Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Because if you haven’t noticed, son, our family is wearing thin these days, and it’s good business to have family presence at a wedding that our family business is catering.”
As much as it bothers me, he isn’t wrong. My sister is in Maine with her husband and child. My mom is … not in the picture anymore. My last living grandparent Lucy lives in California with her sister, my Great Aunt Gabriella.
The only ones left here are me and my dad.
Of course he clings.
“You’re a Tucci,” he says with pride. “One day, this won’t be Mario Tucci’s kingdom. It’ll be Malcolm Tucci’s kingdom.”
And he’s the one who calls me dramatic? “Dad …”
“No more,” he cuts me off. “Put a smile on and keep that phone away. Oh, and make sure you congratulate Mrs. Strong on her victory when we get there,” he adds. “She became mayor just a few months ago, and … well, the woman’s stressed and needs our encouragement.” He turns up the radio again, then hums to the music a touch louder, determined to make today a good one.
I’m not sure just “putting a smile on” is a practical solution.
But for my father’s sake, I shelve my feelings and resolve to be the supportive, cooperative son he needs.
Even if it kills me a tiny bit every waking second.
Soon, we’re turning onto the property. The Strong ranch is a kingdom of its own, stretching across a generous cut of land full of color and zing, even in the winter. In these pristinely-kept fields, not a single fencepost, tree, or blade of grass seems out of place. You can spot the mighty two-story house from far away as you head up the long, winding driveway. The closer you get, the more perfect it looks. Even the wraparound porch shows zero signs of weathering. To the side, a distant swimming pool is visible with bright green shrubbery hugging its perimeter, and near it, a clean, fence-lined path stretches off and disappears into a line of trees.
The driveway turns into a small circle at its end, where a few vehicles are parked. My dad’s catering truck becomes one of them, and before we’re even able to unpack the first thing, a stick of a woman with a giant nest of blonde hair and big hoop earrings is upon us, stabbing the ground with her heels as she approaches. “Mario, Mario, Mario! What’re you doin’ liftin’ a finger? I have got people for this, for cryin’ out loud!”
My father’s face warms instantly. “Nadine, y’know how I am.”
“Proud and stubborn as all get out?” Her eyes turn onto me. “Well, my! Malcolm, I haven’t seen you in an age. Did you grow a foot and a half on me and get twice as adorable?”
Despite owning the very restaurant at which my father’s the executive chef, I actually don’t see Mrs. Strong all that often. With her over-the-top and exhausting supply of energy, it isn’t a huge wonder why I can only take so much of her at a time. “I’m trying something new with my hair,” I reply tentatively, “but I wouldn’t say it makes me ‘adorable’ per se, or—”
“Nonsense. You’re such a cutie. Oh! I have a handsome young man I have got to introduce you to. He’s inside, actually, helping with the setup. Y’all are made for each other, I swear.”
Dear god, not again. “Thanks, but I—”
“Phew, it’s been a long, tedious process,” she goes on before I can properly decline. “No one can seem to get the flowers right. I swear, it’s everyone’s mission this week to make me lose my hair. Mario, you wouldn’t happen to know a decent enough florist in Fairview who can work a Christmas miracle in a hurry? I’m out of viable options here in town.”
“I may know just the woman for the job. I’ll call her up and see if she’s free. Damn well better be. Ha!” My dad glances at me. “Malcolm, son, make yourself useful and bring these two cases inside, then come back for—”
“No, no,” clips Mrs. Strong right away. “I’ll send my people to carry all of this. Malcolm, sweetie, go right on into the house and help yourself to some of Jacky-Ann’s homemade lemonade. She tried making a special apple cider to be seasonal, and it went all wrong, bless her heart. I had her make her signature lemonade for the workers. No, no,” she repeats as my father starts to protest, “I won’t hear it. I’m up to my eyeballs with extra hands needing to be put to use. Tanner got half the dang football team to volunteer and ain’t none of them know what to do unless I’m tellin’ them to do it.” She pats me on the back, nearly pushing me off. “Go, go, go. We’ll be right behind you, sweetie.”