Swinging on a Star (8 page)
I was nearly ready to roll when I heard a rap on the door. Sophia popped her head in. “You ready?”
“Mm-hmm.” I looked at her, taking in the beautiful black and silver dress. Man. Did she look amazing, or what? “What in the world are we going to do about Brock, though? Everyone in town is going to know who he is.”
“I know.” She groaned. “And I’m so sorry for saying I’d go with him. I just didn’t know how to say no. Can you imagine looking into those eyes and turning him down?”
Hmm. What to say, what to say
. . .
“It’s not your fault, Sophia. He set you up. Though why he set you up, I’m not sure. Surely he knows the risks involved.” I released a sigh, feeling the weight lift a little. “It’s on his head now. We’re not to blame.”
“What do you suppose he’s going to wear?” Sophia chuckled. “And what’s he going to do with his hair? Do you think he’ll wear it like that in public?”
“I haven’t got a clue. But it sure helps hide his identity, so I hope so.”
We got our answer a few minutes later, though I had to hold my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. Loaded with an overabundance of gel, Brock’s hair looked even geekier than before, but that wasn’t really what jumped out at me. Pop must’ve rummaged in the very back of his closet to come up with the outfit Brock had donned—a tuxedo that looked like it had passed its expiration date in the ’70s, complete with a black-on-white ruffled shirt poking out underneath.
The white polyester jacket with single-button closure was accented with a black velvet lapel. Very . . . unique. And dated. Brock turned around to show off the rear vent. Flapping it, he said, “Think I’ll get any hot dates in this getup?”
Responding was completely out of the question, since I couldn’t have squeezed any words past the laughter that had bubbled up in my throat.
“Where in the world did you get that?” Sophia asked, looking stunned.
Pop grinned. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize it from the photos hanging on the wall downstairs. I wore this the day your mother and I got married. Doesn’t fit me now.” He rubbed his midsection. “But it fits Vinny here like a glove.”
“Unless you count the legs.” I looked at the black slacks, which were about an inch too short. Maybe two inches. Brock’s white socks stuck out like a sore thumb, and the shoes . . . well, there wasn’t really any way to do the shoes justice. They must’ve come from the ’70s too.
Brock slipped Armando’s taped-up glasses back on, completing his look. “Think anyone will recognize me?”
“Not a chance in the world,” I said. “I hardly recognize you myself.”
“Perfect.”
Minutes later, Rosa appeared in the foyer, dressed in the most beautiful black chiffon dress I’d ever seen. “Rosa!” Sophia and I spoke in unison. “Where did you get that dress?”
“Oh, I bought it a couple of weeks ago at a shop on the mainland.” She peered in the mirror, touched up her lipstick, and looked back at us. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” Sophia asked, her mouth now hanging open. “Are you kidding? It’s to die for!”
“Really?” Rosa beamed. “You think so?” She fidgeted with her bun, which she’d fashioned in a looser, more flowing style.
“What’s to die for?” Laz entered the room wearing his black suit, the same one I’d seen him wear dozens of times to church. He took one look at Rosa and the shock registered on his face. He managed one word—“Oh.” Not much, but it spoke volumes. I’d never seen that look in his eyes before.
Apparently, neither had Rosa. Her lips almost betrayed her as they curled up in a smile. Quickly she turned back to the mirror for a final glance, then tucked the lipstick into her tiny purse.
“Everyone ready?” Pop asked. “Let’s go see Bubba in his debut.”
For a second there, I felt like Dorothy taking her first step on the yellow-brick road. I certainly had the right traveling companions. As we headed out the door, I found myself singing, “We’re off to see the wizard.”
What a night this was turning out to be!
Demo version limitation
On Sunday morning I drove the Splendora trio to the pier, then met my family at church. Brock and Rob stayed home, but the rest of us enjoyed a break from the craziness of the week. The reception from our friends at church didn’t surprise me. Mama was congratulated on every side by people who had seen last night’s production. She took it all in stride, but I could see the appreciation in her eyes.
D.J. joined us as the service began, settling into the spot next to me in the pew. I loved going to church with him more than almost anything else, in part because he sang with such abandon. And he truly loved the people. That much was evident in all he said and did.
