Mikaela's Story: A Novel

By Kathy Almeida

She’s cute, adorable, and she’s living her life, just the way she wants to. She has her own business selling from her old beat-up truck; produce and flowers that she’s grown in her garden, plus old fixable stuff that she’s repurposed and now people want and love. So, she has a steady income, a fixer upper house that’s over a hundred years old, plus a cat, a dog, a rescued steer, and a crazy goat to keep her company on the five acres of land that she owns. Everything is old and broken down, but it doesn’t matter because she loves her life, and she loves where she lives.
And hopefully one day she will meet the man of her dreams. He will be Italian because everything is Italian in her scheme of things … until she discovers on a whim and an ancestry test, that things are not what they seem.
Suddenly there are three guys who capture her heart after no man has in maybe forever. Three she loves and one she really wants, who doesn’t want her.
What’s a girl to do?
Meet Mikaela...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Oct 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781982275303

Kathy Almeida

Kathy Almeida is a creative artist. She lives in Belleview, Florida along with her husband and family on a farm with their animals - which includes a dog, three cats, five cows, a rescued steer, a donkey, and up until this year, a very bossy goat. She loves taking care of her family and her special needs adult son who has autism and a seizure disorder. She writes, paints, and crafts - inspired by her love of life. Mikaela’s Story 2 is her 7th novel and 8th book.

Book preview

Chapter 1 Boots.jpg

"M ikaela!"

What?

How’s a person supposed to get around all this mess?

It’s not a mess. It’s my heritage.

"Heritage, my ass; I can’t even find a place to sit in here.

I laughed. Here, sit down. It’s an authentic chair made in a small southern town in Italy, right near where my great grandparents came from.

How do you know this?

I just do. My grandmother told me that her mother told her, and her mother told her. It’s a family thing. We tell each other stuff.

Well, I’m telling you, this chair is not very comfortable.

Then sit somewhere else and please watch what you say, they’ll hear you.

Who’ll hear me?

My departed relatives, they’re all around us.

You’re kidding, right?

Now, why would I kid about a thing like that?

Seriously, Mikaela, you need to get a life.

I beg your pardon, I have a life, I said, smiling.

I know, your herbs, garden, and your veggie truck. You should sell that steer you’ve got out there and make some real money.

Don’t even talk about Luciano like that.

He’s one lucky animal, that’s for sure. If you hadn’t stepped in and saved him, he’d be somebody’s dinner right now.

I know, uh, I can’t even go there. When I rescued him, he was so skinny you could see his ribs poking out. Look at him now, you’d never think he was the same animal.

He needs a friend.

He’s got a friend, Bravo’.

Some friend, that goat is always going off somewhere.

I know, I need to build a fence that Bravo can’t get out of, it’s just finding the time, you know. I’m just grateful the new neighbor hasn’t shot him yet. Bravo’s always going over there.

I’m surprised, when you’ve got plenty of ‘snacks’ for him in your garden.

"You’d think, but maybe he goes by ‘the grass is greener on the other side’ at my neighbor’s place.

Speaking of your neighbor, I saw him the other day. He’s a looker.

Yeah, Daniel … but I’m not sure that he’s Italian, so I’m not interested.

Are you serious, you’d pass up an opportunity to hook up with a gorgeous guy like that simply because he’s not Italian?

I can’t believe that’s coming out of your mouth, Maria. Need I remind you, Antonio?

That’s different. I didn’t go looking for someone who was Spanish; it just happened.

Right.

Well at least our home isn’t decorated like we just stepped out of Spain.

Humph. That’s your problem.

Mikaela, we are Americans, remember?

I know, but my Italian heritage is just so much more romantic than being just plain ole American.

You’re crazy. And besides, with that blond hair of yours, you look more English than Italian.

My Dad’s side. Now, help me with this please, I said.

What is it? Maria asked.

Duh, a painting.

I know, but what is it supposed to be? I can’t tell, Maria said standing back, turning her head this way and that.

I have no idea. It’s a painting by a local artist from a small town off the coast of Sardinia, near where my relatives are from. I bought it online. I love the colors, aren’t they gorgeous?

It’s something, all right, she said, holding it for me on the wall, while I adjusted it.

