That's Amore

by Wendy Markham

Genres: Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Ralphie Chickalini is on the verge of living happily ever after with the perfect woman. His fiance Francesca Maria Buccigrossi of Astoria Boulevard is a curvaceous, fun-loving brunette. His late father, whose recent death the family is still mourning, adored Francesca's homemade pesto sauce and declared her a "keeper," his brothers think she's a hoot, his sisters adore her, and his nephews and niece already call her "aunt." But as the wedding date approaches, Ralphie begins to question his love.

When Ralphie bumps into two psychic sisters at a New Year's Eve party, his life will be thrown in an unexpected direction. Daria and Tammy might not look alike, but they do have more than just a maternal bloodline in common. They both have a psychic gift. Tammy or "Madame Tamare" is a storefront psychic who predicted the marriage between Ralphie's brother Dominic's marriage and an unlikely bride. Now, Daria is channeling a spirit with a message for Ralphie: his father has returned to guide him to true love. But Daria has her own life to live, and she plans to move back to Arizona, messages from another world aside. Despite contrary inclinations, Daria and Ralphie will soon realize that their paths are destined to collide.

Release date: April 3, 2012

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

August

Phoenix, Arizona

What’s next for Daria Marshall, then?”

“Hmm?” Daria’s attention is focused not on her dining companion, George, but on the opposite end of the busy Tex-Mex restaurant, where an eighteenth-century Native American maiden is serenely sitting, cross-legged, on the terra-cotta tile amid the lunch hour throng.

She’s been there since they walked into the dining room fifteen minutes ago, and hasn’t moved a muscle.

“You’re not really going back to LA now that you’ve finally made it to Arizona, are you?”

“Excuse me?” Daria shifts her gaze to her fabulous friend, who is regarding her from across the table in a typically fabulous outfit, clean-shaven cheek balanced on professionally manicured hand.

“You just finished telling me that you can’t handle the traffic or the smog or the fear of earthquakes—”

“It’s not fear,” she cuts in defensively. “It’s just that I was checking out paint colors on the wall of a nineteenth-floor penthouse when that last one hit a few weeks ago, and it freaked me out a little.”

“Did you spill the paint?”

“Yes, and it spattered on my client’s Prada pumps.”

“A few drops of turpentine and Ms. Diva will never be the wiser,” George says airily. As if he wouldn’t go out of his well-coiffed head if anyone dripped a drop on his own designer loafers.

“Did I mention Ms. Diva happened to be in the pumps at the time?” Wincing at the memory, Daria dredges a tortilla chip through the fresh guacamole they’re sharing.

“Well, no one ever said life as Interior Designer to the Stars was going to be a bowl of cherries.”

“Not ‘stars,’ George. Star. Falling star, for that matter.”

Her client, an erstwhile A-list bombshell, hasn’t had top billing—or any billing to speak of—in two decades. Having exhausted her personal makeover options and face-lifted herself into a freakish perpetual wide-eyed expression, the Hollywood has-been has thrown herself into fanatically redoing her home instead.

Daria soon learned why she—a newcomer in the LA design world—landed what seemed like a plum client. Everyone else in town had either steered clear of the notorious Ms. Diva, or already been hired—and fired—by her.

Daria joined the latter list, and admits as much to George.

“I’m sure it’s for the best,” he says.

“Excuse me, are you ready to order?” asks the waitress, a pretty, sunburned blonde.

“Not just yet.” Daria reaches for her untouched menu.

“Can I get you another round of margaritas while you decide?”

“Absolutely.” George drains the few drops left in his glass.

“Not for me, I’m still working on this one.”

“Come on, drink up and live a little. Bring two, please,” George tells the waitress, who disappears before Daria can protest.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asks George.

“You bet,” he replies cheerfully. “You’ve been stressed from the moment you got off the plane this morning.”

“I was even more stressed before I got on the plane, actually. The freeway traffic to LAX was awful.”

“How long have you been in Los Angeles now?” He has to raise his voice as the mariachi band approaches their table, playing the “Mexican Hat Dance.”

“Four months.”

“I think it’s time to move on.”

