Читать книгу Staying Single - Millie Criswell - Страница 12

IT WAS THE MOST depressing wedding reception Mark had ever attended, and he’d been to some strange ones in his thirty-four years.

Of course, unhappiness tended to set in when there was no bride in attendance.

But Steve and Laura Fielding had decided that since the reception at the Hyatt Regency was already paid for, thirty pounds of fresh shrimp stood to go to waste—not to mention massive amounts of liquor—and Matt hadn’t wanted to disappoint his high school and college buddies, many of whom had traveled great distances to be with him on his special day, the reception would go on as planned.

Mark’s stepmom had always been a practical woman—practical, loving and wise. After his mother had died in a tragic car accident, Mark had lucked out the day his father had found such a wonderful woman to marry and to make a new life with.

Mark had been four years old at the time of Helena Fielding’s death, and six by the time his dad had re-married his former secretary, Laura Carson. And he had never felt anything but love and kindness from the pretty petite blonde.

Laura had stepped into her role as his mother with enthusiasm and caring, giving Mark all the love and attention he craved. And even though she had a son of her own, two years his junior by a previous marriage, Mark had never felt slighted or the need to compete with his stepbrother. In fact, he and Matt were as close as or closer than brothers who’d been delivered from the same womb.

Spotting his brother seated at a table across the large ballroom, the lights of the crystal chandelier glittering down upon him, illuminating his cheerless expression, Mark moved to join him.

Sympathetic friends and family had surrounded Matt all evening, making it impossible for Mark to have a serious discussion about the flighty woman in white satin who’d deserted his little brother.

Trisha Yearwood’s version of “How Will I Live?” blared from the DJ’s oversize speakers, and Mark thought it a fitting tune for the occasion—maudlin without being overly sickening.

Pulling out a chair, he sat. “I’m sorry as hell about all this, Matt, but I guess you already know that.”

Matt, who’d already consumed four beers and was halfway through his fifth, looked up and nodded, his slightly crooked smile sad. “I never saw it coming, Mark. It was love at first sight, a whirlwind courtship. Francie seemed so perfect for me. I thought for sure that she loved me as much as I loved her.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Guess I was wrong.”

Noting the hurt in his brother’s eyes, the slump to his shoulders, Mark cursed softly under his breath, wishing he had Francesca Morelli in front of him at that moment.

Didn’t the woman have a conscience?

Didn’t the selfish bitch know how much she had hurt Matt?

Didn’t she care?

Obviously the answer was no, on all three counts.

Grabbing one of the Bud Lights, he popped it open and downed the liquid in one gulp. “I haven’t had much luck with women, bro. I find them to be heartless creatures with a phobia to commit.”

“You’re probably right. Francie’s run before. A mutual friend told me that she’d left her two previous fiancés at the altar. Even so, I never expected it to happen to me. Guess I was stupid to think it’d be different this time.”

Mark’s look was incredulous. His brother was even more naive than he thought. “You knew this about the woman and still you wanted to marry her? Unbelievable.”

“I loved her. Still do, as a matter of fact. Love is funny like that. It blinds you to people’s flaws, makes you do crazy things. You’ve never been in love, so you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about, Mark.”

Wrong! Mark knew in spades. He’d been in love once, with the faithless Nicole Gordon. The woman had cheated on him, lied about it, ripped out his heart and stomped all over it with her four-inch heels, then married the bastard with whom she’d been having the affair.

Mark knew all he wanted to know about women.

“You shouldn’t have rushed into marriage, Matt. Three months is not long enough to get to know someone you intend to spend the rest of your life with.”

“You’re not trying to give me advice, are you?” Matt shook his head. “Not with your track record and failure rate? Unfriggingbelievable.”

“Touché. But you looked like you needed some advice and cheering up, so here I am.” Grinning, Mark knocked his brother on the arm. “Come on, bro. Buck up. You dodged a bullet today, if you ask me. Obviously this Francie isn’t in her right mind if she’s willing to give up a great guy like you. And what do you really know about her?”

“She comes from a large Italian family. Josephine and John Morelli are nice people, though the mother is a bit controlling.”

“I take it Josephine was the harridan in the blue dress that kept screaming and wailing that this couldn’t be happening again, then crossing herself in front of the altar and vowing revenge?”

Matt finally smiled. “That’s the one. Josephine’s a bit high-strung. She drives Francie nuts. I admit I was a bit apprehensive about having her for a mother-in-law, but Francie assured me that her mom’s bark is worse than her bite, which is good, because the woman seemed a bit rabid at times.”

“I take it Francie doesn’t live with her parents, then?”

“She’s got an apartment near Rittenhouse Square. Lives with some guy named Leo Bergmann. He has money, apparently.”

Mark’s brow lifted. “Maybe he’s the reason she’s hesitant to wed. Maybe they’ve got something going.”

“I’ve met Leo. He’s a really nice guy, but women aren’t his thing, if you get my drift.”

“Gotcha. So, what does Francie do for a living? Does she have a job?”