Thank you, I said, standing back, once I’d finished, to admire the reds, yellows, turquoise and sapphire blues of the abstract painting that went perfectly with all the colors in my kitchen. The teal-colored coffee pot, along with the slate blue ceramic vase that I used to hold the stainless-steel spatulas, spoons and forks, the cherry red crock that held wooden spoons, and the burgundy wine rack filled with Cabernet lined my butcher block kitchen counter, underneath the deep turquoise cabinets that I’d painted not too long ago. And the bright cherry red refrigerator popped, completing the look, or it would once I took down that hideous wallpaper behind it.

I need to go. Momma said she could only stay with Alejandra for an hour. But first I’ll drop those veggies off at the restaurant for you before I go home.

Thank you. How’s my beautiful godchild and godmother, Titi’ Rosa, doing?

"Your godmother enjoys telling me what I’m doing wrong with your goddaughter who gives new meaning to the terrible twos. Alejandra has got the temper tantrum down to a science, acting like she’s my mother by telling me what to do when she’s not stomping her foot, demanding her way, and screaming her head off. She’s also a queen and we’re her subjects with my mother encouraging her every step of the way. I believe they’re in cahoots together, their goal being to drive me crazy. And it’s working.

Yeah, you can’t fool me; I see that proud momma gleam in your eyes.

Well, I might have a better attitude if I wasn’t …

Oh my God!! You’re pregnant! I screamed, jumping up and down. Michelangelo, my twelve-year-old golden retriever, looked up from where he’d been snoozing on the floor, then fell back to snoozing. It’s okay Michelangelo, Mommy’s just a little excited.

Maria smiled, running her hand across her belly in a loving gesture.

Oh Maria, I’m so excited! When?

The beginning of February.

I’m so happy for you. I need to make you my famous stuffed shells.

Maria made a face. No offense, my dear friend, but right now even the thought of anything with cheese or sauce, makes me want to run to the bathroom.

But my stuffed shells are vegan. You know that … you love them.

Vegan’s not very Italian.

Not true. I know a famous Italian chef who’s totally vegan and he makes the best lasagna and manicotti. It’s so good, you can’t even tell the difference between the typical meat and cheese version.

Excuse me, Maria said, as she ran down the hall to the guest bathroom, slamming the door behind her. A few minutes later she came out, looking white as a ghost.

Are you okay? I asked. Venerdi, my tuxedo cat, rubbed against my leg. I picked her up and held her to me, sinking my face into her soft black fur.

Please don’t mention anything related to Italian food, she said, sitting in the straight back chair she’d sat in before. She’s so tiny, Maria said, nodding towards Venerdi.

She’s only two years old; maybe she’ll grow some more, I said, setting her down on the floor, reaching in the pantry to give her a treat. Good thing I didn’t start my sauce yet. I’ve got garlic, onions, tomatoes, and herbs from the garden, fresh picked this morning, ready for the big pot, you know the one I inherited… I stopped talking as soon as I noticed Maria turn green, racing for the bathroom again. Oops.

Maria came out holding a wet cloth to her head.

Oh, I’m sorry, I said, rushing to her side.

It’s okay. I’m going home to lay down for a bit. I need to take a rain check on bringing the veggies to the restaurant. Antonio will just have to make do, or do you think you can do it?

Of course. I hugged her and walked out with her to her Ford Escort. Hey Maria?

What? she asked from the driver’s seat.

Does Spanish food bother you too or is it just Italian, like spaghetti, lasagna or veggie balls?

At the mention of Italian, Maria shot me a bird, put her hand over her mouth and backed out of the drive headed towards home, which was two blocks away from me.

So, I guess that’s a no? I shouted to her, with a smile.

We both lived on the south side of Lake Weir, one of the bigger lakes in Marion County, Florida, off Sunset Harbor Road. My home is across the street from the lake, off one of the side streets. Maria and Antonio built their two-story home by the lake and just across the road from me. Their restaurant, Alejandra’s, sat on the corner of 441 and CR 42, two miles from where we both lived. They both worked in the restaurant. Maria managed the business side while Antonio was the chef/artist creating great meals, that had his customers coming back again and again. Whereas Maria was quiet and enjoyed being in the background, Antonio loved the limelight, greeting his customers, joking with them with his bright smile and delighting them with his Spanish cuisine.

