Olive Oil and White Bread (2 page)

Angie spoke louder than she wanted to so she could be heard over Guns N' Roses belting “Sweet Child O' Mine” from the jukebox. “Is it just me or is this place crawling with dykes?”

Laura's beer dribbled down her chin as she tried to drink and laugh at the same time. She looked around as she wiped her face. “It's not just you. It's Thursday. This place sponsors, like, four softball teams on Thursday. Softball equals us.”

Angie nodded, still not quite used to being part of the “us.” Not quite used to it and not quite comfortable with it, if she was going to be honest. It still felt so new to her, even though Laura said she knew the second they'd met at college their freshman year. Laura had proven the existence of her impeccable gaydar to Angie more than once, so she couldn't really argue with her, but it had taken her three-and-a-half years to figure out what Laura knew immediately.

“You've got a pretty wide selection here,” Laura commented with a waggle of eyebrows. “See anything worth trying out? Taking for a spin, perhaps?”

Angie knew that her answer was no, but she made a show of looking
around anyway, scoping out the “merchandise.” Laura was determined to find her a girlfriend, whether Angie was ready for one or not. And Angie felt like Laura had been so patient with her over the years that she owed her at least the pretense of trying. So she continued to scan, stopping here and there then moving her gaze along. To her surprise, her eyes settled on a very pretty woman sitting at the bar, sipping a wine cooler. She wore cut-off denim shorts, much like Angie's, and her auburn hair was French braided down the back of her head. One smooth leg was crossed over the other, and Angie's gaze slid up from ankle to very shapely thigh.

Clenching her straw in her teeth, Angie said quietly, “Wow. She's pretty.”

Laura followed her line of sight then gave her eyes a dramatic roll. “Leave it to you to find the only straight girl in the place. That's Carly's sister,” she said, referring to one of the girls on the team they'd watched. “She watches all Carly's games, then sometimes comes out for a drink. Straight as an arrow.”

“Oh.” The straight girl.
Figures
.

“What about that one?” Laura jerked her head toward the corner of the bar where three jersey-clad women chatted loudly. “The one with the glasses. That's Shirl. She's single.”

Angie shrugged one shoulder and the sound she made was noncommittal. Shirl didn't really float her boat.

“And that's Chris. She just broke up with somebody.”

Angie followed Laura's gaze over her own shoulder. “Which one? Redhead or short blonde?”

“Short blonde.”

She was sort of cute, Angie noted. Boyish. Like Laura. She pressed her lips together and looked around the bar again. She liked cute. She loved athletic. But she didn't want boyish. Or masculine. Or butch. She hesitated to say so to Laura because she was afraid her friend would take it as an insult, but she couldn't help it. She knew what she found attractive and it wasn't a little boy.

“You know who was cute?” she asked Laura, a memory suddenly hitting her. “That blonde at the game.”

Laura furrowed her brows. “Which one?”

“Little with a pony tail. The one who tried to slide into home even though she was out by six miles.”

Laura laughed and shook her head. “That was such a boneheaded move. Who the hell was she trying to impress?”

“I don't know, but I hope she's okay.
She
was cute.” Angie thought back, remembering how attractive she'd immediately found the blonde. She couldn't recall ever having been so physically drawn to somebody she'd never met—and she certainly wasn't going to tell Laura about it and set herself up for teasing—but as they'd approached the game, the blonde was in the on-deck circle and bent over to adjust her cleat. She stood up and then Angie noticed the ponytail sticking out the back of the hat; it was adorable. As they got closer, the blonde turned to look at Angie and smiled. Blue eyes the color of a clear summer sky, and dimples.
Dimples, for crying out loud. That's what did it: the damn dimples; they made her swoon
. Angie smiled back at her because she couldn't help it. The entire time Laura was talking to her in the bleachers, she watched the blonde.
Definitely my type. Definitely cute
.

