The “cottage” turned out to have eight bedrooms, a three-car garage with a jet-ski and a dinghy in the third bay, a TV the size of a small Porsche, and a dock directly on the lake infested by a year’s supply of mosquitos. To Bobbyjay’s dismay, Mom Ditorelli (“please call me Fran”) took him upstairs to a guest room and prodded the king-size bed. “You’re so tall,” she kept saying. “I hope this will be comfortable.” For a woman dying to break her daughter’s cherry on a stagehand, she had a pretty worried look. “Mom Dit—uh, Fran,” Bobbyjay said, interrupting her, “are you sure you want this? I mean, me and Daisy sharing a room? Like, it would be okay with me if you wanted us to, uh,” he swallowed, “wait for the wedding. Night.” He cleared his throat, thinking of Daisy’s low riders and crop top. “Wedding night.” “Why do you ask?” Fran said. “Is Daisy a screamer?
