Snow in Sicily

By Kate Celauro

Josephine’s summer job in beautiful, romantic Sicily takes a dangerous turn when she uncovers a family secret that puts her in the path of the Mafia and changes her life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483536835

Book preview

Celauro

CHAPTER 1

When I was a kid my parents assured me that I didn’t have a big nose, I had a Roman nose. I really thought I was something special until I learned that it was a euphemism, and I discovered, via Google, that my nose didn’t look anything like that of Julius Caesar, et al. Mine looked just like my dad’s—oversized with a bit of a hook to it—because I inherited my nose from my father who inherited it from his father, and so on. Our nose gene is durable and determined, much like my family.

There is a girl in the class above me whose parents gave her a nose job for graduation, which was something I considered asking for as well until, one day, I observed that her nose was actually growing back into it’s original form, fighting to get the better of her face, and I decided that it wasn’t good to make your nose work that hard. Besides, I’m marginally more comfortable in my nose now that I’ve spent an entire summer in Sicily, the home of my ancestors, where everyone I met had a naso much like mine. It was definitely the best worst summer of my life. But let me back up.

It has to start with junior prom—doesn’t everything? Somehow I got invited by a senior who was a total loser, only I didn’t know he was a total loser until he talked me into leaving the dance early and drove me to a college frat party. Let me just say that I saw enough vomiting to make Coach Tanner’s track practices look humane. As soon as we got there I wanted to leave and go back to our high school gym and be with my real friends. I wasn’t even inside the frat house, still standing on the uneven lawn littered with stomped-on Solo cups, watching a mass of people trying to crowd through the front door, when my date disappeared. A freshman named Sam introduced himself, nudging me with a floppy elbow while his head lurched from his neck into my face. First time at a Pike party? he asked.

What? I yelled back over the rap music thumping from the speakers inside.

He repeated, this time arcing a bit of beer-infused spit onto my lower lip, A Pike Par— he was cut off as he barreled into my chest, launching the contents of his cup into the air and onto the front of my dress. Hey, what the hell? he slurred as he looked around for the offender and stumbled to regain his balance, grabbing for my arm that I did not readily offer. His buddies were leaning on each other laughing.

Get a little closer, dude. She’s hot! At that moment a girl who actually was beautiful with a perfectly sleek nose and petite nostrils joined the group and pulled Sam away while she gave me a quick look-over, and the other two followed in the direction of the music. An hour later I was inside the frat house but still miserable, being bounced between people like a pinball, with no fresh air to breathe and no one interesting to talk to, and I did the only thing that made sense. I walked out the front door and called my best friend, Emily.

Hey, what’s up? she shouted into the phone, a different song blaring in the background at our high school gym.

I really want to get out of here! I shouted back. It’s terrible. I don’t know anyone.

Where’s Justin? She was speaking of my supposed date.

No clue.

Emily must have been walking out of the gym as I was heading away from the frat house, because her voice became incrementally more intelligible. I wish I could help you, Josephine, she said, sounding concerned. But none of us have our cars. We’re going in the limo. Anyway, we’ll probably be here for a while.

I know, I said.

Ever practical, she laid out a plan: Find Justin. Get him to bring you back here. Then you can come with us.

Okay, I said, even though I had already decided that I wasn’t going back in the frat house for anything. Thanks.

After hanging up I followed the sidewalk to the street and sat down on a metal bench next to a copy of the college newspaper, keeping a safe distance due to the mustard-colored smear across the pages. The streetlight made it bright enough for me to see the headlines:

Men’s Lacrosse Team Wins Third Straight Title

Freshman Assaulted on Emerson Quad ID’s Suspect

I glanced nervously around me, hoping there wasn’t an unidentified suspect still on the loose, and noticed a small group of people at a neighboring house, smoking and talking in the warm light of the front porch. I checked my phone. No new messages, no Facebook updates since 10:04 PM when my friend Jane had posted a picture of her boyfriend Michael dancing on the stage. I had already seen that one because I stared at my phone the whole time Justin was driving us to the frat house, trying to look like I had a more pressing social life than I actually did. I flipped through my call log—Emily, Emily, Jane, Home.

I really couldn’t see any other options. It would most certainly be my dad and not my mom who would come to get me in the middle of the night. And there was a big chance—okay, let’s say huge— that he would be more angry I was at a college frat party than relieved I called before ending up as a headline in the next day’s paper. My friends, however, were all with their dates at the prom thirty minutes away with limos waiting for them outside of the gym, and I’m not really sure what I was thinking other than I was scared, and so I pressed Home.

Button up to meet your fate, I whispered to myself—our family’s way of saying someone was in big trouble—as the phone rang once, then twice.

"You are where? He had been fast asleep next to Mom when he picked up the handset on their bedside table, but I could picture him now, sitting bolt upright in his striped pajamas and fumbling for the lamp switch. You’d better be able to give a good explanation for this, Josie Bianchi." Only my dad could call me Josie and make it sound scary. Mostly everyone called me Josephine.

Dad, I’m sorry—

I don’t want to hear it. He wasn’t just angry. Anyone who could go from sound asleep to that tone in 15 seconds was nuclear. I’ll be there is ten minutes. He hung up.

I texted Justin to tell him that I was getting a ride back to the prom and tried to sound cheerful, explaining—lying really, let’s be honest—that I’d had a good time but just wanted to hang out with my friends. I was startled when the hushed voices on the neighboring porch erupted in exuberant cheering as the screen door slammed and several more people arrived carrying cases of beer. I watched their party unfolding and it seemed like forever before I saw headlights turn onto the street and slow as they neared the bench where I waited. I could tell that Dad didn’t see me yet, so I stood up and waved awkwardly, trying to quell the pit of dread in my stomach. The car sped up.

