But then I’d been thrown a curveball when my father, with tears in his eyes, admitted how much he needed me, really needed me. I’d seen my stalwart father cry twice in my life and both times had thrown me for a loop. Once at the funeral of his mother, and then when my mother miscarried during her final pregnancy. To see him with tears – of pride, this time – shook me to my core. As much as he loved his sons, he’d professed, he couldn’t depend on them. I was the only one of his children he trusted with the business he’d built from nothing but a thirty-thousand dollar interest-free loan from Sonny and the determination to garner the American dream for his family.
With those same tears swimming and a voice choked with emotion, he told me how much he loved me, was proud of me, and then pulled me into his barrel arms and hugged me until I gasped for air.
How could I possibly refuse after that?
The truth was, I couldn’t. I didn’t dare take the chance of hurting him by telling him his dream wasn’t mine. I was terrified to disappoint him, so I stuffed my desires down, kept my mouth shut, and continued being the dependable, trustworthy daughter he loved.
More than a decade and a half later I was still living his dream and not my own.
When I’d informed my parents I wanted to move out of the only home I’d ever known when I turned twenty-four, I’d expected push back. Typically, old world Italians don’t want their daughters out on their own and out of their sight because they always expect the worst will happen if a male relative isn’t keeping watch over them. My nonna used to put the fear of all that’s holy in me by taking delight in telling me there were rapitori – kidnappers - around every dark corner waiting for innocent ragazze like me to come by so they could snatch me and sell me into slavery. My father would typically roll his eyes behind her back and twirl his finger around his ears to indicate my grandmother was pazza – crazy.
My father wasn’t too happy about my decision to move out, though, but it was my mother who convinced him it was a good idea. Knowing I’d wanted my independence in some small way, she’d already spoken to Aunt Ursula, Sonny’s beloved wife, and arranged for me to rent the apartment in Sonny’s building. The fact there was a tenant living in the apartment at the time wasn’t even a consideration. Ursula got Sonny to somehow have the guy vacate the place so I could have it.
Honestly, bigwig corporations could learn a lot about the art of negotiation from a group of Italian women who unite for a cause.
The moment I moved in I began making the space my own. Over the years my cousins and sister’s-in-law asked me to help them with their own spaces once they’d seen what I’d done with mine. I have to admit, each apartment or home I’d had a hand in decorating looked great. Even though I’d never been able to attend design school, I’d still never stopped learning, reading home décor magazines and books, and watching all manner of HGTV shows dedicated to house beautification.
Whenever I came through the front door of my top floor apartment I couldn’t help but smile.
After shedding my outerwear I slipped out of my day clothes and my bra and changed into an old pair of St. Rita’s High School sweat pants, a hoodie, and a pair of wooly pink socks my cousin Gia had given me for Christmas a few years back. I yanked my hair up into a messy knot on the top of my head, then opened my laptop, grabbed my cell phone and got down to business.
After first calling the insurance agent in charge of our store policy and learning we were, indeed, covered for what had happened, I filed the request for funds, and received a confirmation email.
Telling our employees the current status came next. I informed each of them it was a day-to-day wait for when we would be back in business. We could open again tomorrow or next week, but whenever we were allowed to, I’d let them know. The fact they were being paid to stay home came as a pleasant shock. I also told them about Chico.
All of them were shocked, some asked a few questions I couldn’t answer, but everyone of them had something nice to say about him.
That done, I threw in a load of laundry in my apartment washing machine then did something I hadn’t had time for lately: I snuggled down on my couch with the current month’s selections of decorating magazines and a pair of scissors.
Ever since I’d dreamed of becoming a decorator I’d kept scrapbooks of design ideas torn from magazines. Many of those ideas had been transferred into actuality for my family and in my own apartment.
I must have fallen asleep at one point because the sound of my cell phone chirping with an incoming call startled me. I grabbed the phone from the kitchen counter and saw an unknown number across the screen. Thinking it might have something to do with our insurance claim or the store, I answered it.
“Donna,” a familiar voice said. “It’s Tony Roma.”
“What’s the matter? Did something else happen at the store?” My empty stomach pitched at the thought.
Instead of answering me he said, “I’m downstairs. Can I talk to you for a few?”
“Downstairs where?”
“Your apartment. Can I come up?”
NO exploded through my mind. No way was I letting him in, especially since I looked like something an alley cat hocked up after scavenging in a garbage can.
“I need to talk to you about the store,” he said. “Come on, Donna. I’m freezing my nuts off out here.”
Madre de Dio.
Just my luck the one guy I’ve never been able to get out of my head appears again after two decades and first, I knee him in the jaw, and then I look like death warmed over.
Crap.
Shaking my head at my lousy luck, I pushed the entrance buzzer and closed my eyes.
Four
Advice for surviving in a big Italian family: Remember – Capitulation isn’t in your DNA.
The annoying blare of the downstairs buzzer sailed all the way up the staircase hallway. The front door as it slammed shut echoed in the ensuing silence and then the heavy clomp of footsteps ascending the marble staircase rang out.
There wasn’t enough time to repair what I looked like, so, with all dignity thrown out the window, I opened the door and stood at the threshold to wait for him.
When he rounded the corner on the third floor landing he looked up and spotted me.
“You couldn’t live on the first floor, could you?” he asked. When one corner of his gorgeous mouth twitched upward I wasn’t sure if he was complaining or joking, or a combo of both.
This morning when I’d crashed into him and then socked him in the jaw, he’d been wearing an extremely well fitted walnut colored suit. Coming up my staircase he was decked out in a knee length camel colored coat I knew without doubt was cashmere.
“Your quads must be in great shape,” Tony said as he came up the last riser and stood in front of me, that damn smirk still on his lips.
If any other guy who’d just trekked up my stairs had said this to me I’d assume he was flirting. I didn’t get this vibe from Tony at all.
“My quads are fine,” I told him, crossing my arms over my bra-less chest. “What’s so important you had to come see me in person?”
He tilted his head a bit to the left, those crystal-flecked eyes staring at me with…confusion? Laughter? I couldn’t tell.