Chapter Seventeen

As the rest of the family hurriedly gobbled down the wedding-themed meal, Tony quietly got up and left the room. Angela got up and chased after him. "Tony, where are you going?"

He picked up the phone. "I thought of someone else I'd like to invite to our do-over wedding."

"No old girlfriends," Angela warned him. Although there were a few old girlfriends of Tony's who she wouldn't have minded rubbing their happiness in the face of.

Tony rolled his eyes. "I'm talking about Mrs. R."

"Oh. Yeah, she should be there," Angela admitted reluctantly. As bombastic as the woman could be, she had been Tony's mother figure even longer than his actual mother had, and their family-only wedding wouldn't be complete without her. "It's too bad we don't have time to invite Aunt Rosa and Uncle Aldo and your cousins from Italy."

Tony considered it for a moment, then shook his head. "We'd never fit 'em all under one roof. We should give 'em a call and let 'em know the good news as soon as we can, though."

"But they'll want to know why they weren't invited."

"We'll tell them I knocked you up and it was an emergency."

Angela snatched the receiver from his grasp. "Tony Micelli, don't you dare!"

"Relax, they'll approve wholeheartedly. The last time they visited, I got lectured about my duty to reproduce, and then insulted and beaten with a rolling pin when I told them we weren't involved." Tony wrestled the phone away from her and dialed Mrs. Rossini's number. "Hey Mrs. Rossini."

"Tony? Whatcha need, honey? I was just heading out for bridge with the girls."

"I've got some news. Guess what?"

"You finally replaced that rust bucket you call a car?"

"No, guess again."

"You're going on a diet?"

"No." Tony's face fell. "Why? Do you think I need to?" Angela, who had wrapped herself around him like a python and rested her head on his shoulder to listen in, reassured him with a silent shake of her head.

"Tony, stop with the guessing games, I'm already five minutes late!" Mrs. Rossini complained.

Tony had lifted the hem of his shirt and was obsessively inspecting his waistline, and Angela could tell the woman was about five seconds from hanging up on him. "What Tony's trying, very badly, to say, is that we'd like to invite you to our wedding."

A loud screech vaguely resembling dolphin chatter rang out from the handset, and Tony and Angela both leaned away. Sam poked her head out of the kitchen door. "Did I just hear the fire alarm?"

"No, sweetie, Mrs. Rossini just got a little excited," Angela replied.

"Tony Micelli, if this is a prank call, it ain't funny, and shame on you for dragging a nice girl like Angela into your mischief!"

"No prank," Tony promised. "Technically, it's already official. We got the certificate a month ago, but we've been trying to keep it quiet. We decided to have a small ceremony, just for the family, and we were hoping you'd come play mother-of-the-groom. We're going up to Niagara Falls tonight, and we're going to seal the deal tomorrow, if you're free."

"Am I free?" Mrs. Rossini squawked. "You'd better believe I am! I've been waiting for this since the first time I saw you together. I knew then it was only a matter of time. Though I sure wasn't prepared for just how much time," she added wearily.

"Pack a bag and come on over," said Angela. "We're heading out as soon as we can get the kids together."

The moment they hung up the phone, it began to ring again. Angela picked it up with a heavy sigh. "Hello?"

"Hello, Angela, or should I call you Mrs. Micelli?" Isabelle Ferguson's voice greeted her quizzically. "Is this wedding announcement a prank?"

"No, Isabelle." Was everyone they broke the news to going to ask them that? It was already getting old. "It's for real. Sam made them up for us as a wedding gift."

"I'm going to go get the dishes started," Tony informed her. "When you're done talking to Doc Ferguson, can we unplug the phones? Or maybe smash 'em with a mallet?"

Part of Angela was relieved that Tony was as annoyed as she was. At least she knew it wasn't the mood swings acting up again. "I love you for your mind, as always, Tony."