“I think you’re probably right, but I should—”

“Good. Be quiet and listen,” he practically shouts over the music. “I have a proposition for you.”

Daria sips the tequila-laced salty lime slush, shaking her head.

“What?” he asks. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

He sighs dramatically and waits a moment for the band to move on before saying, “It’s not easy having a psychic best friend.”

“I don’t know because I’m psychic, I know because you’re predictable. And because this isn’t the first time you’ve propositioned me.”

“Then say yes this time, and I won’t bug you about it again.”

She shrugs. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes!”

“Are you serious? You’ll move here?”

“Dead serious.” She flicks another glance at the maiden. Still there, but starting to look a little filmy.

George mentioned that this Tex-Mex restaurant borders the vast Navajo reservation. Daria wonders if there’s a burial ground nearby. There’s a palpable aura of sorrow about the meditating maiden, incongruous with the boisterous restaurant crowd and the maraca-shaking mariachi.

“So you’re actually going to move in with me and work in my new business?” George is asking.

“Which isn’t exactly up and running…”

“I’m working on it,” says George, who is renovating an old adobe building and opening an interior design firm in the heart of Phoenix. “I should be ready to open the doors in another month if construction goes as planned. We’re going to be a great team. We’ll meld my southwestern flair with your eclectic design style, and—”

“I’m sure you mean eclectic as the utmost compliment.”

“I’m sure I do. When can you move?”

“I think I just did,” she says wryly. “I’m here now. I’ll just stay. I can call Chelsea”—her roommate in LA—“and have her ship my stuff here. Most of it is still in storage anyway—the place was tiny. I can leave it there for a while.”

“So you don’t need to go back at all? Isn’t there anyone you need to give notice to, or say goodbye to?”

Daria just looks at him.

“Oh, right, I forgot. You don’t like strings, and you don’t do long goodbyes.”

“I don’t do goodbyes at all,” she reminds him, to borrow a line from her gypsy mother.

Whenever it’s time to move on—and it frequently is—Daria has always gone with as little fanfare—and as few possessions—as possible. It’s family tradition.

“Okay, then… my futon is all yours, for as long as you can stay.” He pauses. “How long do you think that’ll be?”

“As long as you need me—or as long as I can, anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, until the wind blows you in a different direction. I know your deal.”

“And I know yours. You’ll miss me when I’m gone, but you’ll recover, just like always.”

“And sooner or later you’ll pop back into my life.” He smiles. “Roommates again—it’ll be just like old times.”

They met a decade ago, in a New England college town as art majors, and struck up a fast friendship. Those four years—sans summer breaks—were the longest Daria ever lived in one place, making George the most steadfast friend in her vagabond life.

They’ve been roommates twice since graduation. The first time, she was living in Boston and took in George after he’d come out to his conservative parents only to find himself instantly disowned and homeless. The second time, he was doing grad studies in Paris and she flew over for a visit and parked herself in his flat for the semester.

“Only this time,” George adds, smile fading to a warning scowl, “I hope you won’t bring any of your ‘friends’ along.”

“You know I can’t promise that.” She casts another glance toward the Native American maiden, but the spirit has dissolved.

“Well, as long as they’re harmless spooks this time around. I can’t handle the ones who get their kicks moving my stuff around.”

“Don’t call them spooks—it’s disrespectful—and that only happened once.” In Paris, the pesky spirit of a nineteenth-century dandy liked to hide George’s socks and pilfer his designer cologne. “And anyway, Jean-Claude stopped bothering you when I told him to cut it out.”

“You had to tell him a few times, and I still never found the other half of that black cashmere pair,” George grumbles.

“Maybe I shouldn’t come after all,” Daria suggests. “I mean, I don’t want to disrupt your life, and anyway, you don’t need a third wheel around now that you’re in a relationship…”

“I never worried about being the third wheel in yours,” George points out.

True.

But he never really got much of a chance. Her marriage to Alan lasted only six months, after a whirlwind courtship.

“Here you go,” the waitress says cheerfully, setting down two more margaritas. “Ready to order?”

