Our Lady of the Roses

Our Lady of the Roses

Other novels by Janice Lane Palko

St. Anne’s Day

A Shepherd’s Song

Cape Cursed

Most Highly Favored Daughter

Nonfiction

The Gleamings Guide to Writing Your Life Story

Our Lady of the Roses

JANICE LANE PALKO

Copyright © 2019 Janice Lane Palko

Plenum Publishing

ISBN 9781734086706

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

For Hannah Rose

Though you were second-born, you are not a second act

but a unique, beloved encore in our lives.

Love you!

Dedicated to St. Joseph

The quintessential go-to guy.

Thanks for the inspiration, provision, and protection.

.

Love and a red rose can’t be hid—

Thomas Holcroft

Chapter 1

He looks like a gnocchi. That was my first thought when this pale, doughy guy entered my salon and spa, La Bella Figura, on that Wednesday in mid-May and schlepped over to the reception desk. The schedule book lay open in front of me, and the big black Xs marking the days of my upcoming vacation now looked like the Xs found on a bottle of poison. Anne McMaster, my best friend, moments ago had called to say that she had to back out of our girl’s getaway because of the chicken pox—not hers, but Gerry, her husband’s. She’s a nurse. You’d think she would have inoculated him or something before they got married. What kind of crappy luck is that? Not only for him but also for me. After all that I’d been through, I needed this break and was looking forward to the change of scenery and forgetting everything. I had juggled the staff’s schedule so that I could be off for two whole weeks. Anne and I had been headed to San Francisco for a ten-day tour that included the wine country—that was until Gerry screwed everything up.

A pox on your house! I shouted into the phone when Gerry wrested it away from Anne and asked if I’d like to come over and give him an oatmeal bath to quell his itching. I loved Gerry; everyone did. He was handsome, fun, and generous, but I felt like laying the malocchio, the Italian evil eye curse, on him for ruining my trip.

Now the days in the appointment book stretched out in empty half-hour blocks of oblivion. I had nowhere to go and nothing to look forward to. No vacation. No men. No wine. No nothing. My therapist, Dr. Lichtner, a woman who is so low-key that I find myself babbling when I’m in her presence just to fill the empty silences, said to expect highs and lows. I was still waiting on the highs because for the last few months, my life has been bumping along the gutter like a Brunswick bowling ball.

Can I help you? I said to the gnocchi.

I’m Bob. Bob White.

I stared dumbfounded. Did he just say his name is Blob White? He is a gnocchi!

Bob White, he repeated until I snapped out of my stupefaction.

I ran my index finger down the page. Chirelle, my nail girl, had given me a manicure and nail art of wine bottles on each of my index fingers. I wanted to cry. Now, I’ll be sitting at home drinking with my special manicure and no one will see it.

Bob White. Isn’t that the name of a bird or something? Who names their kid such a boring name? I was used to names like Ludovico, Fiore, and Enzo. Not Bob.

I have an appointment for three o’clock, he said.

I looked up at him and his eyes were riveted on the wall behind my desk. Your clock’s wrong.

What? I glanced over my shoulder at the clock and then at my iPhone lying on the desk. I pointed at the phone’s screen, tapping my wine-bottle-decorated nail on it like a smart ass. No, it says three, and that’s what my phone’s showing too.

No, it’s not the time that’s wrong; it’s the Roman numerals. Four in Roman numerals is not IIII. It’s IV.

I turned and looked at the clock again. It said IIII. Damn, he was right. When I’d bought the place, it was a tanning salon, but after a while I expanded to a full salon and spa, and I’d tastefully decorated it in a Tuscan décor, yellow ochre stucco walls, lots of wrought iron, fake columns with busts of men who I thought looked a little like Tony Bennett if he’d been encased in plaster. Envision the inside of The Olive Garden but with hair, nail, tanning, and spa treatment rooms.

Hmm, I never noticed that before, I said. "And I’m Roman too. Technically, I’m American, but my parents came from Roma. I liked to say Roma" because it made me feel like Sophia Loren, my idol.

He sighed, his droopy dumpling face falling even more, making me feel worse, so I quickly checked the appointment book. Yep, Connie DePasquale and B. White. Couple’s massage—tans, the works. I looked up. "Your goombah, Connie, running late?"

He lowered his eyes and mumbled. She’s not coming.

What? Now I remembered Connie. She had called to book the appointment and insisted that it had to be today. I repeatedly explained to her that I would be the only one in the salon as I had given the other estheticians the afternoon off as they would be covering for me while I was on vacation, and she insisted that it was no problem.