Jonathan finished eating in record time and ran upstairs to put out a fresh pile of iguana bits to tide Spike over while they were out of town. Meanwhile, Mona busied herself appropriating the leftovers and taking them up to her place, leaving Tony alone in the kitchen with his daughter. "Need some help, Dad?"

Sam was a good girl, but she wasn't a saint. Volunteering to help with housework in the middle of all this excitement wasn't something she would do without an ulterior motive. Tony steeled himself for a serious conversation. "Sure, honey. You dry, okay?" He handed her a towel and she took up her place at the counter beside him.

"So…" Sam trailed off thoughtfully.

Yep, his initial suspicions were correct. She was stopping to gather her thoughts. Whether they were good or bad, the fact that they required advanced preparation indicated they were serious. "So."

"So…you and Angela, huh?"

"Yeah." Neither he, nor his daughter, were particularly eloquent when nervous. "I could have done worse, couldn't I?"

Sam pointed a finger at him sternly. "And don't you forget it, mister! I expect you to make her happy, just like I expect her to make you happy."

"We're both happy," he promised her. Okay, she doesn't disapprove of the match, but I'd more or less guessed that from the wedding announcements. What is this, then? "How about you? Are you happy?"

"For a smart guy, you ask dumb questions sometimes. I'm fine with this, Dad." Sam rolled her eyes. "Honestly, I was starting to think I'd have to lock you guys in a make-out closet to get you to make a move. It's just…"

Tony handed her a plate, gripping it tightly to conceal the nervous tremor in his hands. "What?"

"Do I have to call her 'Mom?'"

"Huh?" Of all the massive changes that had hit her life today, that little detail was what she had chosen to worry about? "No. Where would you get an idea like that?"

"I dunno. The Brady Bunch?"

"I hate that show and so does Angela," Tony reminded his daughter.

"True." Sam continued to rub the dry plate with the damp towel, looking thoughtful. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I do think of her as a mom, but 'Mom' was what I called Mom, and it would be confusing to have another mom named 'Mom,' you know?"

Tony could understand that. The sentence she had just spoken had already managed to confuse him. "Uh…I think."

Fortunately, his daughter noticed his spinning head and elaborated for him. "It's like if the new baby was a boy, and you and Angela decided to name him Jonathan, too."

"Jonathan Two?" Tony held up two fingers. "Or Jonathan, comma, too?"

Samantha shrugged. "Either way. My point is, it would be tough to keep my two little brothers Jonathan straight in my head."

"Oh." That made a twisted sort of sense, he supposed. "Well, she ain't gonna be upset about that."

"I know. If I were worried about that, I'd be talking to her. It's you I was worried about."

Tony shot his daughter an exasperated look. "Sam, I'm the father and you're the kid. You ain't supposed to worry about me, I'm supposed to worry about you!"

"Well, lucky for us, you've got a wife to worry about you now, so I can step back a little." Samantha finally abandoned all pretense of helping her father and set the towel aside, looking pensive. "If we were back in the old neighborhood, I could have called her Ma instead of Mom, but if these Connecticut people hear me calling her that, they'll look at me like a hillbilly." At the muted thump of Mona's front door slamming, her eyes drifted to the window. "Hm. Maybe I could call her 'Mother,' like she uses for Mona. It's sophisticated, like her."

Tony laughed. "Whatever feels right to you is fine. Just, whatever you do, don't start calling Mona 'Grandma,' or she might revoke her blessing on my marriage and go find Angela a childless bachelor." He snapped the damp towel she had abandoned at her to send her on her way. "Go on and pack, just enough for a couple of days. We're going to have you home for the big French test on Monday whether you like it or not."

"Joy," the girl grumbled, heading for the door. "Next time you secretly elope, I'm gonna wait and send the announcements on a school night."

"That'll show me," Tony chuckled good-naturedly.

A few seconds later, Mona poked her head in the back door. "Tony, are we alone?"

"Given Samantha's newfound sneaky streak, I can't be a hundred percent sure, but I think so," Tony replied, setting the last of the newly-cleaned dishes in the drainer.