“We haven’t actually looked at the menus yet,” Daria says apologetically. “We haven’t seen each other in a year, so we’re trying to catch up.”

“Two years,” George amends.

“Has it been that long?”

“No worries,” the waitress interjects, “I’ll be back.”

“Listen, Daria, you’ve got to get out of LA before a building tumbles on you or some hysterical washed-up diva shoves you from a high floor. And if you don’t come here, where else are you gonna go?”

“New York,” she muses, thinking of her older sister. “I haven’t visited Tammy in ages. Or my parents, either, for that matter.”

“Do you even know where they are?”

“Of course I do.” She hesitates. “I think. I mean, I know my father’s still in Italy, and I’m pretty sure my mother’s in Wisconsin, although her phone is disconnected, so I could be wrong. Either she’s moved, or she couldn’t pay the bill again. She’ll turn up.”

“Well, when she does, if she needs a place to stay, she’s always welcome in my house,” George says generously, long enamored of Daria’s unconventional, liberal mother—especially in contrast to his own conservative one.

“I’ll tell her. If she turns up,” says Daria with an eye roll, far less enamored.

Lately, she’s found herself wondering what it would have been like to have had a traditional upbringing, with parents who stayed married to each other and in one place.

Which is funny, because her family’s gypsy lifestyle has always seemed to suit her, while her lone attempt at putting down roots—with Alan—proved disastrous.

Face it, Daria: some people just aren’t suited to the whole home and hearth scene, and you happen to be one of them.

“So, darling…” George lifts his margarita glass in a toast. “Here’s to your fresh start in Phoenix.”

“Cheers.” She clinks his glass.

“How many fresh starts does that make this year?”

“Three,” she says with a shrug and a grin, “but who’s counting?”

“Listen, you never know… maybe you’ll love it here so much that you never want to leave.”

“Nothing personal, but I doubt it.”

“Nothing personal, but maybe you should be thinking about settling down at your age.”

“I’m not even thirty yet!” she protests, though his words strike a chord within her.

“You can’t wander around aimlessly forever, Daria.”

“It’s not aimless. And who says I can’t? Look at my mother.”

“Do you really want to become your mother? Think about it.”

The thing is… she has been her.

She reflects mostly on her mother’s multiple husbands and myriad occupations, and never having much of anything to call her own. Her address, her hair color, not even her name has ever stayed the same for long. Aurora Rivers—the Rivers courtesy of her fifth and most recent ex-husband—is a loving soul, and she adored her two daughters as well as all of her spouses, but she wasn’t really there for them, and still isn’t.

Just as she doesn’t do goodbyes, Mom doesn’t do family ties or strings attached. Apron included.

“Daria, you’re doing the right thing, coming here to Phoenix to live. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you decide to stay forever.”

Forever.

There’s that word again.

“Well, I’d be surprised,” she tells George.

“Never say never, darling. I don’t believe in it.”

Daria smiles sweetly and shoots back, “Never say forever, darling. I don’t believe in that, either.”

Late December

Manhattan

Well? What do you think?”

Sprawled on her sister’s couch, Daria looks up from the obituary section of this morning’s New York Times to see Tammy framed in the bedroom doorway.

She’s wearing a flowing red dress that hugs her considerable curves, along with a pair of sequined pumps that look suitable for transforming a girl to Oz and back.

“Be honest,” Tammy adds as she twirls around, modeling.

“Wow,” Daria tells her sister. “You’re gorgeous.”

“You’re just saying that.” Tammy waves away the compliment, but a pleased smile touches her lipsticked lips. “Right?”

Daria shakes her head. “Wrong. You look great. There’s something really exciting about a red dress…”

“I know. That’s what I thought when I bought it.”

Her sister’s salt-and-pepper hair is caught back in its usual ponytail, though today it’s held by a jeweled barrette instead of a plain old elastic band. Tammy’s even wearing makeup for a change, and gold earrings that are almost as big as the shiny ornaments on the Christmas tree in the corner.

At forty-three, more than a decade older than Daria’s thirty, Tammy was born during their mother’s short-lived third marriage but was a biological souvenir of the second, as Mom likes to say. Daria is a product of the fourth.

