car so that I could help search. I'm already on my way to your parents' house."

I sighed. He was so good to me, and thanks to me and my crazy family, he was about to have the worst Christmas ever. My phone buzzed against my cheek, and I looked at the display. "Bradley, my dad is calling. I'll see you at the house."

"I can't wait," he said softly.

"Me neither." I smiled and tapped the accept call button on my phone. "Hey, Dad. Have you found out anything new?"

"Not about your, nonna," he snapped. "But I'm here at the house with your mother, and she just got a call from Rosalie Artusi."

"Oh yeah?" I feigned nonchalance, but my body tensed in anticipation of that punch.

"She said you tried to run her down with your mother's car at the deli a few minutes ago—right in front of a crowd of our regular customers."

Round 2 goes to Rosalie. "You know how she blows things out of proportion, Dad. I would never do anything like that." At least, not unless I thought I could get away with it.

"Well, you need to watch your driving, young lady," he ordered in a gruff tone. "One of these days, you're going to get yourself killed."

"I'll be more careful, I promise," I said as I floored the gas pedal to try to make a yellow light. "Anything else?"

"I'm afraid so. I got a call from VISA a little while ago, and it appears I've been the victim of credit card fraud."

Could this holiday get anymore hellish? "Oh, Dad. I'm sorry. VISA will decline the charges, right?"
"Yes, and it's a good thing too. Whoever took the card went on a shopping spree at The Galleria. They racked up four grand at Gucci, Prada, and Tiffany's."

"Well, at least the thief has good taste," I quipped.

"This isn't a joke, Franki."

"I know that. I was just trying to lighten the mood."

"With your nonna missing?" he barked. "When I think of my poor, helpless mamma hurt or being held against her will—" His voice broke.

I felt awful for my father, but the truth was that my nonna was anything but helpless. As a teenager during World War II in Sicily, she'd single-handedly chased a team of drunken German soldiers from her village brandishing a prosciutto bone. When it came to his mamma, though, my dad was like all Italian men—he put her on a pedestal, oblivious to her flaws. And, like all Italian mothers, not only did she keep him tied to her apron strings, but in the fine tradition of Sicilian puppetry she also manipulated the man like a marionette. "She's going to be all right, Dad. You know she's a tough lady. And," I added, thinking of that prosciutto bone, "she's very resourceful in a crisis."

"I hope you're right," he muttered.

I took a left onto Rice Boulevard. "What are you going to do now?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm going back by the police station. Your mother thinks I should tell them about my missing credit card."

"Wait," I said, stunned. "Your credit card is missing? As in, from your wallet?"

"Yes. Your mother thinks it could be related to your nonna's disappearance."

I was thinking the very same thing. "Dad, is there any chance that Nonna could have taken it?"

There was a stony silence on the other end of the line. "Do you really think she would take her own son's credit card and treat herself to a luxury shopping spree?"

When he put it that way, it did sound improbable. But then again, it was Christmastime. And my nonna did have a strictly Made-in-Italy or Made-in-the-USA purchase policy, which fit those credit card charges to a T. "I'm not accusing her of—"

"Hang on a minute," he interrupted. "VISA's calling again."

While I waited, my mind was working a mile a minute. It was one thing for a thief to steal your credit card information—it was quite another to steal your credit card. Whoever took my dad's VISA must have done so at the deli or at the house, because all he did was work and sleep. And when he was at the deli, he kept his wallet in his back pocket. That left the house, which meant my nonna or a burglar had stolen the card. So, either my nonna's sweetheart swindler had snuck into the house and stolen the VISA while my father was there, or she'd taken it from her unsuspecting son. I was banking on the latter.

"Franki?" he asked, returning to the line.

"I'm still here. Is everything okay?"

"The card was used again before the fraud department could put a hold on the damn thing," he grumbled. "This time at The Westwood Hotel."

"The thief charged a hotel room?" I knew criminals did stupid things, but renting a room at an upscale hotel with a stolen credit card was ludicrous.

"It looks that way. I'm going to call the police and then head over to The Westwood. With any luck, we'll catch this SOB at the hotel. In the meantime, pray that your nonna is with him."

