{"product_id":"rococo-isbn-9780812967814","title":"Rococo","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • One small Italian American town in America gets the makeover it never expected in this “eccentric, unpredictable, entertaining” (\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e) novel from the author of the beloved Big Stone Gap series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“An artfully designed tale [with] characters so lively they bounce off the page [and] wit so subtle that even the best jokes seem effortless.”—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBartolomeo di Crespi is the acclaimed interior decorator—not to mention the most eligible bachelor—in Our Lady of Fatima, New Jersey. From the dazzling shores of the Garden State to the legendary fabric houses of New York City, from the prickly purveyors of fine art in London to the Mediterranean coast of Italy, Bartolomeo is on a mission to bring talent, sophistication, and his aesthetic vision to his hometown. So when the renovation of the local church is scheduled, he assumes there is only one man to oversee the job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRecruiting an artist and a stained-glass artisan to help with the project—two handsome men who create romantic mayhem among Bartolomeo’s sister, his erstwhile fiancée, and all the other lovelorn ladies of OLOF—Bartolomeo struggles to create art while remaining the steadfast linchpin of the volatile di Crespi clan. Together, Bartolomeo and his team will do more than blow the dust off the old Fatima frescoes—they will turn the town upside down, challenge the faithful, and restore hope where there once was none.“A veritable crazy quilt of quirky Italian Americans . . .Trigiani weaves all [the] subplots together with wonderful ease.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A summer must-read. . . a hilarious mix of. . . humor, lust, [and] family dynamics.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Hartford Courant\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A feel-good story . . . manages to soothe, in part because of its cozy design talk, and in part because of the likable, competent B.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“An affectionate celebration of the support we derive from family and community, told with humor and warmth.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHartford Courant \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Trigiani] delivers charming, dependably satisfying books that you know will be stuffed with quirky but likable characters. . . . Throughout this fast-paced, abundantly charming novel, Trigiani focuses on the things that really matter: family, faith and home. Especially home. It is a deeply rewarding book that should make her legions of fans very happy indeed.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A rollicking read . . . The comic prose itself deserves applause.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Here’s your beach read . . . [\u003ci\u003eRococo\u003c\/i\u003e] is as much fun as [Trigiani’s] previous novels. . . . There are hilarious encounters here and abroad, with so many colorful citizens darting in and out of the pages that it is impossible to name favorites.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRoanoke Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] kitschy, quaintly amusing Italian American saga . . . [B is a] unique and winning protagonist.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tiramisu for the soul . . . It’s rejuvenating to read a book as light and crisp as \u003ci\u003eRococo\u003c\/i\u003e. . . . An authentic sentimental tale, with characters you very quickly adore . . . like a bubble bath you don’t want to get out of.”\u003cb\u003e—Washington \u003ci\u003eExaminer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[Adriana Trigiani] again shows her abilities to take the everyday happenings of a small town and turn them into a story that is entertaining and just plain fun in \u003ci\u003eRococo\u003c\/i\u003e. Trigiani has an elegant writing style that captures the essence of her characters and makes them larger than life on the written page.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTexas Times Record News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It would be impossible not to like a hero who declares that ‘Italy, despite its earthiness and charm, can never be New Jersey.’”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Christian Science Monitor\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Breathtaking . . . full of color, fabric, love, lust and secrets”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Huntsville Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lighthearted . . . hilarious . . . Trigiani has a bombastic comedic style.”\u003cb\u003e—Deseret \u003ci\u003eMorning News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A paean to Italian life . . . laugh-out-loud funny . . . it’s \u003ci\u003eThe Sopranos\u003c\/i\u003e without the mob hits and the psychotherapy.