Still, I had to wonder how he felt about the Methodist church after growing up in a Full Gospel congregation. Did he find us tame in comparison? If so, he hadn’t said. I somehow imagined D.J. Neeley would be at home in any church, as long as the Lord met him there. And as long as I was sitting at his side.
Our pastor chose a topic that seemed to correspond with what the Lord had been showing me of late. It was all about old things becoming new. I opened my Bible to 2 Corinthians and read along as he quoted the text for the message: “Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”
Hmm. For whatever reason, that verse made me think of Brock Benson. He was a great guy, clearly. But I had the strongest feeling God had led him here to Galveston Island for more than just a wedding. He was at a fork in the road. I could sense it. And God wanted to do something fresh and new in his life. I spent the next few minutes praying for him, then focused on the message.
After church, I found Brock in the kitchen, looking at Guido’s cage. “What’s with the white cloth over the cage?” Brock asked. “Is he being punished?”
I laughed, then did my best to explain. “Not exactly. That’s a prayer cloth.”
“Prayer cloth?”
“Yeah.” No doubt he’d find this interesting. “See, Rosa has a theory that whenever Guido’s under the covering of her prayer cloth, he’s one bird—calm, cool, and collected. Then, when the cover is removed, he’s another.”
Brock quirked a brow. “I think I’d just leave him under there 24-7.”
“Right.” I sighed. “But then there’s Laz. He’s nuts about Guido. Probably because Guido actually belongs to his old friend Sal, who lives up north. Sal had a stroke a few months ago and is in rehab, so Laz is watching over Guido for him.”
“Oh, man. Now I feel sorry for the poor little guy.” Brock lifted the edge of the prayer cloth, and Guido hollered, “Wise guy!” Dropping the cloth, Brock said, “But not that sorry.”
He went off to find Rosa, and I headed upstairs to my parents’ room. I rapped on their door, surprised to find Mama taking a nap. “Oh, sorry.” I shrugged. “I need the keys to Twila’s car. I can’t leave it at the wedding facility all week. Bad for business.”
“Where are you going to park it?” Mama’s pursed lips let me know that parking it in the driveway was out of the question.
“Oh, not to worry. D.J. said he’d drive it over to his condo. I don’t know why we didn’t think of that sooner.”
“Great idea. To be honest, I’m a little relieved that the people from the Food Network won’t see it. The kind of car in a person’s driveway makes a vivid first impression. Not that I’m out to impress anyone, but a 1983 Pinto, well . . .”
“Say no more. I’ve got this under control. Just need to get the keys from you.”
“From me?” Her brow wrinkled. “What makes you think I have the keys to Twila’s car?”
“She told me yesterday that she would leave them with you.” I paused, deep in thought. “Or maybe she said Rosa. Let me check.”
I practically sprinted to the kitchen, anxious to get this over and done with. I found Rosa hard at work counting out the pans for Marian’s wedding cakes. In the midst of all the chaos, I’d forgotten she’d agreed to make the cakes for the big day.
I glanced over at the small television, Rosa’s constant companion while she cooked, to see Giada De Laurentiis on the Food Network. “Oh, it’s
Everyday Italian
, your favorite show!”
“
Every
show on the Food Network is my favorite.” She giggled. “Last night I watched
Ace of Cakes
to get in the mood for baking. And then I watched a great cake-decorating competition. Cute show. Oh, but speaking of the Food Network . . .” She dove into a long-winded story about Iron Chef Bobby Flay. Turned out she’d started to suspect this whole Food Network gig was really just a ruse. Maybe Bobby was coming to the house to challenge her to a throw down. Now
that
would really be something!
We got so caught up in our conversation about food that I almost forgot the reason I’d come to talk to Rosa in the first place. “Rosa, do you have the keys to Twila’s Pinto?”
“Keys? Hmm?”
“To the Pinto.”
“Bella, I haven’t driven since the ’70s. You know that.” She went back to work, muttering under her breath about not having enough pans.
“Yes, but I thought Twila said she would leave her keys with you so we could move her car before the wedding.”
“Ask your mother.”
“I did. She doesn’t have them.”
Rosa shook her head. “Me either. And I’m a little distracted right now, Bella. Once I finish up here, I have to figure out how to memorize those lines they’ve given me to say next Friday.”