As sisters go, they couldn’t be more opposite.

Where Tammy is statuesque and full-figured, Daria is tiny—just over five feet—and narrow-hipped with a long, slim waist despite a fierce junk food habit. She wears her jet black hair short, sleek, and tucked behind her ears, with long bangs swept to the side. The gamine style compliments her olive skin and fine bone structure and brings out her startling aquamarine eyes, as do the smoky eyeliner and lush mascara she uses as regularly as she does her toothbrush.

Daria and Tammy might not look alike, but they do have more than just a maternal bloodline in common. They both know things they can’t possibly know, see things nobody else can see, hear things nobody else can hear.

That inexplicable, so-called gift is the most striking similarity between them.

And how they’ve chosen to use it—or not—is perhaps their most striking difference of all.

“Are you sure this isn’t all… too much?” Tammy asks, gesturing at herself, head to toe. “I mean, for me.”

“No, you’re gorgeous. Seriously,” Daria assures her, and adds with a sly smile, “Gorgeous enough to go to the wedding of two total strangers, even.”

“I keep telling you, they aren’t total strangers. Well, the bride isn’t, anyway. Mia came to me for a reading. It was the Fourth of July and—”

“And her friend saw your sign—” Familiar with the oft-repeated tale almost six months later, Daria gestures toward the window on the far wall, where neon letters announce, Madame Tamar, Psychic and Spiritualist.

“Right, and her friend—her name’s Lenore—dragged her in off the street and—”

“And that pretty much makes Mia a total stranger. Like I said.”

“Not anymore.”

“You haven’t even seen her since that one time.”

“No, but her friend Lenore keeps coming back for readings and she keeps me updated.” Tammy leans into the nearest mirror, festooned with a fresh holly garland.

Pursing her lips into an O, she dabs a fingertip at the corner of her mouth. “And anyway,” she says, a little distorted by the O, “if it weren’t for me, Mia and Dominic wouldn’t be together in the first place.”

“I don’t know about that. People find each other and fall in love on their own all the time.”

Not that Daria herself has ever experienced true love, despite a whirlwind marriage.

But still.

“Well, I’m taking credit for this Chickalini wedding,” Tammy declares firmly. “I told Mia she was going to be married before the year was out. To a man whose name starts with a D and ends in a K sound. And even Lenore said that if it weren’t for me, Mia wouldn’t have been open to Dominic when they met.”

“Maybe… maybe not.”

“Come on, Daria. The woman sits next to some strange guy on an airplane—and the next thing you know, they’re getting married in a Vegas?”

“She was wearing a wedding gown when she got on the plane,” Daria points out, amused by the tale despite having heard it ad nauseam. “She was headed out there to get married as it was.”

“Yeah, but not to Dominic. She was going to marry someone else, sight unseen. Listen, you can’t argue with fact. I saw it, all of it, from the second I touched her hand back in July. When I’m right, I’m right.”

Okay, Tammy does have a point there.

When she’s right, she’s right.

And when she’s wrong…

She often finds herself in trouble. How many times in the past few months since she came to visit Tammy has Daria opened the door to find a tearful—or worse yet, furious—client demanding to know why Madame Tamar’s prediction didn’t come true?

People in that frame of mind aren’t interested in understanding how these things work. They don’t care about how challenging it is to interpret symbols and images and comprehend cryptic messages from the spirit world.

They just want to know why they haven’t come into a big sum of money or landed a new job or fallen in love or whatever it was Madame Tamar foresaw in their future. Sometimes, they even demand their money back.

Sure, Tammy is making a decent living, and yes, she rolls with the punches… but is all that stress and responsibility really worthwhile? As far as Daria’s concerned, Tammy would be better off keeping her paranormal gifts to herself.

Right. Just like I do.

Daria learned years ago—the hard way—that it’s better not to meddle in other people’s lives—no matter how much you know about them, or how sincere your intentions are. She vowed never again to let the spirit world steer her to alter a stranger’s path. Too risky, no matter what her sister says.

We’re just so different, Tammy and me. It’s a wonder we get along as well as we do.