Mona smirked. "That's my influence shining through. It'll be an honor to call that girl my granddaughter." Then the smirk faded into a worried frown. "I just hope she's not planning to start calling me 'Grandma.'"

"I don't think so, but I forbade it just in case."

"Good man." She gently shut the back door behind her. "Thinking back on the past few weeks, you and Angela haven't been wearing wedding bands. Were you too blitzed to remember them the first time around? Or did you just hide them as part of this latest chapter in your pathetic quest to hide your love from the world?"

"We didn't remember them at the wedding. We barely remembered our own names, Mona. Angela was so far gone she thought we met during the forties," Tony was quick to defend himself, not wanting to be thought a cheapskate. "I gave her a ring earlier today, but I guess it probably fit the mold of an engagement ring more than a wedding ring," he realized as he thought back on it. "What with me getting down on one knee to give it to her and everything."

"Excellent." Mona reached into her pocket and handed him a velvet box. "I've been waiting for an excuse to dust these off for years."

Tony opened the box and found a pair of rings—one wide and plain, one slender and inlaid with a few diamond chips, both made out of the same glossy reddish-pink metal. "Is that rose gold?"

Mona nodded, a warm smile crossing her face. "Robert always said he chose them because the color reminded him of my hair."

"These were yours?" Tony shut the box and pressed it back into her hand. "Mona, I can't accept…"

"Shut your macho mouth and listen to me!" Mona placed a finger to his lips. "I wore these on a chain around my neck for years after my husband died. They were like a lead weight, holding me down in a pit full of grief and Valium."

It was hard to imagine his vibrant, wisecracking mother-in-law depressed. Still, he understood better than most how hard losing a spouse could hit. "Aw, Mona, I had no—"

As he leaned in for a hug, she shoved him away. "Stop pitying me, I'm trying to make a point!"

"It wasn't pity, I was trying to put the moves on you," Tony told her to save face.

"Well, knock that off, too. You're a married man, and that's one line I don't cross," she teased.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Anyway, it took several months on a psychiatrist's couch to pry these off me, but once they were off, I had a new conundrum."

Tony understood immediately, having been there himself. "Can't wear 'em or you'll look crazy, can't throw 'em away or you'll feel like a scumbag, can't hock 'em 'cause there ain't a person in the world rich enough to pay what they're worth."

"Exactly. So I decided to put them away for our only child to use when she found the love of her life."

"Then why—?"

"If you're about to bring up Michael, I wasn't about to waste these on him. Frankly, I'm surprised that fiasco lasted as long as it did." She rolled her eyes. "Now, are you going to take these, or are you going to insult your mother-in-law and the memory of her dead husband by refusing?"

"Way to back me into a corner, Mona." He pocketed the box with a rueful smile. "I'll take good care of them." And your daughter, he conveyed by flicking his eyes toward Angela's empty seat at the table and nodding firmly.

"See that you do, for your own good," she warned him. "My Robert adored…the rings…and is not above haunting someone who really deserves it."

Tony glanced nervously over his shoulder. "I suddenly feel compelled to point out again that I married your daughter before I knocked her up."

"Then you're one up on Robert and me," Mona snickered, heading back up to her place to pack.

Tony was suddenly uneasy about being left alone in the room. "Jonathan, you need help packing?"

"No, I've got it," the boy's echoed from upstairs.

"Well, you're getting help anyway!" Eyes flitting around the room nervously, Tony ran back into the living room, nearly crashing into Angela, who was still parked by the phone, looking exhausted.

"Yes, from Bridgeport to Niagara Falls. Party of six. First class would be great…"

"Angela," Tony protested.

Angela looked up to find her husband frowning at her. "What's wrong, Tony? Did you want to get sleeping cars? Because Mother and the kids are so excited, I don't think there's any point in trying to get them to bed tonight, and if they don't sleep, you can bet they're not going let us—"

"That's not what I meant. I meant that coach seats will get us there just as fast for half the price."