“She works at a small public relations firm downtown.”

“Which one?”

Matt’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why are you asking so many questions about Francie? It’s a bit moot at this point, don’t you think? It’s over. I only allow myself one public humiliation in a lifetime.”

Sipping his beer, Mark tried to look nonchalant. He had his reasons for asking the probing questions. If he had anything to say about it—and he was pretty sure he did—Francie Morelli had dumped her last groom.

Of course, he didn’t intend to let his lovesick brother in on his plan, which was just starting to take shape.

It was time someone taught this Morelli woman a lesson, gave her a bit of her own medicine, so she could experience just how rotten it was to play with other people’s emotions and lives.

At the moment he wasn’t sure how, but he intended to extract a pound of flesh for what his brother had gone through.

An eye for an eye. A wedding for a wedding. A bride for a groom.

THE DOORBELL BUZZED three times and Francie froze, a sick feeling forming in the pit of her stomach.

“Please, God, don’t let it be my mother!”

Her mother knew, by osmosis, voodoo or tarot readings that Francie was back in town. How she knew, Francie wasn’t certain. The woman had a sixth sense when it came to her children, and Francie lived in fear that Josephine was standing on the other side of her apartment door, waiting to pounce.

“Francie, it’s me. Open up. I know you’re in there.”

Releasing the breath she was holding, Francie unlocked the door to find her sister in mid-knock. Lisa was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt, her long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked understated and chic. Not that Lisa would care. Her sister wasn’t into fashion. And she had no idea how attractive she was, which was a big part of her charm.

Smiling smugly, Lisa, all one hundred and ten pounds of her, pushed her way in with the same determination as a three-hundred-pound linebacker. “Thought it was Ma, huh? Well, that’s what you get for sneaking out of town and letting the rest of us take the heat. Dealing with The Terminator wasn’t pretty, I can tell you that. This past week has been pure hell. It’s a wonder Dad still has his hearing. I had no idea that Mom’s vocabulary had grown so much. She used curse words that even I’ve never heard of.”

Francie sighed. “Sorry to put you and Dad through that, but I’ve had my own week of hell.”

“Oh, well, that makes me feel a bit better then. Not!” Lisa plopped down on the red leather sofa studded with brass tacks and reached for the bowl of toffee peanuts Leo always left on the coffee table.

Lisa ate like a pig and never gained an ounce: Francie thought it was extremely unfair. She had cellulite in places she didn’t want to think about.

“How come your week was so bad?” Lisa asked between munches.

“Niagara Falls. Need I say more?”

Her sister burst out laughing, nearly choking on a nut in the process. “Leo’s got a great sense of humor, I’ll give him that. Got any diet Coke? These nuts are making me thirsty.”

“In the fridge. And I don’t see anything remotely funny about it,” Francie called after her sister, who had headed off to the kitchen in search of a soda. “I didn’t laugh the entire time I was there.” Though she did a great deal of crying and soul-searching.

Being surrounded by happy, loving couples had been torturous for Francie, who didn’t believe she would ever marry someone she loved, much less make it to the honeymoon portion. Not that she wanted to. But still…

She’d had three opportunities and blown them all—the opportunities, not the…

Whatever!

And she still had mixed feelings about the matrimonial state. The idea of living the rest of her life alone was depressing, but not enough to make her want to saddle herself to some man just for the sake of companionship or, God forbid, to make her mother happy.

Not that such a thing was possible!

Josephine rained down gloom and doom wherever she went and could always find the negative in any given situation.

At any rate, Francie thought, staying single wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. She still had her health, friends…a good job.

Oh, God! She was starting to sound like her mother!

Shoot me now!

So what if she never met Mr. Right or had children? The whole marriage and family thing was entirely overrated. She knew hype when she heard it. Since working in publicity and promotion, she could B.S. with the best of them.

And twenty-nine wasn’t exactly spinsterish.

Okay, so Aunt Flo wasn’t married and had turned into a miserable shrew, which was a nice way of saying that the woman was a raving bitch.

But that didn’t mean anything.

Aunt Flo probably hadn’t had sex in a billion years, which no doubt accounted for her sour disposition. And she had that knuckle-cracking thing going against her.

Francie’s dry spell had been long, but not that long.

“I leave you alone for two minutes and you look like you’ve lost your best friend. What’s wrong?” Lisa handed Francie a soda, then sat back down on the sofa. “I’m all ears, if you care to share the ugly details.”

Francie heaved a dispirited sigh. “My life’s a mess, Lisa. I’ve ruined three relationships and hurt some very nice men in the process. I’m confused about what it is I want from life, mad at Mom for putting me in this situation, over and over again, and I’ve gained three pounds. I’m miserable, not to mention, bloated.”

“So you’re a bitch. Get over it.” Grinning at Francie’s blossoming outrage, Lisa added, “Just kidding.” Stuffing a throw pillow behind her head, she reclined on the sofa, not bothering to remove her shoes.

