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had picked out for my "boudoir" was so ugly that I seriously doubted whether a prostitute could get any action in it. And my next thought was that Bradley was so mad he was probably avoiding me.
    The phone rang, and I rushed to answer.
    "Before you say anything, Bradley, I want to apologize for—"
    "Francesca Lucia Amato," my mother's shrill voice scolded from the other end of the line. "What did you do to Bradley this time?"
    I pulled the pillow back over my face. Ever since the age of seven when I'd whacked my older brother Anthony over the head with his light saber for cutting my Totally Hair Barbie's long brunette locks, my mother had treated me like a delinquent. I'll admit that I could be combative, but it wasn't like I was a criminal—yesterday notwithstanding. "I didn't do anything to him, Mom." And that was the truth, but what I was about to say certainly wasn't. "Everything's fine."
    She slammed the receiver onto what I knew to be the kitchen counter. "He didn't propose!"
    " È una zitella gattara a vita ," Nonna wailed in the background, as if on cue.
    According to my nonna's proclamation, I'd apparently earned two new distinctions since turning thirty: the first was that I was now a zitella for life , and the second was that I was also officially a zitella gattara , or old maid cat lady, even though I was allergic to feline dander and had only ever owned dogs. "Um, what happened to Nonna's vow of silence?"
    "She's been forgetting about that vow quite often today," my mother grumbled.
    "Give-a me a break-a, woman," Nonna cried. "I'm old!"
    "Like just now," my mother added through what sounded like clenched teeth.
    "Dad's not around, is he?" I asked, trying to hide the hopeful desperation in my tone. "He hasn't wished me happy birthday yet." Not that it would do any good, but at least it would get my mom off the phone.
    The receiver hit the counter. "Joe! Get on the other line! It's Francesca!"
    A blissful silence ensued as we waited for my father to pick up.
    Then I heard my nonna praying loudly for a Savior—not Jesus, mind you, but a husband for me.
    "Maybe Dad didn't hear you?" I pressed, anxious to get back to my own private hell.
    My mother sighed. "It must be that wax buildup in his ears. I bought him a kit to clean that out, but does he listen to me?" She slammed down the receiver. "Joe! Could you stop playing blackjack on that computer and come wish your damn daughter a happy belated birthday?"
    There was another blessed moment of serenity while my mom once again waited and while I tried to figure out how I felt about my dad's wax-encrusted ears and that "damn daughter" comment.
    "What is that man doing ?" my mother exclaimed. "Give me a minute, Francesca. I'm going to have to go find him." The phone hit the counter and then crashed to the floor. "Joseph! Giuseppe !" she added, as though my dad might not have recognized the Anglicized version of his name.
    Nonna stopped praying. " Madonna mia !" she cried. " San Giuseppe !"
    I wasn't sure what was happening, but either my nonna had just had some sort of revelation, or she was invoking the assistance of the Virgin Mary and the patron saint of Italy and the Catholic Church on my behalf.
    Someone picked up the receiver. "Franki," Nonna began, her voice not unlike the Godfather's when he made someone an offer they couldn't refuse, "we have-a some hope."
    "We do ?" This was truly news to me.
    "I just-a remembered," she rasped. " La tavola di San Giuseppe ."
    "What about Saint Joseph's table?" I asked, mildly intrigued. It seemed like everyone was talking about that festival lately.
    "You know, the limoni ."
    "I don't know anything about any lemons, Nonna." Except for the fact that life was giving them to me by the bushel these days.
    "It's a tradition, Franki. A zitella take-a the lemon from-a San Giuseppe's table, and by the next-a year she have-a the husband. But no one can-a see, or it's-a no gonna work."
    "Wait. You mean, steal a lemon from the altar? To