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CHAPTER TWO – ZAHRA
“So, what are you going to do, honey?” I ask my husband Carlo as I rinse the dinner dishes and load the dishwasher.
Carlo sighs loudly behind me and says, “I don’t know. Uncle Mike’s been doing business with them for a long time, but it’s not making business sense anymore. I’ve thoroughly reviewed the books, and the only conclusion I can come to is that I have to cut that account.”
“Was it ever making a profit at any time?”
“Yeah, it was. Well, according to the books he left, I’m not sure at what point Uncle Mike kept the account going because of the relationship he’d developed. The old way of doing business doesn’t work in the twenty-first century anymore. I’d been trying to get him to change methods and bring him up to date on his business practices for some time.”
Smiling, I walk to my husband and press a kiss on his forehead. “Well, here’s your opportunity to turn the vineyard around, make a profit, and leave a legacy your Uncle Mike can be proud of.”
Carlo looks up at me and smiles. “Thanks, baby.”
“You’re welcome. We’re partners in this thing,” I say, sitting on his lap and wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Tomorrow’s our anniversary,” he announces.
“I know. I have reservations at Fuoco, remember?”
“Yeah,” he says, stiffening underneath me.
“But there’s a bit of a problem.”
“What’s that?” my husband asks.
“Mom and Dad’s plane aren’t scheduled to return until seven, and our reservations are for six.”
“So, push them back.”
“I can’t. Do you know how long it took me to get these reservations in the first place?” I ask, leaning back and staring at him as if he’d grown two heads.
Looking at the Bulgari watch I bought him for his birthday earlier this year, he replies, “Four months, one week, three days, and…twelve hours and seventeen minutes.”
“Oh, shut up! I can’t stand you,” I say, getting up from his lap and smacking his shoulder.
Pulling me back onto his lap, Carlo laughs, nuzzles my neck, and says, “Now that’s a damn lie. You love my nasty ass drawers.”
“Don’t get too hyped on yourself, buddy. Your shit stinks too,” I tease.
“Mm-hmm. Well, I love everything about your nasty—”
Before he can finish his words, a tiny voice behind us calls out, “Mommy, I can’t sleep.”
I turn on my husband’s lap and smile at our four-year-old daughter, Zoe. She’s the perfect blend of both Carlo and me. With his honey-colored eyes, bushy eyebrows, brownish-blonde hair, and olive skin and my full, pouty lips, tiny nose, and thick, long hair, she’s the most adorable child I’ve ever seen. She’s simply beautiful and not because she’s mine or that she’s interracial.
No matter where we go, people are enamored with her.
“Come here, scuddle bug,” I say, calling her by the nickname I’d given her when she first started crawling. “I thought you were asleep when I left you.”
“I was playing possum,” she says, grinning as I pull her onto my lap.
“I wish Mr. Denim hadn’t gotten you hooked on his possum stories,” I groan, referencing our neighbor down the street.
He’s partially deaf, mostly speaking but using American Sign Language when it suits him. He’s even taught Zoe some sign language, including the word possum.
Carlo groans as if he’s in pain. I shoot a look at him over my shoulder.
“Someone’s gaining weight,” he teases. I know he was groaning about Mr. Denim and his possums, but he won’t complain in front of Zoe. She adores our neighbor.