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eFort Worth Star-Telegram\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eAdriana Trigiani is an award-winning playwright, television writer, and documentary filmmaker. The author of the bestselling Big Stone Gap trilogy, the New York Times bestselling novels Lucia, Lucia and The Queen of the Big Time, and co-author of the cookbook Cooking with My Sisters, Trigiani has written the screenplay for the movie Big Stone Gap, which she will also direct. She lives in New York City with her husband and daughter, and is at work on her next Big Stone Gap novel.CHAPTER ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The Duke of Décor\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    on the Jersey Shore\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    1970\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I want you to imagine my house. It’s a classic English country cottage,   nestled on an inlet overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in the borough of   Our Lady of Fatima, New Jersey, about five miles north of Interlaken.   The fieldstone exterior gives the illusion of a small fortress, so I   softened the overall effect with white hyacinth shrubs and a blanket of   sky-blue morning glories cascading over the dormers like loose curls on   a cherub. After all, a man’s home must first be inviting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Every morning at sunrise a honeyed pink light fills the front room,   throwing a rosy glaze on the walls that cannot be achieved with paint.   Believe me, I’ve tried. I settled instead for a neutral shade on the   walls, a delicate beige I call flan. When the walls are tame, the   furnishings need to pop. So I found the perfect chintz, with giant   jewel-toned flowers of turquoise, coral, and jade bursting on a   butter-yellow background, to cover my Louis Quatorze sofa and chairs.   The upholstery soaks up the light and warms the room better than a fire   blazing in the hearth. Anyone who says you will tire of a bold pattern   on your furniture is a fool. The right fabric will give you years of   joy; it can become your signature. Scalamandré’s Triomphe #26301 has my   name on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My day begins at dawn as I take my cup of strong black espresso outside   to watch the sunrise. I learned this ritual from my mother, who worked   in a bread shop. Bakers are the great philosophers of the world, mostly   because they have to get up early. When the world is quiet, great art   is created—or, at the very least, conceptualized. Now is the moment to   sketch, make notes, and dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     From my front porch, a dignified, simple portal with a slate floor (I   laid the charcoal-gray, dusty-mauve, and smoky-blue slabs myself), I   watch the colors of the sky and sea change at the whims of the wind.   Sometimes the ocean crashes in foamy white waves that look like   ruffles. Then, suddenly, the light is gone and everything turns to gray   satin. When the sun returns, the charcoal clouds lift away and the   world becomes as tranquil as a library, the water as flat as a page in   a book, Venetian glass under a blue cloudless sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    What a boon to live on the water! Such delicious shades and hues! This   is a template worthy of the greatest painters. The textures of sand and   stone could inspire incomparable sculptures, and the sounds—the steady   lapping of the waves, the sweet chirping of the birds—make this a   sanctuary. I soak up the view in all its detail and translate this   glorious palette to the interiors of local homes. You see, I am the   Town Decorator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Many have compared our little borough to the village my family   emigrated from, the enchanting Santa Margherita nestled in the Gulf of   Genoa on the Mediterranean coast of Italy. I’ve been there, but I favor   my hometown over the original. Italy, despite its earthiness and charm,   can never be New Jersey. Here we value evolution and change; Italy,   while it warms the heart, is a monument to the past. In America we   change our rooms as often as our fashions. In Italy you’re likely to   find throw pillows older than the Shroud of Turin. It’s just a   different way to live.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Part of my job is to convince my clients that change is good, then   guide them to the right choices. I remember when I installed a velvet   headboard on my cousin Tiki Matera’s double bed (she was plagued by   insomnia from the cradle) and she told me that, for the first time in   her life, she felt so secure that she slept through the night. That Art   Deco touch changed her room and her life—not a small thing. That’s the   business I’m really in: creating appropriate surroundings to provide   comfort and that essential touch of glamour. I built my company, the   House of B, and my reputation on it. HOB stands for the eye of   Bartolomeo di Crespi and the guts of beauty itself: truth, color, and   dramatic sweep, from slipcover to oven mitt. I don’t fool around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My work can’t be defined by one particular style. The rococo period   where French design and Italian flair came together make my heart leap   for joy in my chest. But, I love them all: Chinese Modern, Regency   English, French Norman, Prairie Nouveau, Victorian (without the   precious), Early American (with the precious), all the Louises from I   through V (Vuitton, of course), postwar, prewar, bungalow, foxhole, and   even the occasional log cabin. I can go big and I can do small.