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The next night, a few minutes before seven, I told Alonzo, our maître d, that I had a date and asked for a spare table for two. Or four, or a booth. Anything open, since the restaurant was packed.
He grinned and asked, “Another date? Here? With your family running around like wild ducks? Are you a sadist?”
“Wasn’t my idea, it was his. Actually, he may have made a reservation.”
“I hope he made it weeks ago, we’re slammed. What are you wearing? Go get a parka.”
“I think he’d have made it last night or this morning. It’s summer. I’m not cold.”
Alonzo gave me the crazy eyes. “You want me to die. You’re trying to kill me. You’re worse than a toddler. You are a toddler. You can’t date. We’re full,” he said, and opened his old-fashioned leather-bound reservation book. He peered at the day, then the time, and I saw recognition dawn when he saw the name. “You can’t be serious.”
I sighed. “I am. Quite serious.” Then I raised my hand when I saw a million questions were about to be asked. “I’ll tell you all about it later. If he manages to make it through dinner.”
“Hmm. Well, he reserved Venice. I put you at table ten.”
“I was hoping for more secluded. And by secluded, I mean I should have said another restaurant entirely. But you know...” Better to find out what Jack was made of right up front.
“The family. Yes. Isn’t that nice. I do love the look of fear in a grown man’s eyes. You’re a kind person. Deep down. I have a coat you can borrow.”
“Along with an alibi?”
Our family restaurant (Try The Veal) had a large lobby with coffee groupings, sofas, chairs, and a bar area. The restaurant then spoked off into five themed rooms, all dressed as different cities in Italy. There was fine dining in Rome, with the Trevi Fountain, in Venice which sat in the middle of a lagoon, and Florence with its Renaissance architecture, sculptures, and art. There was also Milan, with its stylish gallery, marble facades, and Da Vinci’s painting of The Last Supper, and Naples with its beautiful coastline and artistic treasures.
The building itself was a renovated mansion in the shape of a Y. I lived in the left fork upper level. My grandparents lived in the right fork upper level. The basement held supplies, our huge wine supply, and frightening shapes that worried my middle brother, Paolo. The rest of the family lived in their own homes or apartments nearby.
Alonzo gave me a fatherly look, not the sweet kind, the kind that meant: I don’t care if I wind up in prison. “Fine. Go. Toddle off and wait in the lounge. Although, he could stand you up...”
A few minutes later I saw Jack stride in. He took tall, dark and handsome to a whole new level. If I were a swooner, I’d call him very much swoon worthy. Tanned skin, great cheekbones, straight nose, and the smallest bit of scruff were made all the sexier by cool blue eyes and the fact that he wore a charcoal Prada sport coat with coordinating slacks and a maroon tie with matching gray stripes. Black shoes, definitely Italian. He was also wearing a Fedora pulled down low and sunglasses.
I had on a simple black sheath and I’m glad I’d taken the extra time with my jewelry and make-up. I’d left my hair down, and it cascaded around my shoulders in waves that I’d somehow managed to tame.
I rose to meet him and when he saw me, his eyes lit up and he kissed my hand. “Sophia, you look lovelier than ever.”
“You look like you’re going to a mafia funeral,” I said. Of course he didn’t, but I figured I might as well start the evening off right. Give him an appetizer of what was to come.
Jack threw back his head and laughed. Alonzo stared at me googly-eyed like I’d lost my mind and insulted his great ancestors. Then he grabbed two menus and showed us to our table.
“We had one other table open in Rome. Why Venice?” I asked Jack.
He removed his hat and sunglasses, took my hand from across the table and played with my fingers. “Because under all this polish and shine, beats the heart of a foolish romantic.” He gave me a straight look. “And if you let that slip, I’ll push you out of a moving car doing ninety. But seriously, at this moment, I am in splendid, magical, enchanting Venice, the city of dreams, and I’m with you.”
“You’ve been practicing.”
“Only since last night.”
Okay, I thought, not bad. Not bad at all. Still, the night was young.
Tony, the restaurant’s Master Sommelier gave us both menus and poured water, sparkling and filtered, while he offered drink suggestions depending on what kind of dish we ordered. When Tony realized who he was talking to, his head jerked in my direction and he gave me a bug-eyed look. I gave him a stern look right back with a slight shake of my head.