I was going to chew him out for messing up my afternoon, but then I thought that by the way he looked, maybe Connie had died or something, so I took pity on him. I can reschedule, I said, sweetly, sliding my finger down the boxes of empty appointment slots that my vacation had deteriorated into.

No need. We broke up.

He looked so pitiful and forlorn, I swear he should have had a rain cloud hanging over his head like a cartoon character. Oh, sorry. I know how that is, I said.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts that had so many pouches attached to the butt and down the sides of the legs, it looked as though he could carry all his worldly possessions in them. Yeah, we were supposed to leave for Italy on Saturday. I have business in Rome. I met her in an Italian language class. I thought things were going well . . . That we were . . . He shrugged.

I felt sorry for the poor allocco. "She must be crazy to pass up a chance to go to Rome with you. I lied. I own a salon; I have to lie. How am I supposed to be honest with people when you have old women coming in who want hairstyles that went out with pink sponge rollers? You lie to make people happy. You tell them they look good, and it makes them happy. And most importantly, they keep booking appointments. The Rome part was true though. I didn’t know about him, but I’d go the Rome with Satan if he asked me. I love Roma, I said, bubbling over like the Trevi Fountain. I’ve been there four times. You ever been there?"

He shook his head no.

It’s indescribable. The history. The food. The wine. The men! Italian men were so handsome, but I didn’t say that. He didn’t need to be diminished any further by comparing him to Italian men. My mama often said I needed a husband from the Old Country. She wasn’t right on much, but I was beginning to think she had a point. I’d had enough bad experiences with men from this country; maybe it was time to try my luck on another continent and go abroad to find a man. Although if my father was any example of Old Country men, I’ll pass.

Next time you go? It’ll be with the woman you love. You watch, I said, pointing at him the way my Uncle Vito used to do when the Steelers would break a huddle, and he’d predict that they were going to pass the ball.

Everything’s a mess now. He shook his head. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I was counting on her to help with the language and the Italian customs and stuff. It was her idea that we come here. She said Italians have style, and that I needed some. He took a half step away from the desk and spread his arms as if he wanted me to appraise his appearance.

He was tall and fair with wavy, out-of-control strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and freckles. He didn’t have a bad face—just too much of it. He reminded me of Chris Pratt during his Parks and Recreation days before he got ripped and became a superhero. If this guy lost fifteen pounds, it would add some angles to his cheeks, define his jawline, and deflate the beginning of a paunch that protruded under the gray Steelers T-shirt whose vinyl emblem was scaly and peeling as if it had leprosy. His big feet were clad in black rubber thongs, and he desperately needed some spiffing up. He looked like a high school linebacker who had gone soft with too much beer in college.

I always say the best revenge is looking good! I slammed my hands on the desk. Your ex paid in advance for everything. Might as well screw Connie and give you the works.

Aw, I don’t know. I usually get my hair buzzed at one of those walk-in salons. She made me grow it out so it could be, he rolled his eyes, styled.

To hell with her. I rose from the chair. We’re spending all her money, and when I get through with you, you are going to be so hot that little Miss Connie’s going to be crying her eyes out that she gave you the old heave-ho.

But little did I know as I was leading him back to the salon chair that this would be the beginning of the biggest makeover of my life.

Chapter 2

I whipped a black cape around Bob’s neck, guided him into the chair, resting his head in the dip in the sink, and tilted the chair back.

They never wash my hair at Quick Clips, he said as I turned on the water. By now, I felt like filling the sink and holding his head under the water.

If you haven’t noticed yet, Bob. This ain’t Quick Clips.

I lathered his wildly overgrown hair. It was thick and had wonderful body. Why does God waste such hair on men who don’t care?

After I shampooed and rinsed it, I led him back to my salon chair where I ran a comb through his damp locks. So how do you want it styled? You have good hair, thick, with just enough of a wave.

Styled?

Standing behind him, I saw him make a face in the mirror.

I usually get it buzzed.

I know. You told me that three times already, but it’d be a crime to buzz it. It would ruin the image I’m trying to create.

Image? I just want a haircut.

I sighed. How about if I cut it the way I think it will look best, and then if you don’t like it, I’ll buzz it?

He screwed up his face.

Look, I said, picking up my scissors. Don’t argue with a woman with razor-sharp tools in her hand.

OK, I guess. I have no choice it appears.

I must be wearing him down. He’d surrendered easily to my demands this time, but his facial, massage, and tanning? Mama mia! They were another thing. I shook my head when I thought about how the afternoon had begun.

*****

He crossed his arms like a child. No, I’m not getting a facial. Men don’t get them.

You—I mean Connie—already paid for it, so get in the chair. I slapped the back of it. And for your information, you Neanderthal, men do get them.

Not real men.

I put my hands on my hips. Who is a real man? You tell me.