Maria and I had been best friends since childhood, growing up together as neighbors just four miles to the east of where we lived now. Our mothers were also best friends and had known each other all their lives, growing up in upstate New York, living right next to each other. Once our moms had graduated from school, they decided to move to Florida together, settling in Saint Augustine, where Rosa met Franco (Maria’s parents). They fell in love. They set up a double date with their best friends, Florence and Welcome (my parents) who also fell in love. Franco and Rosa were married a short three months after meeting, with my parents following suit, a month later.

After their honeymoon, my mom moved to Weirsdale with my dad (an only child), where he lived and worked on a big orange grove with his father. My paternal grandfather died not too long after from cancer and shortly after that my paternal grandmother died from an aneurysm. I never got to meet them.

Franco fell on hard times, losing his job when the company he worked with folded. My father made him an offer to come work with him and eventually they became partners, running a very successful business. They sold their oranges commercially and at a fruit stand for the locals.

Being part Italian, I loved the idea of a big family. Mom and Dad wanted one, but after several miscarriages they gave up on the idea and spoiled me rotten instead.

Sadly, most of my Italian relatives were either in New York or had moved south to Miami. But there was one Christmas when Mom was able to convince Dad to take some time off from the grove – winter was the busy time for harvesting and selling our oranges - and we flew to New York to spend it with my grandparents. I can still remember the huge two-story house they lived in, walking through the long hallway to the kitchen in the back of the house where my little Italian grandmother was baking Italian wedding cookies. She wore an apron that she’d embroidered, with confectioner’s sugar and flour splayed on the front as she wiped her hands on it, right before taking me into her arms in a big hug and calling me her special girl. I was ten and already taller than her. Later, as I sat on a kitchen stool, I watched as Nana made her homemade Italian sausage, pasta, sauce, and bread in preparation for Christmas Eve’s dinner that night. My aunts, uncles, and cousins piled into the house at five, filling Nana and Papa’s home with lots of noise, laughter, and so much love as we came together to eat great food and celebrate the night before Christmas. Christmas Day started off before sunrise with my cousins and I sitting on the floor in front of the towering Christmas tree, tearing into the presents like a demolition derby… wrapping paper, ribbons, and tissue paper thrown all around the room, while the adults sat on the couch and chairs watching us, sipping on their coffee. While we enjoyed playing and looking at our gifts, the adults set out a breakfast of homemade pastries, hot chocolate for the kids, and mimosas and more coffee for the adults.

Soon after, we dressed in our finest and headed to mass at Saint James Catholic Church just up the road from my grandparents’ home. Some drove; the rest of us walked. I remember the sound and feel of the snow and ice crunching under my new boots. My cousin, horsing around, threw a snowball at me and then slipped, landing in the wet snow. We laughed at him falling, so he did it again for good measure. My aunt, who had opted to ride to the church, was not happy with him when she saw his soaked pants. After church we came home and prepared for the feast ahead. Everyone had a job to do. My grandmother, mother and aunts helped prepare the food, while my cousins and I set the table. My grandfather, father and uncles went outside to chop wood for the fire. After setting the table my cousins and I went outside to build a snowman. Living in Florida, it was a huge treat, to see and play in the snow. Dinner ready, we all came to the table, holding hands as my grandfather said grace before we began to eat. The table was filled to the brim with food. There was antipasto, baked ham, turkey with dressing and cranberry sauce, gravy, mashed potatoes, Nana’s ravioli and manicotti, garlic rolls, fresh string beans and cranberry sauce. Too full, we waited until that night to have dessert- cannoli, tiramisu, and Italian wedding cookies. The adults sipped brandy and the kids had more hot chocolate. We got to spend one more day before my parents and I flew back home to Florida. It was the best Christmas ever.

Even though I did not get to see my relatives but a few times, Maria and my parents were so close, that we spent most of our holidays together. Maria, also an only child, was more than my best friend; we were sisters with a different mom and dad. And our parents carried their life-time friendship until Mom’s death.