Tony set small dishes of olives, nuts and cheeses on the white linen and gave me a dirty look in return. No doubt because he wanted an introduction to Mr. Football.
He told Jack he’d return, all Mr. Gracious, then glared at me and walked off like he had a giant oak tree up his butt.
So many looks! So much drama! And we hadn’t even gotten to the first course yet. Yeesh.
A stranger across the way pulled out a cellphone. About to take Jack’s picture. From inside his jacket, Jack whipped out a large index card and covered his face. The card said: CAN’T AFFORD THE ALIMONY.
I couldn’t help but grin since Jack’s face went white then red. Who’d have thought a famous underwear model ex-football player would embarrass so easily? “Fan?”
“Probably not now,” Jack said.
“You still get that a lot? The fans?”
“You have no idea.” Jack glanced over, saw the fan was now distracted with their meal, and put the index card on the table.
I wondered how long before my family made an appearance and before I could finish my thought, my spoon-wielding, arm-waving, pasta-pushing cliché of an Italian mama suddenly materialized like some kind of parental ninja.
My mother was wand slim, with beautiful olive skin and flowing black hair. She generally wore only designer labels, and was never, never seen in public without being perfectly put together—clothes, hair, makeup, and nails. Tonight she wore the power of red, glamorous from head to foot.
I loved my mother. I did. But I also knew once she left our table, or once Jack left the restaurant, she was going to call a mandatory family meeting to discuss his attributes, our unquestionable future together, how many children he wanted, where he worked, and just how long it would be before the wedding. Che palle.
“Sophia,” she said. “I didn’t know you had a date tonight.” She turned a beaming smile on Jack.
“I don’t, Mama. This guy is a tire salesman, and I can’t get rid of him.”
“Oh? Well, that’s wonderful. How did you meet?”
“He saw a Pokemon on my shoulder and tackled me,” I said, and popped an olive into my mouth.
“I imagine you had it coming, Sophia.” She turned to Jack, “Was it Dragonite, Snorlax, Moltres?”
My jaw dropped. How did my mother DO that?
“I believe it was Dragonite, Mrs. ...?”
She held out her hand. “Zinelli. And since Sophia’s manners seem to be sorely lacking these days, you are?”
“That’s Darby O’Gill,” I said. “And my manners are not lacking, I’m still in shock that you know what Pokemon is. My brain’s frozen.”
“You have three brothers. You think I don’t know things?” Jack stood and shook her hand, and she added, “Welcome to our family restaurant, Mr. O’Donlan. I hope you enjoy your meal.”
Then she turned back to me with an inscrutable mom look. “Sophia,” she said, and walked away.
Oh boy. Now I had to decipher what the look meant, deal with more family, and so far, a very nice man.
“It seems your mother does know things. I didn’t think she’d recognize me.”
“Someday I’ll figure out how she does it. In the meantime, I should’ve known better. Pretty sure I developed Scary Mom Syndrome before I was six.”
Jack grinned. “I was four. Mine tried selling me at a flea market. That’s just cheap.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my oldest brother, Luca, enter the room carrying a plate of antipasto, and thought, here we go. And he was blindingly clean and white which meant he’d heard Jack was here and had probably changed his chef’s jacket mere seconds ago. At least he’d taken his hat off.
Luca was the smarty pants of the family, our snotty head chef, and was always competing with Gio, but I guess he came by it all honestly since he was the oldest.
Luca set the platter down, ignored me completely, and turned to Jack. “Jack O’Donlan, I’m Luca Zinelli, Sophie’s oldest brother and head chef.”
Jack stood and shook his hand. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Luca, no! He has the hand herpes!”
Aghast, Luca snatched his hand away. Jack stifled a snort and said, “Terrible sense of humor your sister has. I assure you, Luca, I have nothing at all contagious.”
Another person held up a cellphone, pointed in Jack’s direction. Jack pulled out another card, covered his face. This sign read: SHH-I’m cheating on my wives.
Luca read the card. “You gonna make great puppy chow. Maybe sausage for the pygmies.”
Jack shook his head. “Sorry. Groupies. They’re everywhere.”
Luca glanced around. Spotted a potted fig tree. “You want me to drag a tree over?”
I groaned. “So he can what, mark his territory?’
Luca ignored me. As usual. “Have you ordered yet? I haven’t seen your order. Sophie?”
