I still have no idea what that was really about, but right now is not the right time to think about it, since staying up late last night made me oversleep, and now I’m late for opening the shop! I’ve never allowed a man or my emotions to override my intense desire to maintain my responsibilities. I’m a hard worker, and I know that the future of my little, broken family is in my hands.
So I hurry through my shower and the rest of my morning routine, get dressed and dash out the door. It’s not until I’m already driving to work that I realize I forgot to even say good morning to my mother. That familiar, heavy feeling of guilt settles down over me and when I pull into a gas station to fill up my tank, I take out my phone and send her a text message.
Good morning! Sorry I had to rush. Slept thru my alarm.
Barely ten seconds pass before I get a reply: You were very late coming home last night.
My heart sinks. So she was awake for that. I type out, I’m sorry, did I wake you up? Time got away from me. As I put the gas cap back on and slide into the driver’s seat to start my car, the phone buzzes again.
No, I was already awake. Just waiting for you to come home. I do worry when you’re out so late, Serena. You’re young and you should be enjoying life. I know how hard you work, dear. But things aren’t the way they were when I was your age. Not anymore. It’s dangerous out there.
I sigh, wondering how to respond. I decide that because I’m already late for work, I don’t have time to write out a long reply. I simply answer, I know, Mom. I’ll be more careful. I love you. Then I start the car and make my way downtown to work. Even my mother’s worrying can’t totally puncture my giddiness as I dreamily relive the events of last night, playing it over and over in my head.
However, when I walk up to the shop front, my good mood instantly melts away and my heart begins to race. Right there, on each of the two wide windows that I keep so spotlessly clean, is bright red graffiti. Both windows have a massive skull with three legs coming out of it. The symbol looks vaguely familiar, and then it hits me. In one of my introductory college history classes, I remember seeing a symbol similar to this one in a list of various national flags from around the world.
If I recall correctly, this particular one belongs to Sicily, only with a normal human face in the center instead of a gruesome skull. It dawns on me that this must be used as some kind of gang or mafia insignia around here. Probably the same guys who threatened me for protection money. I swallow hard, almost afraid to even go inside my own shop, the beloved store I call home for the majority of my waking hours. The one asset left of my father’s former dynasty.
Tears burn in my eyes as passersby cross the street to avoid having to walk close to my shop. I can feel them all whispering, averting their eyes, making mental notes to never set foot in Bathing Beauty, because it’s now tainted with mob activity. I can just hear them gossiping at the office water cooler with their stuffy, white-collar coworkers, talking about how my shop has been marked. Discussing the inevitable failure of my business. Hedging bets on how long it’ll be before Bathing Beauty shuts down forever. The thought makes me feel dizzy and weak in the knees.
“What am I doing just standing here?” I murmur to myself angrily. I shake myself out of my stunned, tragic state and go inside to grab some rags and window cleaner, then set to work trying to scrub away the graffiti. I’ll be damned if all my hard work gets undone by some arrogant hooligans. I may be just one young woman, but I’m also my Dad’s daughter, and he would be disappointed to see me fall apart so easily. I’m better than that.
However, the window cleaner doesn’t seem to be affecting the graffiti at all, and after about an hour of fruitless scrubbing, my arms are aching and I decide to just leave it for now. After all, there’s inventory to do and shelves to clean and stock. So I go inside and get to work, turning on some upbeat radio station and trying my best to pretend everything is okay.
A couple hours pass before there’s the jingle of the front door and I glance over eagerly, hoping that maybe some brave customer has decided to look past the graffiti and come in anyway. But it’s actually even better than that: Bruno is walking in!
Despite everything, my mouth immediately upturns into a smile as I take in his freshly-shaven face, the sexy button-up shirt he’s wearing rolled to his elbows, and the giant bouquet of exotic-looking red flowers in his hands. He grins at me and it’s almost like the beauty of his smile knocks me back a step. God, he’s handsome.
“Good morning, mia passerotta,” he says, his voice a delicious deep thrum.
“Bruno, I wasn’t expecting to see you,” I say, feeling as bashful as a preteen girl with a schoolyard crush. I nervously tuck my hair behind my ears as he steps up to the counter and offers me the bouquet. “What are these? They’re beautiful!” I ask.
“Nearly as beautiful as you,” Bruno adds. “In fact, you’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen since I last saw these flowers growing wild back home in Italy. It just so happened this morning that I noticed the neighborhood florist had some in the window and I had to get them for you. It’s fate.”
His words immediately warm my soul and help me relax a little. Bruno has always had a calming presence about him, and it’s intoxicating to be around. But then his expression darkens a little.
“I can’t help but notice the new artwork on your front windows there,” he points out, those green eyes locked with mine. There’s a deep sympathy there. I look away.
“Yeah, it was there when I got here this morning,” I answer, fiddling with the bouquet. “I tried washing it off but I couldn’t get it to even smudge.”
“It’s the special kind of paint they use. I’ll have to get you some heavy-duty industrial-grade cleaner to get rid of it,” Bruno tells me. “In fact, I’ll go get it now. I know just where to find it. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
He nods and turns to leave, clearing the space to the door with several long strides.
“Bruno, you don’t have to—”
He glances back and gives me a consoling smile. “I want to.”
Then he walks out and gets into his car to drive off, leaving me standing here slack-jawed and stunned, still holding the beautiful flowers. I quickly find a vase in the back room, fill it with water, and by the time I’m finished trimming and arranging the flowers into the vase, the door jingles again and in walks Bruno with a giant white bottle of cleaner in his hand. It can’t have even been fifteen minutes, much less twenty!
At my shocked expression, Bruno laughs and says, “I know a guy. Now, just give me a few minutes and I’ll have this shit come right off.”
I stand inside, watching through the window as Bruno easily scrubs away the red graffiti until the glass sparkles and shines again. It’s like magic. Bruno is like magic. When he comes back in, he goes to wash his hands and I follow, thanking him profusely.