I was only twenty-four when my mom died from cancer and twenty-eight when my father remarried and moved to Tennessee with his new and very pregnant bride (whom he’d met online). My dad sold his half of the business to Franco and used that money to invest in a motel in Townsend, a small town outside of Pigeon Forge and near the entrance to Cades Cove in Tennessee. He and Abigail (his young wife, 20 years his junior) were going to run the business together and raise my little half-brother, Jamie, who was born a couple of years after they arrived there.

Dad gave me the money from the sale of my parents’ home-the place where I’d been born and raised.

With part of the money I inherited, I bought an old wood frame two story house with an attic, a truck, and an old barn on five acres. Everything about the place was old…the buildings, trees, fencing, and even the rusted-out well. I didn’t care; I loved it. And even though it needed a lot of work, the house’s structure was good and livable.

It’d always been my dream to live in a fixer upper and boy did I have one. I’d lived in my home for about four years now. So far, I’d planted an herb, flower, and vegetable garden, plus orange, lemon, and peach trees.

On weekends I’d go to the flea market in my beat-up truck, loaded with herbs, produce, and flowers. The attic and barn were filled with old furniture, trunks of clothes, antiques, and junk from a different era. I enjoyed going through them, excited with the finds that I gave new life to by either mending, sewing, hammering, painting, repurposing, and then bringing them with me to sell as well.

I rented a booth at the end of one of the rows, so I could use my truck along with the table to display my goods. And my business, which I named, ‘Mikaela’s Home Grown and Junk’ was doing well, with the support of the locals.

Maria and Antonio got first pick from my produce for their restaurant. Antonio would pick what he wanted from the produce and herbs, while Maria gathered the flowers and scavenged through my finds to see what she liked. One Saturday I showed her the unusual glassware I’d found in a trunk in the attic. She bought all fifty of them to use as a flower vase on each table with sprigs of rosemary and a rose in each one.

On another day I found an old quilt that was torn in a lot of places that I decided to salvage by cutting the best squares and making them into placemats. Maria loved them and bought them for her house. I think she and Antonio were my best customers.

During the season, most mornings I was up before dawn working in the garden, to beat the hot summer sun. As my business grew, and profits started rolling in, I didn’t have to keep dipping into my inheritance. And during the off season, I worked part time at Alejandra’s. The rest of the time, I was working on the renovations at my house.

Initially the whole project had been totally overwhelming, and I often wondered why the hell I thought I wanted to even do this. And then I decided to take the pressure off by basically loving the place as it was and do what I could when I could.

Thankfully, the main structure of the home was good, and the previous owners had updated the plumbing, wiring and had a new air conditioning system installed.

With Antonio and Maria’s help, I pulled up the ugly carpeting downstairs which exposed the original wood floors. I didn’t mind the scratches, nicks, and scrapes on them; they just added more character. And with a good wood cleaner and polish, they were beautiful.

Next on my agenda for the house, was stripping it of the ugly wallpaper that hung in almost every room. It was a project that I looked forward to and dreaded, both at the same time.

I was living the dream … I had my fixer upper, some acreage, animals, and work I loved. And one day, I’d meet my Italian someone to share it with me.

With sauce simmering on the stove, I took my apron off, hanging it on the back of the bright red chair by the kitchen door. Michelangelo, come on boy, I said, opening the door and calling out to my dog.

He raised his head, looked at me, then rested his head back on his big front paws, watching me.

Too hot, huh? I asked, smiling. I went outside feeling the hot afternoon sun resting on my shoulders.

Pulling on my big sun hat, I made my way to the garden. Picking up the hose I watered each row of plants, cooling and nourishing them as I went down each one. Jessie James Decker’s song, All Filled Up, rang out from my playlist on my phone tucked into the back of my overalls. I took the hose and started singing along with her…

I’m all filled up … Yeah, you’re making me dizzy, I’m all filled up, don’t need no white whiskey hey…I’m all filled up...

Laying the hose down in the bin, I started dancing, twirling, and singing unaware of anything but the motion and love of the song.

The song ended, and as I picked up the hose, I heard a whistle.

I turned to see my neighbor, Daniel, grinning from ear to ear.

I would have clapped but as you can see, my arms are full, he said, looking down at the bundle he carried.