“No, we haven’t ordered. Jack hasn’t even had time to look at the menu. We were just discussing condoms.”
“Good. Smart. Since that’s my sister, you won’t need them. So. The food. Leave it to me, I’ll fix you my specialties, a little bit of this, some of that, only the best. No sex talk, no poison, deal?”
Jack closed the menu he’d barely glanced at. “Sounds perfect, thank you. Sophia, did you want tacos?”
“Tacos?”Luca looked at me and pointed at the door. “You go. Leave him here.”
“He’s Latino. Has tacos on the brain. I’ll have whatever you bring.”
Luca squinted at me, probably thinking I was too dull-witted to know the difference between an Irish brogue and a Hispanic accent. He turned to Jack. “So, how did you meet my sister? No wait, where’s your championship ring? Don’t you wear it? How many do you have now? Three? Four? Oh! You also got a Super Bowl ring! And you didn’t wear it?” Luca looked crestfallen. I waited for the tears.
“Jack got a flat tire on his way here. His ring is propping up his car.”
“Sophie wouldn’t let me wear even the smallest one. But I, being a gentleman, offered to let her wear the big one. Alas, she said she’d probably drop it down a manhole. Possibly on purpose.” A total and complete lie, but Jack got points from me for not fawning all over my drooling brother.
Another look of disgust from my oldest brother and he headed back to the kitchen.
“Is your entire family here?” Jack asked.
“Uh huh,” I said, grinning.
“Good to know. How many are left?”
“Enough, I suppose, to make a normal guy cringe.”
“It’s a good thing then, that I’m not completely normal. You could have told me this was your family’s restaurant. I’d have brought flowers for your mother.”
“And spoil the fun? No way, Irish. Besides, I figured I owed you one after last night’s fiasco.” I ate a couple of bites of antipasto. “So in what ways are you not so normal?”
“I can’t answer that until after the third date.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Hopeful, Sophia. Ever hopeful.”
“Prepare yourself, Irish. My nonna is marching toward us like Patton blasting through enemy lines.”
My nonna was short (but not so short she could walk erect under a coffee table or anything), wore nothing but black, had narcolepsy, and had no verbal filter. No filter of any kind actually. Last year, for example, she got tossed in the clink for throwing her dentures into the Trevi fountain in Rome. Instead of doing jail time, she was released in less than two hours amongst a lot of head-shaking, guffawing, snarky comments, and our promise to get her out of Rome immediately.
Jack stood as she kept coming at them like a miniature guided missile.
“Sit, sit!” she ordered, and moved a chair from a vacant table over to theirs. Jack held the chair for her, she sat, then gave Sophie the evil eye. “You don’t tell no one you gonna bring a date to dinner? Where you manners go?”
“Hello, Mrs. Zinelli, I’m Jack O’Donlan. Very nice to meet you. I think Sophie might be ashamed of me.”
“Ashamed? Why? You break the law? You on the sheep?”
“Lam, Nonna.”
“No, ma’am. I’m in law enforcement.”
“Then she no ashamed. She just hiding you. She just hiding you. Probably from her nonno. He think he Sonny Crocket. Only he more like drunk cowboy minus booze and horsey. He meet you he gonna lose his spit.”
“Shit, Nonna.”
“Sophia, no cursing! Ima so sorry, Jack. Sophie a good girl. Mostly.”
“Loveliest train wreck I’ve ever met. I love how she doesn’t care what comes out of her mouth.”
Nonna ate a rolled slice of salami. Pointed a breadstick at Jack. “She baptized in red sauce. Ha! So. How you two meet?”
We answered simultaneously.
“Your lovely granddaughter brought me back from the dead,” Jack said.
“He jumped me in the school dining hall,” I said.
Nonna clutched her pearls, gasped, thought for a second, then clapped her hands in glee. “A real dead go-getter, eh?” She ate a piece of cheese, took a drink from my glass, and asked, “Are his feet, how they say, game changers?” Her dentures slipped, I nearly choked on an olive, and she added, “You seen them yet?”
“Nonna, would you like your own plate? Something to drink?”
“No, no, I fine. So?”
There was no use in trying to get her her own plate, she’d just nibble off mine anyway. Probably Jack’s too. “Hobbit feet. I saw them when he showed me which toe ended his career. Of course, first he had to take off the white socks he was wearing with brown sandals. It was then I saw the hair. I was surprised a toe could break with all that hairy padding he has.”