Where Francie was a neatnik, Lisa was somewhat of a slob. Sharing a bedroom with her as a teenager had been a nightmare. Francie had never known where candy wrappers and soda cans were going to show up.

“First of all, those men entered into their relationships with eyes wide open,” Lisa went on. “Okay, maybe not the undertaker, since he was the first victim, er, I mean, prospective groom, but the other two knew of your penchant for running and they still proposed.

“You’re no Julia Roberts, but you have given her a bit of competition as the Runaway Bride.

“Second, Mom is never going to change, so you need to stand up to her or accept that she’s going to meddle. And you wear a size ten, so I’m not at all sorry for you.”

Easy to say from someone who wore a six, Francie thought.

“And finally, I hope you do get married one of these days because then Mom will get off my back.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Isn’t that the truth? I was looking through her dresser drawer for a scarf the other day and found a list of prospective grooms she’d been making for me.” Lisa made a face, then a gagging noise. “Alan Swarski was on the list. Can you imagine? Alan Swarski! The man is almost sixty and has grandchildren. What can she be thinking? He has nose hair, not to mention a gut, for chrissake! What am I, desperate? I do have some pride, after all.”

“If he’s breathing, he’s an eligible candidate.”

The front door opened and Leo strolled in carrying a white bakery bag. He smiled widely when he spotted Lisa. “Hey, girl! You’re looking good. I bought bagels and cream cheese, if you’re hungry.” He held up the bag and the enticing aroma of freshly baked bagels clouded the room.

Francie’s stomach rumbled. “I am. Hand them over.”

“Bagels.” Lisa’s face fell. “I was hoping for a ham sandwich.”

“On Sunday morning? I always buy bagels for Francie and me on Sunday. It’s tradition. And since she just got home late last night I figured she’d need refueling before facing your mother.”

He turned to Francie, a worried look on his face—though not as worried as Francie’s—and handed her the bag. “Has Josephine called?”

Francie shook her head. “Not yet. Ma’s got a bar mitzvah this afternoon that’s been on her schedule for weeks. That’ll keep her busy for a while. She’ll be mentally calculating all the money the Goldstein kid receives, then comparing it to the other bar mitzvahs she’s attended to see how the Goldsteins stack up in popularity.”

Popularity in her parents’ neighborhood was often gauged by the amount of money that was taken in at religious events such as weddings, christenings and bar mitzvahs. And God forbid if small flower arrangements or a poor showing at a viewing occurred during a funeral. You might as well pack up and leave town in that case, for it meant you were persona non grata.

Francie didn’t fully understand the hierarchy, rules and social strata that comprised an ethnic neighborhood, but she knew they existed.

“You’re only postponing the inevitable, Francie. You know that, don’t you?” Leo leveled a disappointed look at her. “At some point you’ve got to face your mother. Now is as good a time as any.”

Lisa, having noted Francie’s horrified expression, quickly changed the subject, much to Francie’s great relief.

“So, who’s your latest love interest, Leo?” Lisa asked in her usual tactless manner.

Francie knew her sister was not known for her finesse. In fact, Lisa was enough like Josephine to be scary.

“I saw you at Club Zero last night,” she went on. “The guy you were with was cute. To tell you the truth, it made me rather jealous. There aren’t enough men out there, as it is. Damn shame all the good ones are either married or gay.”

The blond man, who resembled a young Elton John, grinned. “I’m taking that as a compliment, sweetie. Phillip’s his name and he’s an architect. We exchanged phone numbers. Nothing more.”

“Well, that’s better than I did. Molly and I struck out. No wonder they call the place Club Zero.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Francie said. “Men, present company excepted, are more trouble than they’re worth. You’re better off alone.”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to get married. I just want to get laid. It’s been so long I’m going to forget how to do it. And don’t tell me it’s like riding a bike. Even bike parts rust.”

“Why didn’t you just ask some guy for his phone number?” Leo took a seat on an overstuffed chair. “This is the new millennium. You’re entitled.”

“Quit trying to lead my baby sister astray, Leo. I don’t want her hooking up with a serial rapist.”

“Ha!” Francie’s sister rolled her eyes. “Fat chance of that happening. I usually attract serial geeks, not rapists.”

The phone rang and everyone froze, staring at it as if it were an evil entity out to do them harm.

“It’s Mom,” Lisa said.

Shaking her head, Francie took several steps back, wishing she had a string of garlic around her neck, or at the very least, a gold crucifix. “I’m not taking her call. Tell Mom I died, that I fell over the falls. Tell her anything, but don’t tell her I’m here.”

“Coward,” Leo said, reaching for the portable phone. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Morelli. Yes, Francie’s right here. Hold on. I’ll get her for you.”

“Bastard!” Francie took the phone from Leo’s hand, none too gently, and shook it at him. “I’ll get you for this.”

Lisa popped more nuts into her mouth and, like any good sibling, enjoyed watching her sister squirm.

Francie prayed that the floor beneath her feet would open up and swallow her whole. A trip straight to hell would be preferable to explaining to Josephine why wedding number three had been a no go.