She’s glad she came here for a visit—on a whim, of course—rather than hang around in Arizona twiddling her thumbs and waiting for George’s business to open. Tammy welcomed her warmly and told her to stay as long as she wanted.

I’ll bet she never thought she’d still be stuck with me three months later, Daria thinks wryly. Not that Tammy seems to mind. In fact, she gets wistful whenever Daria mentions going back out to Arizona, which she has to do sooner or later, since that’s her new home.

“All I know,” Tammy tells her, “is that I’m glad Mia and Dominic are having an official wedding so their families can share the joy. And I’m glad they invited me because I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks. I’ve got to get going if I’m going to make it out to Astoria on time.”

“Have fun.”

“I’m sure I will.” Tammy turns away from the mirror and reaches for her warm winter coat, draped over a nearby chair. “Who doesn’t love weddings?”

“I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Sour grapes?” she asks, tongue in cheek.

“Oh, come on, Daria.” Tammy shakes her head and looks like she wants to say something more.

This time, for a change, she leaves it at that.

At the door, she turns back. “Listen, if anyone drops in for a reading, feel free to pinch hit for me.”

“Ha, not a chance.”

“Yeah, I figured. But it never hurts to ask. Especially considering you’re just hanging around, anyway, since you happen not to have plans on a Saturday night.”

“Do I ever?”

“You could have a date every night if you didn’t scare away every guy who shows interest.”

“Right. I put on a rubber mask and say boo when I see them coming.” Daria grins.

“You might as well.”

She shrugs. Yes, she’s been asked out by a few decent guys since she arrived in New York in October and hit on by countless others who might be more—well, indecent. She’s just not interested in a fling—which is all a potential romance could ever be here, because she’s not going to be sticking around much longer.

Which is exactly the excuse she used when she was living—albeit briefly, so far—out in Phoenix. And before that, in LA. Which was right after New Orleans, where she went for Mardis Gras and decided to live, staying until just after Easter, when the soggy heat set in.

“Anyway,” she tells Tammy, “you should talk. I don’t see you out there dating.”

“You know I can’t do that.” Tammy hasn’t dated since losing her husband, tragically, to cancer years ago.

“You can, but you won’t.”

“Because I can’t,” Tammy says simply, opening the door. “Have a cozy night, honey.”

“Have a thrilling night, yourself.”

Listening to her sister’s ruby shoes creaking down the stairs, Daria heaves a sigh.

Alone at last. Privacy doesn’t come easily when you’re sharing a drab five-hundred-square-foot one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of an old building.

Though the place is looking pretty spectacular at the moment, if Daria does say so herself.

It wasn’t easy to find fresh holiday greens in the heart of Manhattan, but she managed. Now the halls are decked with lush lengths of boxwood and holly, even sprigs of real mistletoe. Tiny white twinkle lights are strung from the crown moldings, and pots of poinsettias in shades of creamy pink and white are clustered on every possible surface.

Elegantly decorating Tammy’s apartment for the holidays reminded Daria that while she doesn’t long to return to the days of comparing paint samples with a washed-up Hollywood actress, she actually does miss being creative and productive.

But do you miss it enough to go back to Phoenix and a full-time job?

With a sigh, she decides some music is in order.

Something loud and mindless, good old-fashioned classic rock and roll.

She plugs herself into her iPod and scrolls until she gets to the Rolling Stones. Perfect. The Stones are her all-time favorite. You can’t mope around when you’re listening to Mick. She cranks the volume, kicks off her own sneakers, and stretches out on the couch.

It’s not exactly the most comfortable piece of furniture in the world, and has doubled as her bed ever since she came to visit her sister a few months ago. It was supposed to be only temporary.

Like everything else in my life.

She’d become restless waiting around in Phoenix for George’s contractor boyfriend to finish work on the new design studio, which was taking a lot longer than anyone expected.

Her plane had barely touched down at JFK when George’s boyfriend flew the coop, leaving George to not only mend his broken heart, but begin the search for a new contractor. As of Thanksgiving, work was once again underway… but progressing painstakingly. Or maybe. . .