Feeling embarrassed I called out, Bravo, not again, how many times do I have to tell you to stay in your own yard? Walking over to retrieve him, I looked up at Daniel. I’m sorry.

Don’t be; if not for him getting into my garden, I might have missed that great performance, he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Lucky for you, you’ve got an excuse, or I might think you were stalking me, I said, smiling and taking Bravo from Daniel’s arms. Stay in your own yard, I commanded Bravo, setting him down. He answered me by chewing on the tops of my carrots. Bravo!!

He’s a handful, that one, Daniel said.

Well as soon as I build a new fence, he won’t be troubling you anymore.

You’re going to build a fence? Daniel asked.

Sure, why not? I answered, biting my bottom lip. Even though Daniel wasn’t Italian or on my man agenda, I couldn’t disregard that he was hot. He had blond hair, blue/green eyes, strong build, as witnessed by those arm muscles bulging carrying Bravo, white t-shirt, blue jeans, boots, dimples in his cheeks that showed when he smiled and those beautiful white teeth of his, with full sensuous lips. Yeah, I wasn’t ignorant or oblivious to his charm or good looks. But no matter, it wasn’t going to happen.

So, what do you know about building a fence? he asked.

A little, I said, cupping my hand over my eyes to block the glare from the sun.

Good, maybe you can come build mine when you’re done, he said, with a half grin that spelled one thing and one thing only, pure sexuality oozing out of every pore of his gorgeous body.

Sure, why not? I said, taking my long curly hair, with a mind of its own, and stuffing it underneath my hat.

So, when do we begin? he asked earnestly.

Excuse me? I asked.

Building the fence. Tomorrow’s as good a day as any, and I’m open, if you want, he said.

Um, well, um … He’d caught me off guard. I had no idea how to reply to that. I didn’t have a clue about building a fence, I was just trying to act cool. Right then I smelled my sauce and remembered that it was way past time for stirring.

Something smells good, he said, right on cue.

Thanks, that’s my sauce, which I need to tend to, I said. ‘Tend to?’ Who says that? I asked myself internally. Thanks again for helping me with Bravo.

No worries, Daniel said, turning to leave.

Chapter 2 Boots.jpg

T he next morning, I woke to the sounds of hammering. Looking out the window, I saw Daniel working the fence line, the part that divided his property from mine.

What?! I pulled on a pair of jeans, slid my feet into my boots, and tucked in the t-shirt I’d slept in the night before. Running down the stairs, I almost tripped and fell over my cat, who was sleeping on one of the steps. Vernerdi! Really!

I ran out the front door, slamming the screen door behind me, down the three porch steps, landing in the dirt, then running to where Daniel worked in the early morning sun.

What are you doing? I demanded, looking up from where I had my hands on my knees, leaning over, trying to catch my breath.

What does it look like I’m doing? Daniel asked, putting a nail in his mouth from the toolbox, while hammering in another into the rail.

It looks like you’re building the fence that I said I was going to do.

Hmm, Daniel said, backing away from the post, measuring with his eye where the next post should go.

That’s not the right kind of fence, you know, Bravo can still get through a barbed wire fence, I said, acting all proud of myself for knowing that.

This is true, but he won’t be able to get through this, will he? Daniel said, pointing to the wire mesh that lay rolled on the ground not too far from where Daniel was working.

Oh, I didn’t see that. Well, still, I said that I would build the fence, and I meant it.

Good, there’s a hammer and gloves … he said, nodding past his shoulder.

Oh. Well, I just got up, I want some coffee first. Can I bring you a cup? I make a mean cappuccino with my Moka pot.

Daniel looked at me with a funny expression on his face. Thanks, but I already had my coffee, Mr. Coffee, black. He turned back to hammering.

Whatever, I said, stomping back to the house. I put the coffee in my beautiful stainless steel coffee pot from Italy and watched it brew, the Italian espresso, freshly ground. The smell filled the bright kitchen with an aroma that had me holding my imported red Italian mug anxiously.

As far as I was concerned, there could not be enough Italian in one’s life. I looked out the wood frame window over the kitchen sink as I sipped the delicious coffee. Daniel was busy hammering away. I started to feel guilty for not rushing out to help him, but then on second thought, a second cup of coffee sounded even better.