“You let me see you feet, Jack. I help you. And you no wear the socks with sandals, eh? That what they say is bad for fashion taste, no?”
Jack looked at me for help. I let him flounder.
“Actually, Mrs. Zinelli, I shaved my feet just before I got here. And I promise never to wear white socks with sandals again.”
She looked satisfied. “Your toe? It still broke?”
“No,” I told her, “But he limps like his kneecaps fell off.”
Jack sat back with a grin. “It’s a curse.”
Nonna gasped again, and asked, “Is this why you no more footballer?”
“He quit, broke his pinky toe. What, a year ago, two?”
“Indeed. I made a promise, you see,” Jack said.
“Oh yes?” Nonna asked.
“I promised me sainted mum that if I ever broke a single bone playing professional football, I’d quit. And so I did.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Is that true?”
“I’ll swear it on a stack of bibles.”
One of the greatest talents in the NFL quit because of a broken pinky toe and a promise to his mother? I was really starting to like this guy. And that realization almost made me hope the rest of my family wouldn’t come out from wherever they were and swarm him. I’d really just wanted to see if he could handle the interrogation I knew my family would deliver, but now ... well, now I wanted him to myself so I could get to know him better.
Was he really as nice, charming, considerate, and loving (with a decent sense of humor and loads of sexy thrown in) as he appeared?
Hmm.
“Luca say you have a, uh, a big ass ring? Where it is?”
“He swallowed it. Was about to get mugged,” I told nonna.
Nonna said, “Oh, that gonna hurt tomorrow.”
“No, no,” Jack corrected. “My sister’s dog may have swallowed it when Sophie hid it in her taco then fed it to the dog.”
“Sophia!” Nonna yelled said.
“It’s true, I did feed the dog. All skin and bones, too, the poor thing.”
Nonna snitched more cheese and a bite of artichoke. “Whatamatter with your doggie?”
“Chumley is my sister’s dog. I was dog-sitting. He just finished a round of some new breakthrough medication for heartburn. He does appear quite malnourished, poor Chumley does. But my sister is a vet and I’m sure she’ll have him waddling in no time.” Jack buttered a piece of bread and smiled at me.
“So!” Nonna said, wiping her mouth with my napkin. “You gonna be take my nipotina out again?”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“Absolutely,” Jack said. “If she’ll let me. My poor bleedin’ heart is hopeful.”
I already knew what was coming since my parents pretty much had the rules carved into life-sized stone tablets which they moved from their living room into my apartment the day I moved from my childhood home into my own place over the restaurant. Not that I actually had huge stone tablets in my apartment so much as “The Rules” were forever carved into my brain.
“This is good.” She wagged a finger at Jack. “You honk, you better be driving a delivery truck. Sophia don’t date no honkers.”
“Of course,” Jack nodded. “Such frightful manners those honkers have.”
“She don’t date no toucher-feelers either. You wanna hanky the panky, don’t let her nonno see. He old school. Me, not so much. You wanna hold her hand, I not gonna tell nobody.” She plopped my napkin back onto my lap. “But you look below her face in front of me, and I’m a smack you upside your head so hard to make it spin like that Linda Flair in the in the Exerciser movie.”
“Linda Blair, Nonna.”
“The Exorcist,” Jack said.
Nonna looked at Jack in dismay. “You need a priest? I got a good one.”
I couldn’t help it, so I said, “No, he threw a Hail Mary this morning.”
Nonna looked from Jack to me. “He no Italian, but he a good boy. He okay.”
Paolo appeared, entrees in hand, and set them in front of us. Then three more waitstaff followed, hands full, and filled the table. “Nonna, you want for me to bring you a plate? Something to drink?” Paolo asked.
She waved her hands. “Already so much food! No, I drink Sophie’s. Where the wine?”
Paolo stepped aside and Tony produced a bottle of something red that had a special label attached. Jeez, I wasn’t even allowed to touch those bottles. My family was such a bunch of schmoozers.
Jack tasted the wine and approved so Tony poured. Paolo hadn’t left yet, so we waited. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. O’Donlan. I hope you enjoy your meal. I’m Paolo, by the way, Sophie’s middle finger. Brother! Middle brother.”
