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delightfully colorful, it ceased to be even remotely amusing when I became an adolescent. Suddenly, I had to explain my “family,” in more ways than one. And bringing a date home to meet the Gallos or the Marcellos was like subjecting the poor, hapless guy to an FBI interrogation. My male relatives would corner my date to find out his intentions. My solution? Stop dating. (Not really.) I just became as devious as my family—only far less criminal. I hid my dating from everyone. Lady Di became my conspirator from the moment we met when we were freshmen in college. Once we moved to this apartment, I also relied on my doorman, Michel, to frequently slip me out the back of my apartment building, enticing him with fresh cannolis from his favorite bakery.
I shut the photo album. Walking over to the window, I saw that my cousin Tony and uncle Lou had left for the night. They had my best interests at heart. They all did. But both sides of the family were pressuring me to marry and have babies. And while I did feel a baby urge when I saw mothers and their rosy-cheeked little cherubs in Central Park, the likelihood of ever meeting anyone who would find my extraordinary three-card monte skills endearing—let alone maternal—was not likely. And what man in his right mind is going to sleep with a woman whose father says, “You hurt her, we’ll break your legs”—and means it? The truth is that despite America’s obsession with all things Mafia, from the Godfather to the Sopranos, being a Mafia princess is most decidedly not what it is cracked up to be.
Chapter 2
“So I hear a man was over at your apartment last night.”
It was my mother, of course, calling me at work to remind me that my biological clock was tick, tick-tocking away.
“Gee, wonder where you’d hear that from?”
“A little bird told me.”
“Little? Uncle Lou weighs a good 250 pounds, Ma.”
“Does it matter where I heard it from? Just tell me who he was.”
“Mother, how many times must I tell you I’m a lesbian?”
She audibly sighed at my feeble attempt to throw her off my trail. My mother feels the need to call me once a day, whether we have anything to say to each other or not—and we usually don’t.
“Don’t give me that crap, young lady.”
“Ma…I have a million things to do.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the morning vegetables being delivered. My cousin Quinn and I own “Teddi’s,” a little Italian bistro just barely in the black. We’re struggling to survive in a city with restaurants on every corner and sky-high rents. The fact we rent from family does help things a bit. I cook. Quinn runs the front of the house and tries to bang all the waitresses. He’s good at both.
“‘A million things to do…a million things to do.’ But apparently one of them is not to tell her mother about the man in her apartment last night.”
“He was Lady Di’s date, Ma.”
“Oh.” Her voice was flat, emotionless—and spoke volumes. My older brother Michael moved out to Hollywood to become an actor. He lucked into a couple of minor roles and has a recurring bit as the boyfriend of a character on a WB television show. He never visits home, and we spot him in cheesy tabloid magazines squiring beautiful but vapid actresses around town. His idea of commitment is staying for breakfast, and, assuming he knows what a condom is, there’s not a chance that he’s going to settle down and make my parents happy by marrying and having a baby. Which leaves, reluctantly, me.
“You don’t have to sound like that, Ma. The guy was a jerk, anyway.”
“Jerk, schmerk,” she said. “You can reform a jerk. Look what I did with your father. You need to stop being so picky, Theresa Marie.”
Ah, the dreaded official first name and—worse—the use of my middle name. This was serious—at least where my mother was concerned.
“Ma…I will find someone eventually, but I’m not in any hurry.” Sure, let me get struck by the thunderbolt and end up visiting prison in widow’s garb. Not a chance. “Besides, Ma, running this place takes up so much of my time. I barely have enough time to sleep. I eat standing up…. I’m not looking for a relationship.”
“Theresa…darling—” My mother continued nagging. “You’re not getting any younger—and neither am I! I want grandbabies. I want to see my daughter walk down the aisle. Is this so wrong, Theresa? Isn’t this what every mother dreams of? I just want you to be as happy as your father and I are. I want you to have someone to grow old with.”
I tried to avoid howling into the phone with laughter. My mother and father can’t be in the same room without arguing. She henpecks at him constantly, and he hollers that he can’t enjoy any peace in his own home. He hates the plastic slipcovers on our furniture, and she hates the fact that he’ll drop a thousand on the ponies. They sleep in twin beds. Have for as long as I can remember. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for the institution of marriage. I am convinced Michael and I are, for the record, immaculate conceptions. Something in the water in Brooklyn.
“I’ll get a cat.”
“Not funny, Theresa Marie. Not funny at all. Do you like to torture your own mother like this? To break my heart in every phone call?”
When my mother talks, I envision the old Peanuts specials whenever the teacher spoke. “Mwah, mwah-mwah, mwah-mwah.” I tuned her out.
“No, Ma, I don’t. Listen, it’s getting busy here. Let me go.”
“I wish you never got into the restaurant business. It’s not right for a woman.”
“Please, Ma…I was born with it in my blood.”
“You coming Sunday?”
“If I didn’t, there’d be a hit ordered. Of course I’m coming.” Sunday was an eating extravaganza that most Americans reserve for an occasion like Thanksgiving. The piles of food are downright nauseating. Attendance was pretty close to mandatory.
“And how many places should I set?” she asked hopefully.
“Two. One for me…and one for Lady Di.”
“Even if it’s short notice, if you meet someone, there’s always room for another plate at the table.”
“I know, Ma. Thanks. Gotta run.”
I replaced the receiver on the hook. She never gave up. She married at eighteen, right after high school. I don’t know if she was struck by the thunderbolt. Hard to picture someone feeling that way for my father with his ugly bowling shirts and beer belly. Still, to my mother, her husband and family are everything to her. When Michael and I were little, we were her universe. But if she only saw what I saw. The health spa where I take the occasional yoga class in an attempt to convince myself I’m not getting out of shape is a perfect example. A microcosm of pickup lines and outright seduction. A revolving door of hookups. Everyone has baggage. Failed marriages and relationships, messed-up childhoods, resentments and unhappiness. But I lug around a steamer trunk of baggage. I’m from a family of “made” men and wise guys, with a true nut job or two thrown in for good measure. Do you bring this up with a date over dinner? Dessert? When it starts to get serious? And even if a man thinks he can handle my background, he’s just kidding himself. Spending time with my father makes all those movie mobsters look like pussycats. He frightens people.
The phone rang again. It was Lady Di.
“Hello Teddi, ol’ girl,” she said, as if we were going to meet for a fox hunt.
“Hey…what’s going on?”
“I am bored out of my mind.” Lady Di works as a PR agent, which means she has invitations to all of New York’s hot spots. But as much as she likes the night life, she loathes being in the office. I accuse her of being part vampire. She abhors daylight.
“Sorry. I just got off the phone with my mother, who reminded me yet again that I am depriving her