“Yeah, she is. I'll give you that,” Laura said with a nod. “Her name is Jillian. Her team is sponsored by a different bar, which is why she's not here. I don't know her that well, but I'll ask around, see what I can find out.”

“Great.” Angie didn't expect much, but showing interest in somebody seemed to make Laura happy, and it gave her something to do. Angie wasn't sure how she had ended up as Laura's personal mission, but sometimes she felt like she was disappointing her because she didn't just grab on to a couple of her suggestions and go crazy on them. Or let them go crazy on her. It just wasn't her way. It wasn't how she wanted to do things. Maybe she was old-fashioned, but she hated the idea of having sex with somebody she wasn't in love with.

What she hadn't told Laura was that she hadn't yet actually gone all the way with a girl. Not yet. It was a little odd and a lot embarrassing. She certainly wasn't a virgin. She was twenty-four, for god's sake, and she'd been with a couple different guys. She'd had a boyfriend in high school. She'd had another at the beginning of college. They were nice guys. She'd liked them both a lot. Sex with each of them was . . . well, it was there. At the time, she'd thought she was in love with each of
them. Now she knew that she had just been doing what she thought she was supposed to do after being with a guy for a while. And though it was terribly clichéd to say it, it had been true: there was just something missing for Angie. She didn't think much about it at the time, had no idea exactly what it was until an unfortunate (or rather, fortunate, she thought now) game of spin the bottle at a frat party.

Jennifer Barclay, a breathtaking brunette with creamy pale skin and the most stunning green eyes Angie had ever seen—that was her name, and much to the intoxicated joy of their respective boyfriends, Angie's spin landed squarely on Jennifer.

Angie would never forget it. Jennifer's lips were soft, her mouth was warm and wet—and did she know how to kiss! Her hand slid up the base of Angie's neck and under her hair to hold Angie's face to hers. Angie cupped Jennifer's cheek, and it took every ounce of strength she had not to whimper when Jennifer slipped her tongue in and touched Angie's. Somewhere in the back of Angie's mind, she was sure the guys were going nuts, but to her, it was as if the world had gone silent. There was nothing but Jennifer's mouth and endless time.

To this day, Angie had no idea how long they had actually kissed. She would always believe there was no way Jennifer could have kissed her that way unless (a) she was harboring the same secret Angie was, and maybe didn't know it yet; or (b) she was already gay but was using the boyfriend as cover.

Regardless, Angie would be forever grateful to Jennifer Barclay. She had showed her, finally, exactly, what it was that Angie was missing with her boyfriends.

A girl.

Two

“Something smells good in here,” Angie said as she entered her parents' house for Sunday dinner. Immediately enveloped in the scents of garlic and tomatoes, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Hiya, Pop.” She kissed her father's cheek and watched him stir the sauce in the stockpot on the stove. Despite his lack of height, Joseph Righetti cut an imposing figure. Built like a bulldog, he was compact and muscular, and with his craggy complexion and buzz cut he radiated authority, even as he stood at the stove in a frilly apron, a dishrag over his shoulder. At his job as head of maintenance at the local high school, few employees disrespected him. But they didn't know his secret. They had no idea that deep down, Joe Righetti was nothing more than a big teddy bear, especially when it came to his daughters.

“Hey there, my girl,” he responded, scooping up some sauce and holding it out for Angie to sample. He cupped his free hand below the wooden spoon and asked, “Enough salt?”

Angie smothered a smile as she blew on the sauce, then carefully tasted. He was always asking her if there was enough salt. Or pepper. Or oregano. Or garlic. And it was always just right. It was like a little dance they did each Sunday and Angie loved it. She let the sauce settle on her tongue, reveled in the perfect blend of seasonings, then gave one firm nod. “It's perfect, Pop. As usual. Mama?” As she turned to leave the kitchen in search of her mother, she snagged a meatball off the plate that was piled high with them.

Joe took a swipe at her with his dishrag. “Get!” he scolded as Angie laughed and rushed to escape.

“Mama! Pop's trying to kill me with the
mopine
!”