Paolo was also the pastry chef for our restaurant. He had so many neuroses I quit counting when I was twelve. I gave him a medical dictionary for his sixteenth birthday as a joke and he hit me with it. My mother got out the wooden spoon, went Wonder Woman Whack-A-Mole on him and he’s never hit me since. Living in abject fear of our mother was just another of his neurotic behaviors. Just because our family was mostly Sicilian, Paolo thought she had some weird mafia DNA ESP thing going on and if he somehow screwed up, she was going to dump him in the Hudson. Because we loved him, we all made sure to heavily endorse that belief. For example, every time Luca cut up a fish in the kitchen, he’d point to it, then slice his hand across his throat at Paolo, Paolo would whimper, and we’d all pretty much laugh. It wasn’t mean-spirited, just funny.
Jack stood (again) and shook Paolo’s hand. “Thank you, the honor is all mine.”
Knowing Paolo, I said, “Give it a minute.”
And right on time, Paolo did his usual. “You’re not Irish mob or connected or anything like that are you? Is that how you got drafted into the NFL so quick? Is my sister safe from the mob? She is, isn’t she?”
Jack looked at me, I shrugged and ate an olive.
“Aye, safe she is. I haven’t met a mobster in ages. Probably never. But if I do meet one and they want to draft her into the NFL, I’ll make sure she gets a fair break.”
“Break? They gonna break her legs? How she gonna play with broken legs?”
“Good grief. No mob going on here and no draft.” I never knew if Paolo was as dense as he acted or if he was constantly playing us.
Paolo thought for a second, nodded, as mollified as he’d get. “Then I hope you’ll come back, maybe we can talk about sports sometime. You don’t have to bring Sophie. Unless you want to, I guess.”
I kicked Paolo’s shin, he winced, and Jack said, “I’d like that very much, thank you.”
Paolo nodded and left. That left my nonno, papa, and Gio yet to show up.
“Worried?” I asked.
“Does it show?”
“No, which makes me suspicious.”
Jack lifted one shoulder. “I like your family.”
I nearly snorted wine. “Just wait.”
Luca hadn’t been kidding when he mentioned a little of this and that. It was even possible he’d made us half the items on the menu. Italians love food, but this was a bit much, even for Luca. Double schmoozer.
We had:
Sautéed veal, mushrooms and Marsala wine demi-glace, beef tortellini, fresh English peas, small pocket beefsteak tomato fondue ravioli, eggplant, sweet potato, littleneck clams, long wide pasta with scallops, asparagus, bay scallops on the half shell with wisps of orange, tiny squid, spaghetti with bavarasse clams, ginger-flavored quinoa, lobster with burrata, and possibly more that I hadn’t seen yet.
At this rate we’d be lucky to live to see the fruit and cheese course let alone dessert and coffee.
Jack looked around the table. Stupefied. Every inch was covered with dishes of food.
As the restaurant’s business manager, I was going to have to murder Luca in his sleep. Violently and with lots of blood. Somehow I’d make it up to my mother.
“Um, Sophia? Yesterday you told me to eat salad. Today this? Are you trying to kill me or fatten me up for the holidays? Do you have body parts in your walk-in?”
“Is Luca,” Nonna said. “He all showing off. We gonna need a bigger float.”
“Boat, Nonna.”
“Why we need a boat? You having hot flash? Expect a flood?”
“I’ll send the leftovers home with you. Or maybe drop them at an orphanage. I looked at the enormous spread. “Maybe several orphanages.”
We’d gotten through maybe a tenth of the food when my nonno showed up. He belonged to the Geritol Gang and still had a few geriatric mob connections. Which was ironic since he thought he was Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice. He only wore pastels, T-shirts, and Armani jackets. Shoes, no socks, which was even more gross than my father’s sockless feet, since my nonno was in his seventies. Euww!
Nonno pointed at his chest and said, “I am Sophia’s grandfather and my name is Enzo. You don’t call me that unless you married. So you the football player they all talking about?”
Jack stood (yes, again) and shook my nonno’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Zinelli. I’m Jack O’Donlan. I can’t say if I’m the one they’re talking about but since I’m here with Sophia, I’d lay odds that I am.”
“Odds, eh? You like gambling?”
“That’s a trick question,” I said real fast, before Jack got suckered into a game of pool or something more nefarious and wound up having to arrest my nonno.
“Oh?” Jack asked.