"We can afford it," Angela reminded him. "And we may as well be comfortable."

Instead of relaxing, Tony bristled. "I don't wanna be comfortable, I want to be smart. We've got a baby on the way and two existing kids who will be going to college sooner rather than later," he pointed out, as if he thought it might have slipped her mind. "You're going to be taking time off work soon and this ain't no time to be wasting money."

Angela sighed. Did he think she'd gotten where she was by being careless with money? "Tony, I'm not dipping into the college funds or our baby's milk money to pay the fare. We can afford it."

"Angela, just because you can afford something doesn't mean you should run out and buy it."

This from a man who had once spent money on a bottle of some baseball player's tobacco spit? Apparently, she was going to either have to explain her reasoning or endure a third married fight in one day. "Tony, the more comfortable we keep Mother and the kids, the happier they'll be, and they happier they are…"

"The happier we'll be," Tony concluded with her. "Okay, I guess you might have a point there. Just a small one."

"Careful, honey, you don't want to give me a swelled head or anything." Rolling her eyes, she picked up the phone. "Yes, sorry about that. First class will be just fine.

Mrs. Rossini turned up an hour later, toting one of the suitcases she had 'borrowed' from Angela several months ago, and they all piled into the van. "Well, Sam, he finally got her," the old woman chattered as they buckled up their seatbelts. "I guess you won't have to lock them in a make-out closet after all."

"Well, now I'm kind of disappointed," Mona complained. "That could have been entertaining."

Jonathan was still at it. "Hey, Mrs. Rossini, what do you think of the name Blade?"

"It's all right, Jonathan. Why? Were you going to use it for one of your lizards?"

"Better one of the lizards than my new granddaughter," Mona harumphed. "Her name is Mona, and don't you all forget it."

"Angela's having a baby, and they think they're going to help it decide its gender," Samantha clarified derisively.

Angela knew she should have been annoyed that the family had collectively spilled her secret to the very first person they encountered after receiving the news, but part of her was relieved. Mrs. Rossini had the biggest mouth on the Eastern Seaboard. Once she knew, everyone in a thousand-mile radius would know, and there would be no more secrets or lies to worry about.

"Tony!" Mrs. Rossini grabbed him by the ear, which was dangerous, given that he was driving. The van lurched, and Angela's delicate stomach lurched along with it. Angela placed a hand on the wheel to keep the vehicle steady while her husband squirmed in Mrs. Rossini's iron grip. "I thought I taught you better than this! You waited four years! Would it have killed you to keep your pants on a little longer?!"

"We were already married when I knocked her up!" Tony yelped again.

Mrs. Rossini looked to Angela for confirmation, and Angela nodded. "It's a honeymoon baby, as Mother says."

"Mona thinks it's romantic," Tony defended.

"Hmph." Mrs. Rossini released him and gave Mother a calculating look. "Some of the things that woman thinks are romantic could make a hooker blush—"

"Thanks for the compliment," Mother replied cheerfully.

"-but I guess she ain't wrong on this," Mrs. Rossini continued. "That is pretty cute. Like the little one was as impatient for you two to get together as the rest of us. I guess he or she will fit right in." She eyed Angela's waistline. For once, Angela felt self-conscious about her lack of girth, rather than an excess of it, and she wrapped her arms around herself. "Must be pretty early yet."

"I just found out yesterday," Angela admitted.

"Right now, this news is family-only," Tony warned the old woman. Angela caught his eye and shook her head, trying to let him know that stipulation was no longer necessary. It felt good to have the whole truth out in the open, and besides, Mrs. Rossini had neither the capacity nor the will to keep a secret. Telling her to keep it quiet was only going to make her feel bad when she inevitably failed to do so.

"And you told me? Aw, I'm honored!" Mrs. Rossini hugged Tony around the neck, causing the car to lurch again.

"Stop killing us, Carmella," Mother requested blandly.