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I work from the inside out. Truly great interior design includes the   rooms you live in and everything your eye can see from your windows. I   often bring the colors from outside indoors, which soothes the soul and   creates harmony. I may install a reflecting pool outside your living   room to catch the moonlight, or plant a garden of wildflowers with a   rose arbor anchored over a flowing fountain beyond your kitchen window,   or perhaps place a wrought-iron loveseat surrounded by lilac bushes   outside your bedroom for a midnight rendezvous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Your home should inspire you to greater heights of emotion. It should   crackle with color and pizzazz. Every detail is important; every   tassel, tieback, and sheer should say something. Under my trained eye,   stale corners become Roman baths, while bland entryways become   magnificent foyers and crappy pasteboard ceilings become frescoes.   Let’s face it, I can take a ranch and turn it into a villa. In fact, I   did that very thing right on Vittorio Drive, three blocks away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My life as a decorator began not with a sudden flash of inspiration,   but with a problem. I was born without symmetry. This is not my real   nose. As soon as I was old enough to pull myself up onto the stool in   front of my mother’s dressing table (an Art Deco red enamel vanity with   a pink velvet seat circa 1920), where I could pull the side mirrors in   to study my face from three angles, I realized that something had to be   done. From the east, my nose looked like the fin on a Cadillac, from   the west, a wedge of pie, and dead on, a frightening pair of black   caverns, two nostrils so wide and deep you could lose your luggage in   them. It had to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    As an Italian American, I was born into a family of prominent noses.   The di Crespi clan was known for their fish (Pop had a dinghy for   clamming and crabbing, and a storefront in town to sell his catch) and   their profiles. We were not alone. Our neighbors were also of Italian   descent, many from the same village, and they too had versions of The   Beak. The variations included all possible shapes, angles, and   appointments, all with the same result: too large.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I was raised to be proud of my cultural and nasal heritage, so it   wasn’t shame that brought me to the surgeon, it was a desire for   perfection. My instinct is to create balance. Faces, like buildings,   require good bones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    As soon as I could save up enough money (I worked after school and for   five summers in the Mandelbaums’ bank as a coin sorter and roller), I   took the bus from Our Lady of Fatima (OLOF) to the office of Dr. Jonas   Berman on East Eighty-sixth Street in Manhattan. I was eighteen years   old with a spiral-bound sketch pad under my arm and a checkbook in my   pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    First, I’d drawn a self-portrait in charcoal, showing my original nose.   Then, in a series of detailed drawings, I fashioned the nose I wanted   from every angle. Dr. Berman flipped through the pad. Amazed at my   artistic skill, he cited Leonardo da Vinci’s pencil sketches of early   flying machines as being substandard to my talent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    If I was going to have rhinoplasty, I wanted to make sure I had the   nose of my dreams. I didn’t want a hatchet job that would leave me with   a Hollywood pug. I wanted regal, straight, and classic. In short,   Italianate without the size. I got exactly what I wanted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My sister, Toot (as in the song “Toot, Toot, Tootsie,” not the toot of   a horn), who is eleven years older than me, was the first person to see   my new nose when the swelling went down. She was so thrilled at the   result that she convinced my father to sell his car so she could have   the same surgery. My father, never one to tell a woman no, paid for her   to have The Operation (as my mother came to call it). Never mind that I   had worked like a farmer to earn my new profile. But I don’t hold a   grudge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Toot elected to have her nose done not in New York City by my capable   surgeon, but by a doctor in Jersey City who was rumored to have given   Vic Damone his signature tilt. (I am the only person in my family who   does not believe in medical bargains.) When Dr. Mavrodontis peeled   Toot’s bandages off, Mom, Pop, and I were there for the unveiling. Mama   clapped her hands joyfully as Papa got a tear in his eye. Talk about   change. Her new nose had a sharp tip with an upturn so steep you could   hang a Christmas stocking off it. Gone was her old nose, which had   looked like an elbow; but was this delicate Ann Miller version an   improvement?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    To be fair, the new nose gave my sister the dose of self-confidence she   needed. She suddenly believed she was beautiful, so she went on a   spartan diet of well-done steak and raw tomatoes and lost a good thirty   pounds, tweezed her eyebrows and straightened her hair (by sleeping on   wet orange-juice cans every night for a year), and, shortly thereafter,   in the right pair of black clam diggers and a tight angora sweater,   fell in love with Alonzo “Lonnie” Falcone, a jeweler, at a Knights of   Columbus weenie roast in Belmar. Six months later they had a big church   wedding at Our Lady of Fatima Church and three sons followed in short   order. Her nose may not be perfect, but it was lucky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    817 Corinne Way has been Toot’s