“Then stop stealing the meatballs,” came her mother's matter-of-fact voice from the living room.

“I wouldn't steal them if they weren't so irresistible,” Angie replied as she approached the couch and gave her mother a kiss, then bit into the ball of beef. “What are we watching?” She knew already it was likely a classic film; her mother loved the oldies.

“
Rear Window
,” she replied, her eyes not leaving the TV screen.

“Ooo, Hitchcock.” Angie sat down next to her mother and munched down the rest of the meatball. She had seen the film more than once and knew it was almost over, so she sat quietly and marveled at the stunning beauty of Grace Kelly.

Across the hall in the den, Angie could see her brother, Dominick, watching the Giants game on a much smaller television, knowing better than to expect his mother to change the channel in the middle of her movie. “Hey, Dom,” she called to him.

“Hey, Andi,” he called back, raising his arm in the air as a hello but not turning around. He was barely three years older than she, and when the Righettis had brought baby Angie home, the closest he could come to saying her name was “Andi.” It had stuck.

As “The End” came up on screen and her mother, Alice, blew out a breath, Angie asked, “What are you doing Tuesday night? Want to go see
Big
? I keep waiting for you, you know.”

“That might work.” Alice tapped her forefinger against her lips in thought. “Call me tomorrow, and I'll let you know.” She stood. “Help me set the table.”

“You hear that, Dom?” Angie called to her big brother. “Our mother is such a social butterfly, she isn't sure if she can go to the movies with me two days from now. I have to call her tomorrow. After she checks her schedule.”

Alice pushed playfully at her daughter. “Stop that.” As dark and Italian as Joe Righetti was, his wife was light and English. They were almost exactly the same height, though if pressed, Joe would swear he had an inch on her. Alice's hair was a light chestnut brown shot through with subtle gold highlights, and most of the time, she wore it in a simple ponytail. Her skin was pale as milk and dotted with faded brown freckles, and her light green eyes didn't miss a
trick. Alice and Joe had divvied up their physical attributes pretty evenly among their four children. Dominick and Maria—oldest and youngest, respectively—favored their mother in coloring, though Dom inherited Joe's dark eyes. Tony and Angie—the middle children—looked completely Italian, all olive skin, dark hair, and rich brown eyes. The three oldest liked to tease Alice that she had waited to pass on her beautiful green eyes to the last child, and Maria never hesitated to rub it in.

Sunday dinner at the Righettis' house was a family ritual nobody missed without a damn good excuse. Tony arrived a few minutes later and was promptly handed a stack of plates. Joe may have been an Italian man who loved tradition, but he'd married a modern woman. Alice's sons were raised to do dishes, help with dinner, and clean bathrooms, just like their sisters. No gender gap between chores existed in her house.

“Maria coming?” Angie asked as she laid out flatware.

“She's working today.” The pride in Joe's voice was evident as he brought in a giant bowl of linguini. Maria had been Joe's cooking partner in crime since she was old enough to operate the stove on her own. Now halfway through her senior year at culinary school, she was interning at a swanky restaurant downtown, learning the inner workings of a successful kitchen. Job offers were already pouring in. Angie was both proud and jealous of her little sister, but tried her best to focus on the former.

“Speaking of work,” Alice said as she walked toward the phone in the kitchen. She tore a piece of paper off the pad and handed it to Angie.

The name
Vince Guelli
was scribbled on it in her mother's handwriting, along with a phone number.

Angie furrowed her brow. “Why do I need Mr. Guelli's number?” He was an old friend of the family, his face familiar to Angie since she'd been a toddler. Though they'd never had a deep conversation, she knew him. He was like family, in a distant uncle kind of way.

“He started up a new business last year, and he's looking for a secretary.” With a shrug, Alice continued. “I know you don't love waitressing, and I know this doesn't really have to do with your communications degree, but you'd be off your feet. I'm sure he'd
pay you fairly, and I believe there are benefits involved. It's up to you, of course.”