Page 1 of Reconnected Hearts
CHAPTER1
LUCY
The taxi crawls through the early morning traffic, it’s brake lights flashing red in the gray drizzle. I press my forehead against the cool window, watching the raindrops race down the glass. The driver's frown deepens with each passing minute, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Even the car doesn’t so much as whine in protest as the brake is pressed to the floor again and again. I think about making small talk with the driver but decide against it.
It's not even eight o'clock, but the day already feels like a lost cause. I fidget with the frayed edge of my scarf, my stomach twisting into knots. It appears all possible setbacks have occurred, and my mood has been ruined. Whatever. Truthfully, I wasn’t all that upbeat to begin with.
My foot taps anxiously against the rubber floor mat as I go over my internal checklist again. I’m sure I forgotsomething,but I can’t place just what. I suppose that as long as I have my dress, anything else can be replaced once I arrive in Providence—though it would be inconvenient, considering my father already has my trip planned out, starting from the very second my plane lands.
I want to kick myself for agreeing to this trip in the first place. I truly could not care less about being there for my father’sthirdwedding. The only reason I gave in was to put an end to his constant badgering about it.
You must be there, Lucy.
Please, Lucy. I’m begging you, Lucy.
It would mean so much to me, Lucy.
The sudden trill of my phone ringing in the silence sends a jolt of momentary terror through me—and apparently, the taxi driver as well. He jumps and looks at me with disdain in the rearview mirror. I offer him a sheepish smile and hurriedly dig out my phone to put an end to the incessant rings. My stomach sinks when my eyes lock on the screen and I see who is calling. I have to fight the urge to pound the bright red DECLINE button.
“Hello, Mother,” I say, sighing when I answer but immediately regretting it.She will pick up on that. My mother takes a deep breath that I know means she’s got a mouthful of an Italian “family is everything” lecture she’s about to give me.
“Good morning, Lucia,” she chirps with faux pleasantness. Then she breaks the act, her voice changing, flattening. “See? That’s how you greet your family when they call you. Otherwise, they’ll think you don’t love them, and you wouldn’t want that, would you, Lucia?”
“No, Mother,” I drone like a perfect little robot. Because that’s who she wants me to be. Mommy’s perfect little robot whodidn’tmove across the country to get a degree in something “useless.” Mommy’s perfect little robot who answers the phone completely animated even if the sun hasn’t yet risen. Mommy’s perfect little robot who will marry a perfect little male robot and make a bunch of perfect little robot children.
“Well, I suppose I forgive you,” she says. “It is the motherly thing to do, after all.” I imagine her peering at her nails distractedly as she says this.
Of all the words to describe my mother—overbearing, inappropriate, visibly and audibly Italian, “motherly” is not one that I would pick. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother, dearly, in fact. I just don’t always particularly like her. I know she has my best interests at heart and all, but her idea of a good life is certainly not mine. If she had her way, I would still be living with her in our little two-bedroom apartment in Queens, working at the salon during the week and the church over the weekend. I wouldn’t have anything of my own. I would just be another version of her, and, trust me, one Isabella Marino is all the world needs.
“You packed everything, didn’t you?” Mom frets. “Toothbrush, pajamas, underwear?”
“Yes, Mother.”
I can feel my face heating up, and I wonder if I will ever reach an age wise enough that my mother will trust me to remember to pack underwear.
“Oh, Lucia.” She sighs dramatically. “It’s so disappointing that you couldn’t reconcile with Jace, at least for the weekend. I just hate that you’re going to your father’s wedding alone. It would be so much more bearable with a date—you know, a distraction from the nonsense going on at the altar.”
Just the mention of my ex-boyfriend is enough to make my entire body tense up, the driver is watching me warily through the rearview mirror. We make eye contact, and I silently plead with him to drive through a tunnel with particularly bad cell reception. He doesn’t seem to get the memo.
“Ma, I’ve told you Jace and I?—”
“Oh, I know, I know, you hate him and will never,everforgive him, but that’s what you always say. And then what? You’re back together a month later. I was just hoping you could speed the whole thing up this time. Really, hon, it’s getting old.”
I roll my eyes and stop myself just short of sighing—I do not want that lecture again. “Jesus, I’m sorry my love life is causing you so much grief.”
“Lucia, do not?—”
“‘Take the lord’s name in vain.’ I know, Ma, I’m sorry. It’s just that you know this time is different. I’m not taking him back. I can’t.”
My mother exhales softly, and I know I’ve won the argument. There’s not a lot we agree on, but not letting men treat us like dirt just happens to be one of them. She’s the one who taught me how to respect myself, and, while she may not like my independence sometimes, I know she’s proud that I refuse to make the same mistakes she did. It’s the one thing I’ve done right.
“I know, Lucia, and I hope to God you don’t. I swear if I ever see that boy or that two-faced bitch, Amalie Marks?—”
“Ma!”
“What?” Mom cries defensively. “Really, you should be angrier, Lucy. After everything we did for that girl? She has the audacity to steal your boyfriend? I ought to call and give her mother an earful!” her Queens accent is showing even though she tries to hide it.
“Mother, please,” I groan. I can feel a throbbing headache beginning to form, and I suddenly remember what I forgot to pack—painkillers. “Calling Amy’s mother won’t fix anything. We are grown women, I’m handling it, alright? Just stay out of it.”
