CHAPTER ONE
It couldn’t have been a more beautiful afternoon. Of all the rotten luck! It had been raining all week. Why not today? If it had, I wouldn’t be seated on the back of Anthony Carboni’s convertible in the parade from hell.
I shifted, adjusting the satin skirt of my old prom gown, one I’d worn to my senior prom four years before, to let some air at my legs. Sweat trickled down between my breasts, a mixture of both heat and nerves.
You know, just when you think you’ve experienced the worst day of your life another one comes along. For example, I was certain that slipping on the dance floor at Julia Mendini’s wedding reception the summer before and flashing everyone my favorite neon green thong was the ultimate humiliation. But that was a cakewalk compared to this.
“Don’t forget to smile, Gina,” Anthony Carboni called back over his shoulder as he sat behind the wheel of his black Mustang GT convertible.
“Bite me,” I hissed as we drove past the countless oversized umbrella tables that lined the main street of town. The tables were filled with locals who’d come to eat and see Little Florence’s first big parade. Banners hung suspended across the road while colorful streamers curled around telephone poles like the stripes on a candy cane.
Anthony turned to me with a wide grin, straight white teeth against a deeply tanned face. “Only if you promise to return the favor.”
“In your dreams.”
He didn’t reply, simply wiggled his dark brows playfully, and then turned his attention back to the float-lined road in front of us.
I aimed my best glare at the back of Anthony’s head, but was quickly distracted by the rich, spicy aroma of tomato based sauces and garlic that drifted over the street.
My stomach growled in protest. I had skipped breakfast that morning – no, make that I’d been too nauseous to eat. Now, I was starving big time.
I wondered if anyone would notice if I jumped out of Anthony’s convertible. Just long enough to grab a sandwich to eat along the way and ease my hunger cravings. Looking around, I realized, much to my dismay, that there was no way I could manage it. Leaping in and out of a moving car in a full-length prom gown pretty much guaranteed a broken bone of some kind.
I sighed in frustration. It appeared I was doomed to starve to death before this turtle-paced parade ever reached the end of the main street. That is, if I didn’t die of complete and utter humiliation first.
We followed the parade procession down Mulberry Street, which ran through the center of Little Florence, our Cleveland suburb’s version of Little Italy.
Looking around, I had to admit I was shocked by how many people had turned out for the day’s festivities. The sidewalks along the street were packed. Who knew sausages were so popular?
As luck would have it, or in my case not-so-luck , several of the kids I’d graduated high school with were among those that had come to watch the first annual Little Florence Sausage Festival parade. I already lived with the fact that my family was a little different from other kids’ families. Why not stick out a little more awkwardly in their mind’s eye?
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. I thought for sure it would be mostly old people at the parade. You know the retired kind with nothing better to do with their free time than hang around coffee shops and talk about the good old days. I certainly hadn’t expected so many of my old classmates to show up for the festivities.
Unfortunately for me, there wasn’t much hope of hiding from them while I was perched atop the back of Anthony Carboni’s convertible.
I watched their mouths slide into wide grins the second they saw me. They made no effort to hide the humor they found in my newly appointed title of Sausage Queen. The weenie-shaped float behind me didn’t help
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