“Well, I no like to brag, but my Sophia here, she a pickpocket. A good one. And she even better at the pool table. You wanna play her sometime? I got a bookie.”
Jack sent me a questionable glance.
“Of course he doesn’t have a bookie.” I sighed. “Nonno, Jack’s a cop.”
“Oh! That very good. I like cops. I like them even better when they lose all they money to my granddaughter.” He laughed, I snickered, and Jack looked amused. “So, you watch the Miami Vice?”
“He mentioned he really likes the Gilmore Girls. And Sex In The City.”
“Sex And The City, Sophia.” Jack said.
“We no have the sex talk on first date. Or ever. Not even after marriage.”
I started to explain about the TV shows, but Jack held up a finger. “Of course. Not ever. Sophia, I’m surprised you’d bring up such a thing.”
Nonno gave me the stink eye then turned back to Jack. “Is agreed. Maybe I take you out in my Ferrari sometime.”
“Except Enzo a cheatscape. He drive a Corvette he pretend is Ferrari,” Nonna said.
“Cheapskate, Nonna.”
“That too.”
“So,” Nonno continued, “how about that football? Is not like Italian football, which in America is the soccer.”
“Completely different. I enjoy Italian football.”
“Yes? Good, good. You come to Italy, we all go to football game. Is Italia’s national sport.”
Nonna piped up with, “They come to Italia, they only gonna hold the hands. I speak the rules already.”
Nonno clapped his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Good. My granddaughter, she all I got.”
Nonna rolled her eyes. “What are the rest of us, liver pate?”
“Chopped liver, Nonna.”
“Same thing. It all mush. Like your nonno’s brain.”
Jack said, “Since you’re a Miami Vice fan, how about if I take you shooting sometime? We’ll go to the police range.”
Nonna grabbed her pearls with a gasp. (Such a pearl grabbing gasper)
Nonno’s eyes lit up. “I have a gun, sure, yes, let’s do that.”
“Nonno,” I said, “You don’t have any bullets.” Because he’d never fired a gun in his life. Holy moly.
“We can get him some, if he’d like to go, Sophia,” Jack added.
Nonna made the sign of the cross. My nonno with live ammunition? Good lord, the city would never be safe again. “Er, um, mind if I join you?” I asked, hoping then I could at least beg Jack to get blanks or something.
My nonna gasped yet again. Jack looked concerned, probably wondering if nonna was choking. I patted nonna’s hand. “It’ll be fine, Jack won’t let anyone get injured. He’s a professional.”
“Your nonno should only shoot blankets,” Nonna said.
“Blanks, Nonna.”
“Is true,” Nonno said. “I get the neuter long time ago. But no worry, I still got the perfect aim. So. I heard about your ring, may I see?”
“He’s using it as a TV stand,” I said.
“I’ll bring it next time, I promise,” Jack said, and gave me a mild glare.
Nonno slapped Jack’s shoulder again but looked at me. “Oh boy. Your papa coming. Nice to know you, Jack. You on the high seas now. Watch your chestnuts.” And my nonno wandered off.
My father, as all Italian men, thought he was some sort of Lothario. I just thought of him as eccentric, because, Lothario, euwww. He was also an accomplished pick-pocket (thanks to nonno), and the three of us often tried to out-pick the other. When I was a teenager, I picked Luca’s pocket and I swear at least five condoms fell out of his wallet. I may have been traumatized by that, but no one would address it other than Luca who now threw loose condoms into my purse when I wasn’t looking.
Anyway.
In order to not smother my mother in her sleep, papa had mastered the art of being a crafty schemer. He was jolly, sentimental, and mischievous. He also happened to be quite wealthy, but had little regard for money which made my mother more than a little pazzo in the head.
A man down the way held up his phone. Jack whipped out another index card. Covered his face. Card: I DON’T CARRY TAMPONS
My father walked up and asked, “You a mute? Sophie got that time of month?”
Jack tossed the card onto the table and stood. He probably felt like he was in church, all this standing and sitting. At least he seemed to be enjoying his meal. And so far I had to give him credit for kindness and the ability to hold his own with my family.
“Mr. Zinelli, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Sorry about the card. I’m Jack, Sophie’s date.”
“This I hear. But not from my daughter, no. From every people in the family and everyone else here, too, it seems. You think you gonna date my only daughter, eh?”
“If she’ll let me, yes, sir.”