"Oh, right, sorry." Mrs. Rossini released Tony, and attacked Angela instead. "Congratulations, doll! Any couple with two children as fine as these—" Immobilized in a veritable headlock, Angela could only assume she was gesturing at Jonathan and Samantha. "—has a responsibility to crank out at least one more, if you ask me."

I didn't, Angela restrained herself from saying. Still, she appreciated the sentiment. Tony was giving her an apologetic look. She offered him a reassuring smile.

"No pressure or nothing, but if your little one needs a godmother, I'm available," she hinted shamelessly.

"We'll keep that in mind," Angela wheezed.

The train station wasn't very busy at such a late hour, and they were able to pick up their tickets, and board the train in fairly short order. Jonathan was still pleading his little brother's case as they found their seats. "…I'm just saying, the name could come in handy. I mean, not many people are going to want to mess with a guy named Blade."

"But Jonathan," Mrs. Rossini reasoned, "you've got to remember, this kid won't need to worry so much about bullies. After all, he's gonna grow up with a big brother to look out for him and teach him how to fight."

"And play horrible pranks on his enemies." Jonathan grinned evilly. "I guess that's true." And he shut up for the first time since he'd heard the news.

Angela leaned over the back of the old woman's seat to whisper in her ear. "God bless you."

"If this is part of your campaign for godmother, it's working," Tony added.

Sam, who was seated beside Mrs. Rossini, directly in front of Angela, turned around to address her. "Hey, speaking of names, how do you feel about 'Mother' instead of 'Mom'?"

Angela hadn't even thought about that. She had thought of Samantha as her daughter for so long that she hadn't really considered their relationship to be changing in any way. "If you're comfortable with that, I'd be honored, Samantha."

"Cool." Samantha grinned. "Mother, can I have a raise in my allowance?"

"Hey, knock that off!" Tony warned the girl. "And Angela, don't you dare tell her yes just because she's buttering you up."

"Hey, maybe I could do that, too, Tony. Call you Father." Jonathan, who was seated behind them, next to Mother, leaned forward, poking his head between Tony and Angela's seats. "If I called you Dad, I'd have to deal with a lot of drama from Dad, plus no one would be able to keep straight which Dad I was talking about."

"Hey, come up with your own idea for once in your life, squirt, and quit copying me!" Sam complained.

"Jonathan, 'Father' has different connotations than 'Mother,' especially around Italians. If you call him that, it'll sound like you're confessing to a priest," Mona observed.

"I hate to agree with Mona, but she's right," Mrs. Rossini put in.

"You could go back to calling your father Daddy, like you did back when he lived with us," Angela suggested. Jonathan had only been addressing his father as Dad for about two years, and given the infrequency with which they spoke to each other, she doubted Michael would even notice if he changed back.

"Naw, Daddy's for little kids." Jonathan tapped the back of the seat thoughtfully. "How about if I call you Pop?"

"Jonathan, that makes me sound old," Tony griped.

"But you are old, Pop."

"Ah nuts, it's sticking," Tony complained, though the smile on his face made it clear how he really felt about it.

"Don't worry, my hunk of filet mignon. You'll always be my young stud," Angela whispered in his ear.

"Thanks, my little baked potato. And you're still my sophisticated older woman," Tony replied gratefully, brushing a kiss against her lips.

Given the way the pregnancy had been sapping her energy, Angela managed to fall asleep midway through the trip. Some well-meaning person, probably Tony, had put up her footrest and draped a blanket over her during the night. However, given that she woke up with the immediate and overwhelming urge to vomit, the comforts were unwelcome. Unable to find the lever to move her seat upright, she was forced to slither down the length of the footrest, onto the floor, and get up from there. Not realizing she was wrapped up in a blanket, she jumped up and tried to bolt for the restroom with the blanket still tangled around her legs, and promptly fell face-down in the aisle. Then she spilled her guts all over the aisle.

"Ew," she heard her mother say.

"Well, at least I get why this is happening now," Jonathan muttered.