I considered telling my father that he might be siccing the cops on his own mother, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. He wouldn't believe me, for one thing. And, for another, I figured the old woman had it coming to her for all the hell she'd put my family and me through—and I didn't just mean her disappearance. "That sounds like a good idea, Dad."

I ended the call and pulled a U-turn in the middle of the street. Bradley would have to wait. I was less than fifteen minutes from The Westwood, so I could get there before the police or my father. On the off chance my nonna really was in some kind of danger, I wanted to be there to help her. And if she wasn't, well, then I had to stop her from assaulting a team of officers with a salami.

 

* * *

 

I hurried over to the middle-aged male clerk at The Westwood registration desk. "Can you please tell me the room number for my grandmother?" I rasped, short of breath from the thirty-foot jog. "Her last name is 'Montalbano.'"

He lifted his brows in a haughty stare. "This isn't some cheap motel," he replied, ogling my Hook 'em Horns sweatshirt with disdain. "We don't give out that information."

I slid my private investigator card across the counter, and in a Dirty Harry-like voice I said, "She's been reported missing to the authorities, and she's slightly deranged. So you'd be wise to believe me when I say that you don't want her—or me, for that matter—in your fine establishment."

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he studied my face, and then he typed her name into his computer. After scrutinizing the screen, he looked down his nose at me. "We don't have anyone listed under that name."

I leaned over the counter and narrowed my eyes for emphasis. "Try 'Amato.'"

"Oh. Her." He grimaced. "Room 222."

I forced a smile. "You've been very helpful."

As I entered a waiting elevator, I pushed the button for the second floor and fired off a group text to my father, Michael, and Veronica informing them that my nonna was safe and that I'd have her home soon. Now that I knew she'd checked into the hotel using her married name to match my Dad's credit card information, I was certain she'd orchestrated this whole stunt. What I didn't know was why.

When the elevator doors opened, I marched down the hall to her room. "The jig is up, Nonna," I shouted, not bothering to knock. "Let me in."

She opened the door immediately, as though she'd been standing on the other side waiting for me to arrive. "What means-a this-a 'jig?'"

I stared into her coke-bottle-lens-enlarged eyes. "Never mind that now. I'm taking you home, so gather up your things."

She dug in her heels, barring the doorway with her five-foot frame. "Is-a Bradley here?"

I gasped as a light bulb—make that a blinding flash—went off in my head. "So that's why you did this! You wanted Bradley and me to come home for Christmas."

She shrugged. "And-a so?"

I sighed and shook my head. When it came to scheming, my nonna could give Machiavelli a run for his money.

"Well-a?" she pressed.

"He's at the house with mom," I ground out. "But how did you know that Bradley would come too? I didn't even know that."

"Let's just-a say, he pass-a the test-a." She moved to the side, making way for me to enter.

After clenching and unclenching my fists a few times, I stepped into the room and saw the man in black sitting in a chair. I jumped and yelled, "You!"

The man didn't move a muscle, but his eyes flickered to me and then back to the TV.

"You know Secondino?" Nonna asked, pointing to the man.

I put my hands on my hips. "No, but I thought he'd abducted you! I was scared to death."

"He's-a Mrs. Petricola's son," she explained. "He's a nice-a boy."

Secondino was neither nice nor a boy. He looked to be around sixty, and he had the manners of a rock. "That reminds me, Mr. Petricola. Someone reported that you might be armed. Is that true?"

"That's BS-a!" Nonna exclaimed with a wave of her hand. "Who say-a that?"

"None of your business," I replied. I couldn't tell her that my informant was Father Ryan. Selling out a priest was a sin, right?

Nonna scowled and took a seat on the king-sized bed.

I turned to Secondino, who was sitting in his chair like a stump. "Are you armed, Mr. Petricola?"

"It's a salami," he replied, patting the right side of his jacket.

"Oh, okay," I said, satisfied. It was perfectly logical for an Italian man to pat his salami. They were extremely protective of their deli meats. "Is that the salami you took from the deli, Nonna?"

"What's-a the problem?" she asked, throwing her hands in the air. "He wanted some-a salame, so I save-a some money and-a get it from-a the deli."