Nonna grabbed a scallop, chewed it, swallowed, and said, “Look like she already on a date to me.”
Papa gave a long-suffering sigh. “I see that, Mama, thank you.” He turned back to Jack. “We gonna talk sports? No. Politics? No. Religion? No. Not even current events. What we gonna do is make sure you know this is my only daughter, that she always get home early, that she always safe, you don’t take her to places not appropriate for my child, such as stripper joints, dark places, or places that make her want to wear the short skirt. You may take her to old folks home and read to her and old person. You may take her to visit the nuns. I say this for your own protection. If you trifle with her, if you make her cry, her nonno will bury you in your own mother’s garden. Also,” he continued, “you make sure you ask Sophia what her rules are. You will respect them because you are man of good honor. Even when you don’t got no tampons.”
“I hope I’m as good a father to my children as you are to Sophia. You remind me of my own father. You two will hit it off very well, I think.”
Oh brother, I almost gagged on a piece of squid, but somehow refrained. Nonna was paying rapt attention, no doubt taking notes to show my mother later on when they were discussing my future.
My papa ate an olive, then said, “Paddy and Mick are walking down the road and Paddy has a bag of doughnuts in his hand. Paddy says to Mick, ‘If you can guess how many doughnuts are in my bag, you can have them both.’”
Jack laughed. “I love cop humor, I’ll remember that one.” He took a sip of wine and said, “Mr. Zinelli do you know why Italians can’t surf?”
“Eh, no, why?”
“Because they’re wop-sided.”
My nonna’s dentures flew into the veal, my papa laughed, and Jack raised his glass in cheers, showing me he could handle his own. Alrighty then.
“You all right, I like you,” papa said, and gave me a wink. Then he, too, wandered off.
Gio was next and, thankfully, last. I saw him nearly galloping to the table in his haste. “Hi, I’m Gio, the youngest brother,” he said, and reached to shake Jack’s hand. “No, no, don’t stand.”
Jack shook, and introduced himself. “I’m Jack. Wonderful restaurant you have.”
Gio was a food-loving womanizer who’d had the most luck with dates than either of my other siblings. He was pretty good at playing a dim-witted moron when it was convenient, but he was mostly good-natured. My friends tell me he’s handsome, but I had a feeling his cooking skills may be one of the things that scored him so many dates. Of everyone in my family, Gio would be considered the truest sports fan.
“Is it true? Say it ain’t true. You didn’t wear your ring?”
“Sorry, it’s true. I think Sophie dropped it down the toilet. Then flushed.”
Gio pulled on his hair. “Sophie!” He continued in animated Italian until nonna smacked his arm and told him he was being rude.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I had to make sure I didn’t need to kill Sophie.”
“No need at all,” Jack said. “How about if I bring all the rings next time I’m here?”
“Really? Sure, wow, absolutely.” He threw me a smug look. “Are they total chick magnets? Your rings? Was it a total rush to play in the Super Bowl? Man, I still remember how you threw that perfect spiral sixty yards straight into Baker’s arms for the winning touchdown. Nailed him right on the numbers. And in the last three seconds of the game, too!”
Jack’s eyes twinkled. “I do remember, yes. A good and bloody game it ‘twas.”
“Brutal,” Gio agreed. “You’re coming back then? Soon?”
“If Sophie will let me, yes,” Jack answered.
“Hmm,” I said. “I don’t know who is corrupting who around here, but sure, why not?”
I could all but see Gio do a mental fist pump. “You two want some dessert? I can see if Paolo made something special.”
“No!” we both said. Then Jack added, “Thank you.”
Jack amended his answer to, “Unless, of course, Paolo went to any trouble. Otherwise, perhaps a nice dessert wine?”
Nonna had fallen asleep at the table twice so mama took her up to bed. Once the table was cleared and we were both relaxed and drinking our wine, Jack took my hand. “So, how soon until you’ll marry me?”
I think my eyes got wider than two goal posts. And for once in my life I had no words. Well, this is a crazy person did come to mind. “Very funny.”
“Very serious.”
“Stop it. Your crazy is showing.”
Jack grinned. “Not now, mind you. But I’d like a commitment.”
I took my hand back. “I think what you’re feeling is called infatuation. Possibly indigestion. Even you, a self-proclaimed hopeless romantic, must know that love at first sight doesn’t exist.”