I sat at the kitchen table, with its peeling paint, four chairs of different shapes and colors all around. The one thing they all had in common was their age, old. I loved old things that needed fixing up. Like my house. I kept meaning to get back to it, it’s just that the garden and outdoors took priority.

Even still, I loved my home. I had great plans for it, like I was going to paint my kitchen a bright yellow, or maybe something like I’d seen in a magazine I’d ordered from Tuscany. The colors there matched the sunsets over the lake, all the bright yellows, oranges, reds… yes, something colorful, to go with the latest painting on my wall and everything else I’d put in my kitchen. First, I had to get rid of that ugly wallpaper. I have no idea what the previous or original owners were thinking.

My phone rang. Picking up my mobile I saw that it was Maria.

Hey girlfriend, how are you?

I’m good.

So, what’s up?

Just checking to see if you’re still planning to drop off those cukes you promised us today?

Have I ever let you down?

Maria giggled then gagged.

What’s the matter? I asked, alarm setting in.

I’m fine, it’s just this bambino is messing with me. I can’t seem to keep anything down.

Ah honey, I wish there was something I could do to help you feel better.

You can. Get pregnant and be miserable with me, Maria said.

Yeah, not married here. And besides … before I had a chance to finish, I heard a loud rapping at the screen door. Hold on Mar, someone’s at the door.

Who’d be there this early? she asked.

I got up and saw Daniel standing at the door, wiping his brow with his left sleeve.

What’s up? I asked from the other side of the screen door.

Were you serious about helping? he asked.

Of course, I was, I said.

Daniel looked at the door.

Sorry, I said, opening it an inch.

Daniel smiled. Afraid I might do something?

No, I said, inching the door open a smidgen more.

Mikaela, who is it? Maria called out over the phone.

Nobody, just my nosey neighbor, I said, a little too loudly by the look on Daniel’s face.

You mean the hottie? Maria asked on speaker phone.

Daniel’s grin grew wider.

Maria, I’ve got to go. I’ll get the cukes there by eleven, okay?

See you then, she said hanging up, but not before I heard her gag once more.

She’s pregnant, I said seeing the question on Daniel’s face. I leaned against the now open door, holding the coffee in one hand, my phone in the other. Vernerdi escaped to the outdoors. Vernerdi!

You named your cat that? Daniel asked, looking at me, then at my shirt.

So? What of it? Crap, no bra, and my nipples were pointing through the sheer white fabric of my t-shirt like an open invitation.

Nothin’. So, any chance I could steal a cup of ice water? he asked. Seeing my questioning look, he went on, I could have walked back to my house, but since yours is closer and since I’m helping you fix your problem, I didn’t think you’d mind.

Of course not. I’ll get it.

I’ll stay right here, he said, taking his visor and sunglasses off.

Come in, I said, moving towards the cupboard to take a mason jar.

I opened the cherry red refrigerator door. Tried to, that is.

Need help?

No thanks, I’ve got it. She’s just a little stubborn.

Is that a retro?

I have no idea. Came with the house. Love the color and it keeps things cool. Opening it is good too, for developing strong muscles, I said, glancing at Daniel’s with the mention of muscles. Even his chest muscles popped underneath his white t-shirt. And that blond hair of his dipping to just above his eyes … those sexy blue green eyes that reminded me of the hills just up the way. They’re now grassy slopes but used to be filled with orange groves before the year of the freeze that did them in (thankfully my father and Franco’s farm was spared). I could feel a strong pull towards this man. Are you by any chance a little bit Italian?

Daniel laughed a deep throaty laugh. Nope.

What then?

What do you mean?

What is your nationality?

Um, American.

No silly, I mean your ancestors. Where did they come from?

Ireland and Germany.

Are you sure?

Well, if you mean, have I ever had a DNA test or some other crazy such thing, no. My mother’s people came from Ireland and my father’s, from Germany. But that was long ago, like generations ago. Why?

No reason. Damn. I took the tray of ice out of the freezer and cracking it on the counter, I put a couple of cubes in the glass and ran water from the sink over it. "Hope you