This from a woman who'd just dropped a small fortune at the mall. "So, do you think that taking twenty dollar bills from the register qualifies as saving money too?"

"Well, I had-a to eat!" she cried. "I can't eat-a no salame from-a Genova."

I crossed my arms. "By the way, what on earth did you spend four thousand dollars on at The Galleria?"

"I tell-a you later," she said, assuming a mysterious air. "Secondino, you can-a go now."

"Don't you want to watch the end of Golden Girls?" he protested, finally showing some signs of life.

Nonna turned to me and tried her weak-old-woman pleading look, slumping her shoulders, hanging her head, and turning down the corners of her mouth. "It's a maratona of-a the Christmas episodes."

I rolled my eyes. The Golden Girls was her all-time favorite show. But she said all the characters were idiote except for one—the elderly Sicilian, Sophia Petrillo. Go figure. I pulled an Anthony and said, "Fuggedaboutit."

While Nonna and Secondino looked on, I began collecting her shopping bags. "We need to get going." To light a fire under them, I added, "After Dad saw his credit card bill, he said he was going to call the police and tell them to come to the hotel."

At the mention of the cops, Secondino sprinted from the room faster than Usain Bolt on uppers, no doubt taking the emergency exit.

"'Nice-a boy,' my behind," I said, giving Nonna a reproachful look.

She shot me a sideways glance and said nothing.

As we rode down the elevator, Nonna was silent. As always, she clutched her worn black purse to her chest.

Ever since my brothers and I were kids, we'd theorized about what she carried in that purse. Our guess was a rosary, her life savings, and Kleenex. But we knew that she also had something hard in there because we'd once seen her use her purse to hit a guy upside the head—he'd made the (near-fatal) mistake of offering to help her with her groceries—and the thud had been resounding. I was convinced that the offending object was a Catholic Bible, but my brothers swore it was a statuette of the Virgin Mary.

When she realized that I was studying her purse, she pulled it closer, and I noticed a cut on her finger.

"Nonna," I began, remembering the blood in the kitchen, "how did you cut yourself?"

"On-a the thorns of-a some roses."

"So, you bought the roses?" I asked, surprised.

She nodded. "For the rosolio."

"What's that?"

Nonna grinned like a Cheshire cat. "You'll-a see."

An uneasy feeling settled over me, and I pulled my purse close to my chest.

 

* * *

 

"Help-a me with-a the plates, Franki," Nonna said, rising from the dining room table.

As I stood up in my new rose-petal red velvet cocktail dress from Gucci and matching Prada shoes, I felt like a 1950s Italian movie star. And when I leaned over Bradley to pick up his plate, he showed his appreciation for my sexy low cut look with a sharp intake of breath.

I smiled and walked over to Anthony.

"Yo, sis," he boomed, shielding his eyes from my bosom as I reached for his plate. "Covuh that up, will ya? We're tryin' ta eat heuh."

I shot him a shut-it look. He had no idea how lucky he was that my hands were full with my mother's china and my feet were clad in thousand-dollar heels.

"Now for the Christmas cannoli," my dad said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"And the cassata," my mother added, referring to her favorite Sicilian cake.

I entered the kitchen and put the dirty dishes in the sink. Then I touched my diamond earrings from Tiffany's to make sure they were really there. I still couldn't believe that the four thousand dollars Nonna had spent at The Galleria was all for me. "Nonna," I whispered, "how did you convince dad to let me keep all these things?"

"You gonna be thirty next-a year," she replied with a pointed look. "I tell-a him it's-a time to bring out-a the big-a guns."

That explains the plunging neckline, I thought.

Nonna reached into a cabinet and pulled out the dessert plates. "Now that-a Bradley has-a had the Feast of-a the Seven Fishes, it's-a time for the dolce."

I smiled. "Nothing says Christmas like your cannoli and cassata."

"And-a my minne di Sant'Agata," Nonna added.

I froze in my tracks. Le minne di Sant'Agata, Italian for "Saint Agatha's tits," were small Sicilian cakes shaped like breasts with smooth white icing and half a maraschino cherry for the nipple. Normally they represented the severed breasts of Saint Agatha, but in this case I was quite sure they represented mine.

