Page 48 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

‘Holy shit!’ I shrieked, flying out of my seat and falling back down with a thud, too shocked to breathe. There it was – the key to the mystery of Mother Mary’s apparition.

With her hands laced over her trim waist, she was not, in fact, Mother Mary but MotherMarcy. In one of her silk scarves – a blue one. She must have convinced Giacomo to drive her all the way down there for her own bout of reminiscing. There was no other explanation.

And now that everyone had taken her for the Virgin Mary (I know, you gotta laugh), she’d inadvertently (one hopes) given the competition something they could use as leverage to increment their business exponentially. Or, better yet, miraculously. I couldn’t believe our rivals’ luck. Just a couple of coincidences had led people to believe the place had been graced by the presence of the Madonna.

While I respected every religion, I just wished that those worshippers hadn’t instantly dropped to the ground as if they’d been shot in the knees without even suspecting that it wasn’t the real deal. But then I suppose that’s what they mean by blind faith.

Only this religious fervor, which was based on a false apparition, was ruining my family’s business. But I had a plan. After the miraculous apparition-cum-miracle play, they were in for a mystery play.

*

‘Dammit, Erica, when you asked me to dress up like Madonna, I actually had something else in mind!’ Paul hissed as we descended from my Fiat 500L onto the dusty, deserted road just about one hundred meters from the turn-off to Tasting Tuscany. By now, I knew my way around blindfolded.

At this ungodly hour, when everyone else was having their siesta to stay out of the sweltering heat, we were the only ones around. Julian would have said ‘Only mad dogs and Englishmen,’ while I’d have said, ‘Only provoked kick-ass businesswomen determined to get their lives back.’ And determined I was, to give the security cameras – and the Cascianis – the show of their lives. Because so far, my marketing strategies had managed to only bring a few guests in. If I could have a full occupancy for the summer, it would have paid for part of the wedding. Not that it was anything fancy. Just a small ceremony with our closest and dearest, a priest, a few flowers and a great dinner. But after this little foray, I knew I had to get back to proper strategizing.

‘Oh, come on, Paulie. You always wanted to dress in drag. So what are you complaining about? Here’s your chance. Now put these on and listen to me. All you have to do is lope down the hill with your hands joined as if you were praying. Clear?’

Then, at home, all I’d have to do is add a dissolve effect on him as if he’d vanished into thin air.

Paul mumbled something that sounded like ‘blasphemous bitch’, but I was on a mission.

‘Are we clear?’ I insisted.

‘Yes!’ he hissed back, snatching the virginal clothes from me as I filmed him while he pulled them on. Which was, if you’ll pardon the pun, the wholecruxof the matter.

I paused my camera. ‘Now say your lines,’ I urged, and he obediently delivered them in an authentic Tuscan accent.

‘And cut!’ I said, beaming. ‘You should be in pictures.’

‘Yeah. If I get into trouble, you’re paying bail,’ he muttered.

‘The original image is fuzzy and this will be a match. No one’s going to recognize you,’ I assured. ‘But the whole region is going to find out what scammers Tasting Tuscany are.’

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ Paul asked. ‘Why won’t you just let go of it – let bygones be bygones and all that kind of stuff and concentrate on your wedding instead?’

‘Because this is just as important to me.’

‘Well, that’s a mouthful. If I had a guy like Julian who wanted to marry me, I wouldn’t worry about anything else.’

I huffed. Why did my Paulie, my very BFF, not understand? ‘If I let go, the Cascianis, or anyone else around here, will think they can treat our family like that and just get away with it. This will teach them a lesson once and for all.’

‘I think you’re tempting fate. I hope you’re right and that it all doesn’t come back to you as bad karma.’

*

On the evening in honor of Mother Marcy’s appearance, the original video featuring Marcy was scheduled to play on mega-screen at our rival B & B. Believe it or not, even the local press was there. So I had Giacomo’s cousin switch tapes at the last minute and stick around to watch people’s faces while I watched it from home on the news.

Knowing what was coming, I felt a pang of guilt, but then I squared my shoulders. The Cascianis had been the ones to come here under the pretense of being paying guests while instead spying on our business. They’d taken pictures of every nook and cranny, copied every said nook and cranny in their own farmhouse, copied our logo, copied our name and planted a rat on our property, to boot. They’d even taken pictures of the rat and pretended to be the Health and Safety board threatening to close us down if we didn’t surrender spontaneously. I was only fighting back.

As we watched the footage, me from home and all the faithfuls from the Casciani grounds, the screen lit up and someone whom only I knew was Paul yanked on a blue frock and a veil, grumbling, in perfect Italian: ‘With all the money Tasting Tuscany is making out of this scam, if they want their third video, they’ll have to cough up at least double the price!’

There. A taste of their own medicine. Served them right for messing with me.

The result of my bit of film editing was, as you can imagine,biblical. Camera crews, newspapers and anyone with a digital camera gathered at the entrance as the frontliners pounded at the doors that the Cascianis had run behind and bolt-locked.

The management wasn’t making any comments and only the guests – very few, at this point – were allowed to come and go by displaying a special pass. Even the localCarabinieri, who carry out domestic policing duties, and the financial police, theGuardia di Finanza, and my NAS buddies from Health and Safety were involved as the angry Catholics wanted their pound of flesh from the Cascianis, who had dared mock their faith.

Just so we’re clear. I am a Catholic. And although my first husband, Ira, is Jewish, I’d managed to have the kids christened at one point. And in the worst moments of my life I’ve found myself praying and it’s helped me no end. This had nothing to do with mocking religion. If anything, this was a defense of what was most precious to me. This was, in the style of Vito Corleone inThe Godfather, strictly business. And in the style of Erica Cantelli, They want to mess with me? I will mess with them.

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