“Lines?” I smiled. “I have the perfect idea. Get Brock to help you. He loves running lines with people. Told me so himself.”
Rosa looked over at me, relief in her expression. “Oh, Bella! That’s a wonderful idea. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”
“Well, you’ve got a few other things on your mind.” I walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I know I’ve already told you this, but it’s worth repeating. I’m so thrilled for you, Rosa. You’re the best cook I’ve ever known. If anyone deserves a spot on national television for their cooking, you do.”
“Humph.” Laz walked through the room, reached over to snatch a piece of chicken, then kept walking.
Rosa sighed as he disappeared from view. “What am I going to do with that man, Bella? He drives me out of my ever-loving mind.”
“Yep. I know.” I started to say, “Marry him,” but thought that might stir up trouble. Instead, I whispered, “You know, I think he’s a little jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Yes.” I leaned in close, hoping Laz was out of earshot.
“He makes a pretty mean pizza. Think about it. He owns his own restaurant. But no one much talks about his cooking skills. I think this whole Food Network thing has him a little, well, envious of you.”
“Oh.” She paused from her labors and shook her head. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me, but I’m sure you’re right. Maybe I need to ask him to cook a couple of nights this week. Might give me a chance to rest, anyway. I’m pretty worn out. Been on my feet for, well, sixty-five years.” She winked and I laughed. Truly, she had worked in a kitchen most of her life. All the more reason she deserved a spot on national television.
As I left the kitchen, I passed Laz in the hallway with Guido on his shoulder. The bird was quoting John 3:16. Not bad, I had to admit. My uncle had been working on the parrot for several months, and all with only one thought in mind— sending him back to his original owner with the salvation message in his beak.
“How do you think Sal will feel when he finds out his bird has come to know the Lord during his stay in Texas?” I asked with a grin.
“Don’t know. But I have to reach Sal with the gospel somehow. After all of those years he spent in the mob . . .” Laz dove into a story about the old days, but my cell phone rang, interrupting him. I smiled when I saw D.J.’s number.
“Hey, you.”
“Hey, yourself,” he said. “Did you find Twila’s keys? Are we moving her car to my place?”
“It’s the strangest thing. I can’t find her keys anywhere.”
“No problem,” he said, putting my mind at ease. “Bubba’s got the wrecker parked at my condo. He can come over to your house with me after his matinee, and we’ll load up the car and take it to my place.”
“It won’t damage the car?” I asked, trying to envision the look on Twila’s face if we dented her little baby.
D.J. laughed. “Not at all, Bella. Don’t worry. We’ve got this under control.”
“Of course you do.” He always had everything under control. Why did I doubt him?
Awhile later, the guys pulled the family wrecker into the drive at the wedding facility.
“I’ve seen this car in the parking lot at church every Sunday up Splendora-way,” Bubba said, “but I’ve never had the courage to ask Sister Twila why she chose the color pink.”
I pointed to the faded Mary Kay sticker on the back. “I have a feeling she won this car in the ’80s for selling makeup.”
“No joke?” He pulled off his baseball cap and scratched his head. “I’m surprised it’s still running.”
“And her makeup is still going strong too.” D.J. winked and we all laughed. He turned to face the car, suddenly all business. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Oh, speaking of shows . . .” I looked at Bubba with a smile. “I know I told you this last night, but it bears repeating. You were absolutely amazing in that production. I was blown away, to be quite honest.”
“Shoot.” His gaze shifted to the ground. “I still can’t believe it’s really happening. My life has sure gone a different direction since I met all of you folks.”
“So has mine.” D.J. slipped his arm around my shoulder. “It’s a little crazier, but I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Just then, Brock came walking across the front lawn of the wedding facility, dressed in his Urkel-like getup. Bubba burst out laughing at the sight of him. “What happened to you? Your pants shrink in the dryer? And what’s up with the glasses? You having trouble seeing or something?”
Brock sighed. “Hey, it’s just a part I’m playing. That’s what I do. I’m an actor.” His gaze narrowed, and he looked at Bubba with intensity. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I saw the show last night.”
“You did?”
“Mm-hmm.” Brock nodded. “And I have to say, that was the best version of
Figaro
I’ve seen . . . and I’ve seen it three times. You were very good. Impeccable.”