"But, these aren't a Christmas dessert," I protested. "You always make them in February to celebrate Saint Agatha's feast day."

"Eh, so we-a celebrate early," she said with a shrug. Then she pulled a tray of the glistening white breasts from the refrigerator and shoved it into my waist. "Now, go give a boob-a to Bradley."

I entered the dining room and was grateful to find that Anthony had left the table. As I approached Bradley to serve him my figurative breasts on a platter, my whole body turned rose-petal red like my dress.

Bradley's eyes momentarily grew wide, but then an amused smile formed at his lips. "These don't look like any cannoli I've ever had. Is this the cassata?"

I cleared my throat. "No, they're…uh…"

"Titty cakes!" Anthony shouted with a fist pump as he returned to the dining room.

"Anthony!" my mother admonished.

"What?" he asked, his arms raised in outrage.

She leaned forward in her chair. "I will not have that kind of language in this house, mister."

"It's-a okay, Antonio," Nonna said, waving her hand in the direction of my mother. "You mamma, she's a prude."

My mother glowered at my nonna and crossed her arms. She knew better than to take on my father's "poor, helpless mamma" in his presence.

I looked from my mother's brooding face to the clock hanging over the sideboard. We still had two hours before midnight mass. I hoped we could find a way to kill the time without killing one another.

Nonna went to stand beside Bradley. "Take a bite of-a the titty."

My knees buckled, and the room began to spin. But unfortunately, I didn't faint.

Bradley obediently bit into his breast, his face now as red as the cherry nipple.

"You like?" Nonna asked.

"Um, Nonna," I interjected, "what about the digestivo?"

"Ooh, sì, sì," she said, clasping her hands together in excitement. "You get-a the glasses."

I'd never seen her get so worked up about an after-dinner drink, so I began to get a little worried, especially in light of the boob bomb she'd just dropped on me. I entered the kitchen and began putting cordial glasses on a silver tray. "What are you planning to serve?"

"The rosolio," she said, pulling a bottle of red liquid from a bottom cabinet.

"So, it's a liqueur made from roses?" I asked, relief washing over me like holy water from a font.

She nodded. "At-a Christmas in Sicilia, we make it with-a the blood oranges. But I make-a the regular kind, instead."

"How come?"

"You'll-a see," she intoned.

I was really starting to hate it when she said that. But against my better judgment, I followed her into the dining room and passed out the glasses.

Nonna filled each glass and then raised hers to Bradley. "In Sicilia, we serve-a the rosolio made-a from the roses to important-a guests."

Bradley raised his glass. "I'm honored to—"

"It's a sign of-a buon augurio," she interrupted with a leading nod.

I sunk into my chair. I didn't like the direction this toast was taking.

"What's 'bwone awgoorio?'" Bradley asked.

"It's like a good luck thing," I gushed before Nonna could offer her own translation.

"Actually," my mom said, her voice unusually shrill, "it's more of a good omen." She smiled. "You know, for the future?"

"Not an omen, Brenda," Nonna said. "It's-a more like a promise."

I wanted to slide from my chair and die beneath the dining table. It was painfully obvious that not only my nonna but also my mother was angling for my engagement. Clearly, my mom was looking to get a good return on my father's four-thousand-dollar-outfit investment.

Struggling to contain what looked like a smirk, Bradley again raised his rosolio. Then he looked at me with smoldering eyes that melted me on the spot. "I see wonderful things in the future," he said with a wink. "But all in due time, of course."

I promptly drained my glass of rosolio down to the last drop. As the warmth of Bradley's words and the pure grain alcohol spread through my body, I was struck by a chilling memory—Father Nolan's pressing interest in that marriage proposal.

"Nonna," I began, springing to my feet, "can you help me with these dessert plates?"

As soon as we were out of sight I grabbed her by the elbow and said through clenched teeth, "Please tell me that you don't have a marriage ceremony lined up at mass tonight."

She grinned from ear to ear. "I can't-a make-a you no guarantees."

Oh, God, I thought, mentally kicking myself for finding her and bringing her home. Merry freakin' Christmas.

 

 

* * * * *