He thought for a second. Chuck Norris. He’d never get a facial.

I sneered. You think Chuck Norris is a real man?

Yeah. He can kick anyone’s ass.

I scoffed.

Who do you think is a real man?

Frank Sinatra.

Old blue eyes? You got to be kidding. When he was young, he weighed about ninety pounds, and when he was old, he couldn’t kick anyone’s ass.

Yeah, but he’d know a guy, who’d know a guy who he could pay to kick your ass—and make it so that no one ever found your body. I pointed at the seat.  Now get in my chair and shut up before I contact my cousin Dominic and put a hit out on you.

We bickered for another five minutes before we finally reached an agreement—one that would allow me to give him a facial. I had to close all the blinds so no one as he put it, would see me sitting in here like a girl with gunk all over my mug.

As I rubbed the gunk all over his face, the urge to smoosh his cheeks together out of frustration subsided, and I noticed that he had a lovely creamy complexion if you overlooked the smattering of freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. Anne always claimed to think freckles were cute on a man, but she’s Irish. And I think they brainwash them to think that. Just like they brainwash them to think the Irish are superior to Italians—which everyone knows they’re not. The only person I thought freckles looked cute on was Alfalfa—and I would not consider him a stud.

But Bob’s spa day only became more combative with each subsequent treatment. After his facial and deluxe shave, I walked him back to the massage room. Have you ever had a massage before, Bob? I asked sweetly, trying to reestablish a relaxed, peaceful rapport with him.

I don’t think so, he said, unless you count the time I got a cramp playing football in high school and the trainer had to rub down my hamstring.

No, that doesn’t count. I opened the door to the dimly lit massage room and ushered Bob in. As I turned on the soothing sounds that I liked to imagine were waves from the Mediterranean lapping on the shore of Santa Marinella, the beach my mother had taken me to as a child when we were visiting my grandmother in Rome, I tried to relax and have more patience with Bob. You’re really going to enjoy this then. I handed him a fluffy, white spa robe and a pair of slippers. I’m going to step out for a moment and then come back and talk to you. Take all your clothes off and put these on. I removed the key from the locker. You can store your things in here and lock them up. The key was on an elastic cord. You can wear it on your wrist.

A few moments later, I knocked on the door, and Bob said to come in. He was seated stiffly on the edge of the overstuffed chair wearing the white robe and the expression and enthusiasm of a man awaiting a prostate exam. I turned on the aromatherapy diffuser, pumping out a mist of lavender and geranium in a fragrant cloud. Do you have any medical conditions or injuries that I should be aware of?

Nah, he said, holding the shawl collar of the robe tightly.

How about anything that hurts or any concerns?

Nothing except that this feels weird, he said, glancing down at himself, motioning to the white robe and slippers he was wearing. And I’m keeping my underwear on.

Hey, suit yourself. I only expose that part of the body that I’m working on at the moment, but whatever makes you comfortable. I adjusted the volume of the New Age music hoping that the whooshing sound of waves and twanging sitars and tinkling chimes would calm him. I’m going to leave the room again so you can take off the robe and slippers and get on the table, face down. You put your face in the headrest and cover yourself with the sheet.

A few minutes later, I returned. And in my soothing massage therapist voice, I whispered, Bob, now I’ll begin. I’m going to put some warm massage oil on my hands.

He raised his head. Oil? You sure this is legit? And not something pervy?

I dropped the NPR voice and pushed his head back into the headrest. I can assure you, Bob, I’d never dream of touching you inappropriately. Is he delusional? Like I’d ever want to get it on with him.

I rubbed my hands together to warm them and touched his back. He recoiled like a sprung mouse trap. Easy there, big guy, I said. This is supposed to be relaxing. Just let your mind drift. I pulled back the sheet. Thank goodness he didn’t have a hairy, freckled back. I worked on his shoulders first, which to my surprise, were very muscular, but he was so tense, it was like trying to massage a block of cement. After a while, my hands began to ache. Just to annoy him, when I was done with his lower back, I snapped the waistband of his underwear.

That wasn’t professional, he said, his words muffled from his head being trapped in the headrest.

To my surprise, he was wearing plaid boxer briefs. Had I taken a guess, I would have pegged him as a tighty-whitey kind of guy. I worked on the back of his thighs and calves, which were covered with reddish-blond fuzz that hazed over the ropy sinews and muscles of his legs. I lifted the sheet slightly and told him to roll on to his back. I worked his arms and quads, and when I massaged his feet, he alternately groaned as I worked out the knots or giggled like a baby as I smoothed the fascia in his arches.

The massage portion of your spa day is now done, I said, covering his legs fully with the sheet. "I’m going to get