Page 16 of Things We Fake
By twelve-thirty, I’d tried on almost every hat in the store. There had been bucket hats that were either too big or too small, turbans in every imaginable color, size, and pattern, some with gemstones, fake fruit, or feathers attached to them. One of them made me look like I’d collided with a fruit truck. I’d tried on ball caps, flat caps, and visor beret caps that had looked promising until I put them on and the only thing keeping them above my eyes were my ears. Upon my head, Ange had perched a plethora of fedoras, wide brim sunhats, festival hats, bowlers, cloches, and derbies. The absolute worse had been the feather fascinator that resembled a life-sized swan. I didn’t care if the damn thing laid golden eggs, enough was enough. There was a limit to how far I would go for my friends, and I’d reached it.
“That’s it.” I folded my arms over my chest. “I’m done trying.”
“You’re being too picky,” Lily said. “What about that pale blue feathered headband? It was cute.”
I frowned. “For the lead role in Swan Lake maybe. Ballet was never my forte. As my dad put it, I had all the grace and elegance ofun cucciolo di ippopotamo. That’s a baby hippo. He teased with love, but there is some truth to that.”
Ange rolled her eyes at me. “Don’t listen to Papa Morelli. I’m not giving up on you. I won’t consider this a failure, but a strategic withdrawal.”
I shook my head. “Come on. If I even look at another hat today, I’ll puke.”
* **
It was just before five when I dragged my exhausted body up the stairs and unlocked the door to my apartment. Tossing my purse on the counter, I removed my coat and boots and padded into the kitchen.
Since Sunday night was my night to call home, I rarely made plans that might interfere with that ritual. Generally, when talking to Mom and Dad, I started out nostalgic for home, and ended up grateful I’d escaped with my dignity more or less intact.
As a rule, I called at six, knowing that, by then, my parents would be finished working for the day, as well as my brother, Paul, and his wife, Michelle. Mom served dinner promptly at seven, so they wouldn’t be eating yet. Like any Italian, Dad hated having his meals interrupted.
I settled on the sofa, pressed the familiar speed dial button, and waited for my mother to pick up. It rang three times, then I heard my mother’s voice, cool as a chilled Chianti.
“Hello, Susanne.” She rarely shortened my name. “How was your week?”
“It was good, Mom—well, except for the storm on Friday.”
Weather was the safest topic. I filled her in on stuff from school and avoided mentioning Cam or Sam. None of the excitement in my life made it past my internal censors.
“I went hat shopping with the girls today for the Easter Parade,” I finished. “I’m sorry you won’t get a chance to see it.”
Mom chuckled. “Actually… I’m going to put you on speaker. Your father and I have news.”
“Ciao, bambina!” My father’s voice filled the room—a jovial tenor sound that would have made Pavarotti proud.
“Hi, Papa.” A smile crept into my voice. I’d always been closer to my father than any other member of my family.
Mom spoke again, excitement bubbling in her usually composed tone. “We’re coming to New York City for Easter! Isn’t that wonderful? Michelle and I can come to the parade.”
I choked on the mouthful of beer and felt the blood leave my face.
Wonderful? It was a freaking nightmare!
I swallowed the panic threatening to choke me. This was not wonderful news. This was a disaster of epic proportions! I loved my family, truly, but I didn’t want them anywhere near New York. This was my sanctuary. The Fortress of Sue-tude. My one safe space away from small-town gossip, Neil’s smug face, and Mom’s mission to marry me off as though I was in a Jane Austen reboot.
“Mom, that’s… that’s amazing… I don’t know what to say. I’d love to put you up here, but I only have one bedro—”
“Don’t be silly,” Michelle said. “Dad and Paul are attending a winery machinery convention. We’ll arrive on Thursday and leave Monday. We’ll be staying at the Fraser Arms, three blocks from Time Square.”
I let out the breath I’d been strangling on. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t the actual end of the world. If they were booked into a hotel and had a full itinerary, maybe I could steer them clear of my love life—or lack thereof.
I cleared my throat. “That sounds wonderful, Mom. You and Michelle can join us at the parade. Then, we can all go out to dinner.”
“As long as it’s real food,” my dad said. “None of that fake meat and seaweed.”
I chuckled and rolled my eyes. “Yes, Papa. We have beef in Manhattan. I’ll even take you to Little Italy. Real Italian food, I promise.”
“And we can ask Neil to join us for dinner,” my mother said. “He’ll be at the convention, too. You heard he and Sally are getting a divorce? I can’t imagine why. Neil is such a lovely young man. Anyway, he’s single again, and you aren’t getting any younger. Those ovaries will shrivel before you know it.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Elaine.” My father sounded half-exasperated, half-amused. “Let the girl be. Monica Bellucci had her kids at forty and forty-five. Us Italians—we take our time, we do things with passion. Not everything’s a rush to the altar and a nursery full ofbambinos.”