"Yeah, that'll probably last till the end of the first trimester," Mrs. Rossini added.

"Mother, don't take this the wrong way, but given your history, maybe we'd better bubble-pack you until the baby gets here," Samantha suggested wryly.

"Ay-oh, oh-ay, quit making jokes, you guys!" Tony reprimanded them, leaping from his seat, helping her to her feet, and checking her for injuries. "You all right? You're not hurt?"

"I'm fine, Tony. Just a little messy." And extremely embarrassed. Every pair of eyes in the car was pointed at her.

"You ain't gotta play tough, honey. Tony's here." He flagged down a steward to take care of the slip hazard she had just spewed all over the aisle, then scooped her into his arms and carried her to the restroom.

Jonathan trailed behind them with her carry-on bag. Apparently, he wasn't quite done fretting over her after all the stress of his little misdiagnosis. "Here, Mom. You'll need your toothbrush and a clean shirt."

"Thanks, pal-o-mine." Tony sat her on the tiny slice of countertop beside the sink, locked the door behind them, and applied toothpaste to her toothbrush, handing it to her as if she was a child still learning basic hygiene. He took a shirt from the bag, held it beside her face, then shook his head and picked out a different one, sitting it in her lap. Then, as if he hadn't infantilized her enough, he squeezed a dollop of soap onto some paper towels and proceeded to wash her face for her.

"I think I have some mouthwash in there, could you hand it to me?" she requested.

"Allow me." He poured a couple of tablespoons of the minty blue liquid into the bottle's lid and handed her that instead. "Don't forget to rinse for at least thirty seconds."

"If you're going to keep acting like this for the next nine months, maybe I should start calling you Pops, too," she grumbled.

"I'd prefer 'Mack Daddy,' from you, babe," Tony informed her loftily. "'Zeus,' 'Stallion,' or 'Sexy Two-Shoes' would also be acceptable."

She rolled her eyes as she gargled and spat. "I'll keep that in mind." She wiped her mouth and realized all that was left was to change out of her messy shirt, but felt inexplicably shy about the prospect of doing so in front of Tony. This is ridiculous, she silently scolded herself. You're married to him, you already slept with him, and you've got the embryo swimming around your insides to prove it. The ship has sailed on playing demure, and besides, that's going to be the last thing on his mind after lifting you from a puddle of your own vomit. Tony wasn't even looking at her. He was zipping her toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash neatly back into their respective pockets in her bag. Forcing herself to relax, she went to work on the buttons of her blouse.

Tony turned around just as she was shrugging off the dirty blouse, the motion thrusting her chest forward. In these cramped quarters, that put her breasts right in his face. Her husband cleared his throat awkwardly, his eyes fixated on the close-fitting, translucent lace of her bra. "Have those gotten bigger since the last time I saw them? Or am I just horny?"

"Actually, now that you mention it, I think they might have." Her bra did feel tighter than usual. She reached down to feel them experimentally. Sure enough, there was a bulge along the tops of the cups that hadn't been there before. Must be the pregnancy.

She looked up to find Tony watching her impromptu self-exam with blatant interest. "Angela, have you ever heard of the mile-long club?"

"No. Why?"

"Because we're about to join it." His mouth descended on her freshly-cleaned one and he dragged her to the edge of the counter, eagerly pressing the conspicuous bulge in his pants against her. At that, she lost the capacity for conscious thought and she yanked his long-sleeved t-shirt over his head, taking a second to admire the view before dragging him in for more kisses.

A knock on the door abruptly killed the mood. "Mom? Pop? Are you gonna be much longer in there? I've gotta go when you're done."

Tony leaned his forehead against hers with a heavy sigh. "I wonder if there are boarding schools out there that'll take your kids for just a couple of days?" he whispered. "Just to give you a little breather?"

"I think Sam and Mrs. Rossini may have been on to something with their talk of a make-out closet." Angela replied with a smile, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before handing him his shirt back and donning her own. "We'll pick this up later." If there's a God in Heaven…