Jack sipped his wine. “Aye, of course it does. But regardless, this thing between us? I like it. I like your family, too.”
“You took a left turn at family and lost me.”
“I need a wife. Or a fiancé. A girlfriend. Pick one.”
“And why is that? Can’t you cook? Vacuum? Fold a fitted sheet? Can’t one of your groupies help you out?”
Jack’s expression turned earnest. “That’s just it. They’re everywhere. Look at tonight, and we’re in an upscale, secluded place. Sometimes they pop out of bushes. Or the freezer section. They peek in my windows. They’re crazy. Or sex starved. Or worse, they’re boring. It’s starting to interfere with my job. I’m having nightmares. I can’t do it anymore.”
“So I’d be what, a cover?”
“Yes. Maybe. At first. I can cover for you as well. But you have to admit, it might not be just a cover. At least not for me.”
“So, a game of sorts.”
“Okay, sure. I like games.”
“And I like dogs. So yes, Jack. I’ll marry you in dog years.” I raised my glass in a toast of sorts.
Jack scratched his neck. “What are dog years? As in human time?”
I shrugged. “No idea.”
“So your answer is no? Already? Don’t ya want to at least date me first?”
“That’s a yes.”
“Yes, no?” He blinked, then gave me a head tilt.
I nodded. “Right.”
Jack looked at me, then scratched his neck again. “Are we doing a Who’s On First?”
“We haven’t even kissed yet. What if I think you kiss like a slobbery dog?”
“I assure you I don’t, but aye, good point. So, another date, say next week?”
I hated when people called my bluff. I sighed. “You’re the kind of crazy I’ll need to warn my friends about.”
“Maybe. But really I’m just an Irish potato to your Italian taco. And we all know potatoes are comfort food.”
“I’ve had guys date me for my money and dump me for the same reason. Most, or maybe all, are intimidated by my family. You don’t need the money since you’re rich. You didn’t scream like a girl around my family. So what’s up with the crazy all of a sudden?”
“In my defense, I’m not really a bad guy, and I think I’d make a pretty good husband. Fiancé, boyfriend, whatever.”
“If we disregard the insanity of course.”
He rolled his eyes. “I assure you, I’m quite sane. My family will tell you. They’re partial though, so,” he leaned forward. “Look, I’m a cop. A too-rich ex-football player. I hate groupies. Hate. Them. Plus, you’re Italian and single. Your mom must give you hell on a daily basis.”
“How Charming. You’re calling me an old maid. You can leave now.”
“Really, we could make a deal. A contract even. This could be a great thing for both of us. Having me around gets your family off your back. Having you around gets the groupies off mine.”
Hmm, I thought. Maybe not so crazy after all. “Real or fake relationship?”
Jack looked me dead in the eye. “Whatever you say. I’m in. Plus, I can protect your family. And you. You know, from prison and stuff.”
I leaned forward. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Jack leaned in. I didn’t move. “You also might consider not fencing stolen goods any longer. With a cop boyfriend/fiancé/husband and all.”
Jack leaned back, crossed his ankles.
“I don’t know what you mean.” But yes, I did. And my stomach was doing the fish on a boat thing, flipping and flopping all over the place. In my defense, I didn’t do the stealing. I simply held onto re-stolen property for my cat burglar friend until it could be returned to its rightful owners. Didn’t everyone love Robin Hood?
I was about to tell Jack that when another phone popped up, pointed at his face. Jack whipped out another card: GO BACK TO YOUR VILLAGE!
From behind the card Jack whispered, “Fine, keep your side business. I’m desperate. This could work.”
I almost felt smug. Because, yes, it could work. In so many ways. “As long as you know my spirit animal is a drunk penguin that binge watches movies while scarfing down tacos. My legs are hairier than a highland cow’s. Also, I have no idea where Zanzibar is.”
Jack grinned, “You’re perfect. We get to lie our asses off and have fun doing it.”
“Works for me,” I said. “Dog years it is.”
Jack nodded and took a sip of wine. “As long as we start tomorrow.”
#WhatTheHeckAreDogYears
#StillDatingTwoYearsLaterANDHeHasn’tRealizedI’mReallyJustAHotMess
#ACopShouldBeAbleToSpotACrazyItalianHotMess
#SoGladHeHasn’t
#GameChangingDatesAren’tAllBad
Until next time....Love, Laugh, Bark!