address for eighteen years. After they   lived for a couple of hardscrabble years in a row house in Bayonne,   Lonnie’s business took off, so they bought a home in OLOF to be near my   folks. When Toot and Lonnie divorced, she got the house, a lovely   Georgian with grand Palladian columns anchoring a polished oak door   trimmed in squares of leaded glass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I pull up in the driveway next to my sister’s chartreuse Cadillac. I   get out of the car, taking a small footstool that I reupholstered for   Toot with me. The lawn is freshly mowed and green. The boxwood hedges   are trimmed and tidy. Everything about the exterior of the house is   appropriate except for one glaring design misfire: My sister mucked up   the entrance with a countrified porch swing she found at a tag sale in   Maine. I tell her that a Georgian with a porch swing is like a hooker   in a girdle, but she keeps the swing and I keep my mouth shut. The   truth is, I’m a little afraid of her. Toot has always been a second   mother to me, and any Italian son will tell you that two Italian   mothers in a lifetime is a handful. I’m not complaining, because we   adore each other; I defer to her on family matters, and she to me on   aesthetic ones (most of the time; after all, she kept the swing).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “I’m here!” I holler cheerfully. Toot’s house always smells of anisette   and fresh-perked coffee, the lovely bouquet of our mother’s home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Back here, B,” she yells.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Carrying the footstool I’d re-covered in pale blue wool for her   boudoir, I make my way down the long hallway, which is papered in a   Schumacher pale-yellow-and-white paisley print. I decorated the entire   house, but my favorite room is her kitchen. I did a real number on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    First, I sent my sister to Las Vegas to visit Cousin Iggy With The   Asthma for three months. Then I gutted the old kitchen. I installed a   bay window on the back wall to maximize the light and designed a Roman   shade of pure white muslin to let in the sun but keep out the nosy   neighbors. Underneath I built a window seat with cushions covered in a   practical red cotton twill (Duralee Hot Red #429). I believe that any   fabrics used in a kitchen should be washable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    For fun, I used oversized zippers on the seat cushions to pick up the   metal accents of the appliances. To bring nature indoors, I used rustic   white birch paneling on the wall around the window. I papered the   remaining walls with a bold Colefax and Fowler red-and-white stripe and   installed white Formica cabinets with red ceramic pulls. The result is   peppermint-candy delish!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The countertop, in white marble, has an extension that swings out in an   L shape to make a breakfast nook, with sleek bar stools covered in   white patent leather with brass-stud trim. The studs are an excellent   accent to the shimmering copper pots that hang over the sink area like   charms on a bracelet. The refrigerator (side-by-side) and stove (gas)   were purchased in white, but I had them delivered to Chubby’s Garage,   where they were jet-spray-painted a bright, shiny, fiery red. I’m   forever thinking of ways to give design that extra kick, using unlikely   sources. Take note.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The kitchen table is topped with wide white ceramic tiles. Beneath the   table, I installed a cutting board that pulls out for additional   workspace. It comes in handy when Toot makes pasta. The table is   surrounded by cozy booth seating in a cheerful red gingham. The palette   works. It’s vibrant! It’s up! When you stand in this kitchen, you feel   as though you are on the inside of a tomato, the exact effect I wanted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “You like my pants set? It’s new.” Toot does her version of a model’s   twirl, pointing her right foot out in front of the left and holding her   arms out waist-high like a milkmaid. The sweater is a disaster, an   enormous white pilgrim collar on a cable-knit orange cardigan. (I can   see that the wool is a fine cashmere, but what good is it? The eye sees   round, round, round instead of sleek. My sister needs length, not   width.) The brown slacks have a wide bell hem. She looks like a piece   of candy corn. “It’s a St. John knit,” she says, giving me an   in-the-know wink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Only a saint could get away with such a color combination,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Like all Mediterranean girls, my sister is aging well. By soft   candlelight or with the help of a dimmer switch, she has the look of a   plump Natalie Wood. In broad daylight, she’s a dead ringer for our   great-grandmother, the pleasantly pudgy Bartolomea Farfanfiglia, whom   we never knew, but who stares at us with disgust from a sepia   photograph on the television set.New York Times bestseller; Author of the Big Stone Gap trilogy and Lucia, Lucia [quote]--Washington Examiner","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304605602021,"sku":"NP9780812967814","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812967814.jpg?v=1767735878","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/rococo-isbn-9780812967814","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}