Staying Single. Millie Criswell
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Francie was a neatnik, Lisa was somewhat of a slob. Sharing a bedroom with her as a teenager had been a nightmare. Francie had never known where candy wrappers and soda cans were going to show up.
“First of all, those men entered into their relationships with eyes wide open,” Lisa went on. “Okay, maybe not the undertaker, since he was the first victim, er, I mean, prospective groom, but the other two knew of your penchant for running and they still proposed.
“You’re no Julia Roberts, but you have given her a bit of competition as the Runaway Bride.
“Second, Mom is never going to change, so you need to stand up to her or accept that she’s going to meddle. And you wear a size ten, so I’m not at all sorry for you.”
Easy to say from someone who wore a six, Francie thought.
“And finally, I hope you do get married one of these days because then Mom will get off my back.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Isn’t that the truth? I was looking through her dresser drawer for a scarf the other day and found a list of prospective grooms she’d been making for me.” Lisa made a face, then a gagging noise. “Alan Swarski was on the list. Can you imagine? Alan Swarski! The man is almost sixty and has grandchildren. What can she be thinking? He has nose hair, not to mention a gut, for chrissake! What am I, desperate? I do have some pride, after all.”
“If he’s breathing, he’s an eligible candidate.”
The front door opened and Leo strolled in carrying a white bakery bag. He smiled widely when he spotted Lisa. “Hey, girl! You’re looking good. I bought bagels and cream cheese, if you’re hungry.” He held up the bag and the enticing aroma of freshly baked bagels clouded the room.
Francie’s stomach rumbled. “I am. Hand them over.”
“Bagels.” Lisa’s face fell. “I was hoping for a ham sandwich.”
“On Sunday morning? I always buy bagels for Francie and me on Sunday. It’s tradition. And since she just got home late last night I figured she’d need refueling before facing your mother.”
He turned to Francie, a worried look on his face—though not as worried as Francie’s—and handed her the bag. “Has Josephine called?”
Francie shook her head. “Not yet. Ma’s got a bar mitzvah this afternoon that’s been on her schedule for weeks. That’ll keep her busy for a while. She’ll be mentally calculating all the money the Goldstein kid receives, then comparing it to the other bar mitzvahs she’s attended to see how the Goldsteins stack up in popularity.”
Popularity in her parents’ neighborhood was often gauged by the amount of money that was taken in at religious events such as weddings, christenings and bar mitzvahs. And God forbid if small flower arrangements or a poor showing at a viewing occurred during a funeral. You might as well pack up and leave town in that case, for it meant you were persona non grata.
Francie didn’t fully understand the hierarchy, rules and social strata that comprised an ethnic neighborhood, but she knew they existed.
“You’re only postponing the inevitable, Francie. You know that, don’t you?” Leo leveled a disappointed look at her. “At some point you’ve got to face your mother. Now is as good a time as any.”
Lisa, having noted Francie’s horrified expression, quickly changed the subject, much to Francie’s great relief.
“So, who’s your latest love interest, Leo?” Lisa asked in her usual tactless manner.
Francie knew her sister was not known for her finesse. In fact, Lisa was enough like Josephine to be scary.
“I saw you at Club Zero last night,” she went on. “The guy you were with was cute. To tell you the truth, it made me rather jealous. There aren’t enough men out there, as it is. Damn shame all the good ones are either married or gay.”
The blond man, who resembled a young Elton John, grinned. “I’m taking that as a compliment, sweetie. Phillip’s his name and he’s an architect. We exchanged phone numbers. Nothing more.”
“Well, that’s better than I did. Molly and I struck out. No wonder they call the place Club Zero.”
“Consider yourself lucky,” Francie said. “Men, present company excepted, are more trouble than they’re worth. You’re better off alone.”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to get married. I just want to get laid. It’s been so long I’m going to forget how to do it. And don’t tell me it’s like riding a bike. Even bike parts rust.”
“Why didn’t you just ask some guy for his phone number?” Leo took a seat on an overstuffed chair. “This is the new millennium. You’re entitled.”
“Quit trying to lead my baby sister astray, Leo. I don’t want her hooking up with a serial rapist.”
“Ha!” Francie’s sister rolled her eyes. “Fat chance of that happening. I usually attract serial geeks, not rapists.”
The phone rang and everyone froze, staring at it as if it were an evil entity out to do them harm.
“It’s Mom,” Lisa said.
Shaking her head, Francie took several steps back, wishing she had a string of garlic around her neck, or at the very least, a gold crucifix. “I’m not taking her call. Tell Mom I died, that I fell over the falls. Tell her anything, but don’t tell her I’m here.”
“Coward,” Leo said, reaching for the portable phone. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Morelli. Yes, Francie’s right here. Hold on. I’ll get her for you.”
“Bastard!” Francie took the phone from Leo’s hand, none too gently, and shook it at him. “I’ll get you for this.”
Lisa popped more nuts into her mouth and, like any good sibling, enjoyed watching her sister squirm.
Francie prayed that the floor beneath her feet would open up and swallow her whole. A trip straight to hell would be preferable to explaining to Josephine why wedding number three had been a no go.
3
TWO WEEKS AFTER what Mark always thought of as the “wedding from hell,” he stood outside the offices of Ted Baxter Promotions and adjusted his red silk tie.
Normally he didn’t wear suits and ties—he didn’t need to dress up in his profession—preferring jeans and T-shirts or sweatshirts.
But today was special.
Today he intended to put his plan into motion for seducing Francesca Morelli.
With a nod of thanks to the young, dewy-eyed blond receptionist, he entered the inner office to find the surroundings not nearly as attractive as the woman seated behind the massive oak desk.
She was wearing a red cashmere sweater set that hugged her firm breasts. On the ring finger of her left hand his brother’s diamond-and-ruby engagement ring was noticeably absent, bringing his mind back to the matter at hand.
“May I help you?” she asked, looking up from the papers spread out in front of her and gathering them up into a neat little pile before pushing them to one side.
Gazing into the warmest, most beautiful brown eyes he’d ever seen, Mark’s jaw nearly dropped to his chest. Long lashes, full lips, high cheekbones and a pert little nose made up a very arresting, exotic face.
Damn! His brother’s ex-fiancée was a knockout. He had thought that from a distance the day of the wedding, and the photos he’d taken had certainly proven that out, but seeing Francesca Morelli up close and personal cemented his earlier opinion.
And it was something he hadn’t planned on.
“I’m Mark Fielding. I was hoping