WAS A BAD DAY for a wedding.
Francie Morelli gazed down the red-carpeted aisle toward the altar, where her handsome husband-to-be, Matt Carson, all smiles and nervous perspiration in a black Armani tux, awaited her arrival, and knew this with a certainty.
Though unlike Matt, Francie wasn’t nervous, just panicked. The kind of panic you get when you can’t catch your breath or feel as though you might throw up.
Okay, so maybe she was a teensy bit nervous.
Even though she’d done the wedding thing twice before and knew what to expect. Not that she had ever actually made it all the way to the altar and said her “I dos.”
Not that she would get that far this time, either.
Swallowing with some difficulty at the dangerous thoughts going through her mind, she tried to ignore the “Run, Francie, run!” mantra currently playing to the tune of “Burn, Baby, Burn” from Disco Inferno, the song so popular in the 70s.
The choice of music was a bad omen. Burning in hell was a likely possibility if she didn’t go through with this wedding, which was probably the lesser of the two evils, because she knew Josephine Morelli’s punishment would be far worse. Traveling on her mother’s guilt trips was like taking a go-cart tour of hell.
Through her blush veil—flapping like a leaf in high wind due to her labored breathing—she could see her mother, dressed in a lovely, silk, teal-blue dress, hands locked in prayer and supplication, pleading with the Almighty to let her daughter have the courage to go through with the ceremony this time. The older woman’s tear-filled eyes—Francie knew there were tears because her mother liked to make a good showing at public events (funerals were her specialty)—were fixed on the massive gold crucifix hanging above the altar, as if by sheer will alone she could command God to do her bidding, as Josephine had commanded Francie so many times before.
Fortunately for the world at large, God seemed to have a stronger backbone than Francie.
A hushed silence surrounded her as those in attendance waited to see if she would actually go through with the ceremony. Aunt Flo was biting her nails to the quick, while Grandma Abrizzi had her rosary beads clacking at top speed. No one could recite the rosary faster than Loretta Abrizzi, who was a definite contender for the Guinness Book of World Records.
Francie’s sixteen-year-old brother, Jack, had taken perverse delight in explaining that several of the male guests, her uncles in particular, had placed bets on the outcome of today’s event. The odds were five-to-one that she would never see her wedding night.
Ha! A lot they knew!
She’d already had several wedding nights, though she hadn’t bothered with the wedding part. She likened it to eating dessert before dinner—the yum without the humdrum.
Not that Francie had anything in particular against matrimony. It just wasn’t right for her. She had no desire to become an extension of a man and to cater to his whims.
Though Josephine was a strong woman, who came across as an independent sort, the woman lived for her children and husband. And even though John Morelli was a great guy and a terrific father, he liked things just so—like dinner on the table promptly at five o’clock every evening, his boxers ironed without creases and no interruptions during his weekly poker game with the guys.
Of course, Francie had a theory about her mother’s catering to her family’s needs. It was Josephine’s way to control, to retain the upper hand with her husband and children, and she did it extremely well. Just as she had turned meddling into an art form.
Meddling, like marriage, was another one of those M-words that Francie hated: meddling, marriage, menstruation, menopause, milk of magnesia—Josephine’s remedy for every childhood ailment—and last but not least, Matt, the last in a long line of M fiancés.
No. M-words were definitely not good. She’d have to remember that the next time she dated, if there was a next time. At the moment that seemed remote…redundant…and oh, so ridiculous.
She would not allow her mother to bully her again.
Period.
Standing beside Francie, John Morelli clutched his daughter’s arm in a death grip, trying to keep her steady and on course. But Francie knew, just as he did, that it wouldn’t. She was in collision mode and there was no way to avoid it.
Still, he had to try. His wife would expect no less. And John, like most of the Morellis, wasn’t going to buck Josephine’s wedding obsession. Not if he wanted a moment’s peace.
Josephine was in no way, shape or form a passive-aggressive personality. The outspoken woman just came out and told you exactly what she thought and what she expected you to do about it. There was never a moment’s doubt where you stood with the overbearing woman, lovingly nicknamed “The Terminator” by her three children.
It wasn’t that the Morelli kids didn’t love their mother; they did. It was just that Josephine was not an easy woman to deal with. Forget about living with her!
Francie’s toes began to tingle—a surefire indication that flight was imminent. She wiggled them, hoping and praying that the urge to flee would pass. If not, the white satin shoes she wore would, like Dorothy’s ruby slippers, whisk her away from the solemn occasion to her favorite place of refuge: Manny’s Little Italy Deli. There she knew the owner, former high school classmate, Manny Delisio, would be waiting for her with a pastrami on rye and a large diet Coke.
Okay, so stress made her hungry!
Her roommate, Leo Bergmann, suitably armed with a packed suitcase and a train ticket to an as-yet-unknown destination, would also be there to offer moral support and a stern lecture. He was almost as good as Josephine when it came to offering opinions and advice that no one wanted, only he did it with a bit more finesse.
Francie and Leo had agreed that if it looked as though she was going to bolt, Leo would leave the ceremony early, head down to Manny’s and proceed with the travel arrangements he’d previously put into motion.
The last time Francie had run, Leo had chosen New York City as her escape destination. A great choice, in her opinion, for she’d been able to lose herself among the throngs of people, become invisible, and get her head back on straight before returning to face the music—translation: Josephine’s ranting about what an ungrateful daughter she had.
Unfortunately the time before that—the first time, when Francie had fled the arms of the unfortunate Marty Ragusa, “Philadelphia’s only undertaker with panache,” as he called himself on those stupid TV commercials he appeared in—Leo had picked Pittsburgh. It hadn’t been far enough away from Philadelphia or her mother, who had tracked her down like a bloodhound with a nose bent on revenge.
Josephine’s anger had given new meaning to the term “pissed off.” Though Francie wasn’t entirely certain that her mother hadn’t been more upset about losing her discount on funerals and burial plots than losing Marty for a son-in-law.
Patting his daughter’s hand reassuringly, John leaned over and smiled lovingly. The scent of Old Spice washed over Francie, conjuring up many good childhood memories, including her dad pushing her on the backyard swing or helping with division and multiplication problems.
“Don’t be nervous, cara mia. Soon this will be over and you’ll be married and settled down. It’s the right thing to do, you’ll see. And it will make your mother very happy. You know how she’s waited for this day.”
The second coming paled by comparison!
Francie adored her father and wanted to agree with him; she wanted that more than anything. But words of reassurance stuck in her throat like oversize peanuts and all she could offer up was a gaseous smile and a deer-in-the-headlights look.
Behind her, red-haired Joyce Rialto, her best friend since first grade, muttered, “Uh-oh,” and then began cursing obscenities beneath her breath.
Joyce knew Francie a little too well, unfortunately.