He didn’t say anything when I got in, closed the door and fastened my seatbelt, which was worse, much worse, than him saying everything I had imagined he would. In fact, we drove in complete silence until I ventured a question: So, is it ok if you drop me off at school and I’ll get a ride home with my friends?

Are you serious? He shot me quick look, his eyes wide and penetrating. It is after midnight, Josie, you are in big trouble, and I am taking you straight home. I can’t even talk about it right now. There were no more words spoken, even after we got to the house and Dad threw his keys down hard on the breakfast table. I took that as my cue to get to my room as fast as I could. Pulling myself out of the tight-fitting silver dress, I put on a pair of comfy pajamas, washed my face, which took much longer than usual and left me with two raccoon eyes, and crawled into bed.

I texted Emily: My dad gave me a ride home. Worst night ever.

It took a little while, but then the phone buzzed in my hands. So sorry!! We’re at Jane’s now. Wish you could come over. Call u in the AM.

I flipped open the book I was reading—a memoir of a suicidal teenager with an eating disorder who only ate watermelon. It was kind of slow—I mean he only ate watermelon—so in about five minutes I was dozing. I turned the light off and slept soundly.

The clock next to my bed said 10:36 AM when I awoke to loud thumping. My brother Matt was pounding up the stairs, back from a morning workout before showering for church. I wasn’t all that crazy about going to church, but I was determined to show my eagerness, thinking that it might attenuate my punishment after the decision, as my parents would phrase it, to skip the prom and go to a college frat party. I went to the bathroom and startled myself. I scrubbed some more at my eyes to disintegrate the persistent black half-moons left behind by the mascara. I put in my contacts, brushed my teeth and headed downstairs.

It was worse than I thought. My parents were sitting at the breakfast table, not wearing church clothes and drinking coffee. My mom works at the church, so our family never skips unless it’s for vacation. My dad never drinks coffee, unless he’s been up since the crack of dawn or all night. Aren’t we going to church? I asked.

Dad didn’t look up from the table. Mom gave him a quick glance then looked at me with an expression that told me everything I needed to know and started in: Josephine, we need to talk to you. My stomach was grumbling, and I wanted to ask if I could get a bowl of cereal but thought better of it. When I peeked at my dad again, just staring at his folded hands in his lap, my nerves overcame the need for sustenance.

I could tell that Mom had been commissioned for the talk because she would have a gentler way of putting things. My dad tended to have quite a temper, even when it came to small stuff. Like the time one of the ticket attendants at Michigan Central Theme Park wouldn’t honor our 10% off coupons from KFC because they were torn and Dad almost went ballistic arguing with the guy until security was called and he cooled down, not wanting to make a scene. I was mortified, especially since I had invited my slightly more popular friend Felicity to spend the day with us. Needless to say, she didn’t accept any future invitations, and my mom was pretty sure that her mom avoided us in the grocery store.

My father came from a hardworking, devoted Sicilian family, and if you thought he was intimidating, oh man, you should’ve met my grandfather. He died when I was ten but left quite an impression. He had a piano in his house that he couldn’t play, and every time I came over he ordered me to sit down and play him something though my repertoire was limited to songs like Chopsticks and Edelweiss. He sat in his chartreuse recliner and never said a word during my performances, only grumbling a quick, That’s good, when I stopped playing. I never knew whether he was complimenting me or signaling for me to be finished.

When people imagine boisterous, kissing Italian families, my grandfather would not have been the image that came to mind. In Sicily he had been an official, kind of like the mayor of their town, primo cittadino Vitale Bianchi. When they moved to New Jersey he worked in a factory where he braided rope all day. At first he didn’t speak any English, but he was smart and made his way to the management of a successful bottling business that eventually moved inland to Michigan. He was a decent man, and so was my dad. They just weren’t what you would call affectionate. And Dad was definitely channeling the scariness of his father that morning as I seated myself at the table to hear the verdict.

Honey, Mom began as she placed her soft hand on mine. We are very concerned about some of your decisions lately. There was the word. I was having trouble determining which decisions she was referring to, but didn’t really want her to elaborate in front of Dad. The only egregious things I could think of were last night’s stupid adventure, of course, and the D I had received the week before in World History because of the paper that I (honestly!) forgot about until ten minutes before class. Oh, and then there was the prank that we played on the boys’ track team—not my idea—involving four-dozen eggs and Jane’s brother’s spud gun (Operation Huevos Launcheros) that got us suspended for a meet. So yeah, I guess some of my decisions were open to discussion.

Lately I had been hanging out with different groups of friends, and some of them weren’t the most exemplary influences. My closest friends, like Emily and Jane, hadn’t changed, but I was spending a lot of time with another group—mostly basketball girls, even though I didn’t even play that sport. Somehow Sarah and Morgan, two seniors, had decided I was cool and they were the ones who had convinced me to accept Justin’s invitation to prom. They were a persuasive pair, and they took me to the kinds of parties that just make you feel bad for being there, especially if you’ve told your parents you’re at a movie or spending the night with your best friend.

There was a little tear at the outside corner of mom’s eye as she spoke, and that made me feel worse than anything because I hated to disappoint her. She had been through so much with her breast cancer. It had been in her lymph nodes when they discovered it, and all the radiation and chemo had kept her exhausted for most