A Family Affair: The Secret (5 page)

That made Tess Casherdon laugh. “Henry’s got two beds, and one’s orthopedic, but they’re not monogrammed.”

“Ah. Well, that sounds rather neglectful, don’t you think?”

The woman lowered her voice, said, “I’d do it in a heartbeat, but my husband wouldn’t be impressed. Or happy. You know, I almost bought Henry a yellow rain slicker for rainy days, but Cash said no dog of his was going to parade around in a yellow raincoat.” The smile crept back. “But it was so darn cute.”

“I’ll bet.” Angie had never owned a dog growing up because her father said they were too much responsibility, too time-consuming, too expensive. Too everything. But what he really meant was that they just didn’t live long enough; they died too soon, like her mother. When Angie turned twenty-one, she brought home Oliver from the pound, a scrawny, skittish Labrador mix who ate with her, slept with her, went to work with her. And then he died. She pushed the sadness away and said, “You should see the dogs we put in our clients’ houses. They get more attention than the kids do.”

“Really?”

“You have no idea.”

And thus began the unintentional friendship between Tess Casherdon and Angie Sorrento. They shared iced tea and the chocolate chip cookies that Tess confessed her husband baked. Talk of food and cooking, Angie’s knack for it and Tess’s struggle with it, came next. When the subject of family came up, Tess’s voice gentled. “My husband’s parents left when he was just a boy.” Her next words spilled out in a blend of pain and compassion. “Do you know what that does to a child? How it eats at him, makes him feel worthless and unlovable?”

No, Angie couldn’t imagine that level of betrayal. Her father loved her, and if her mother were still alive, she’d be right by his side, loving their daughter. “That’s rough.”

Tess swiped a hand across her cheek. “If his aunt hadn’t been there for him, he would have done a lot worse than turned into a hoodlum.”

“Your husband, the former policeman, was a hoodlum?”

“Yes.” A faint smile crept over her lips. “Hard to picture, isn’t it? The first time I saw Cash, he was in the backseat of a police car. My uncle warned me away from him, but I didn’t listen. Cash was mesmerizing: the eyes, the voice. I’d never met anyone like him.” She laughed. “When my uncle found out we were sneaking around, he told Cash to cut his hair, clean up, and come to the front door to pick me up. That meant ‘meet the parents,’ and for a rebellious guy like Daniel Casherdon, that was a huge jump. But he did it.”

“Guess some people are meant to be together.” Angie bet this guy wouldn’t skip out on his future wife.

Tess shook her head, her voice dipping. “It wasn’t that easy, even though we thought it would be. Tragedy has a way of separating people, no matter how much they love each other. It happened days before the wedding, and we spent the next eight years hating each other.” She paused, looked away long enough for Angie to think about her ex-fiancé and the pain he’d caused her. “But we got our second chance. Now all we need is a baby and life will be perfect.”

Angie slid a glance to Tess’s concave stomach. No baby in there. Maybe they hadn’t started trying yet. Maybe they were still in the “talking about it” phase. “Well, good luck to you.” What else could she say? She had no idea about babies other than Kate’s daughter, Julia, and even then she hadn’t been required to change diapers or rock the kid to sleep. Still, she might want one before her biological clock stopped ticking; her father said children provided legacy and proof we’d walked on this earth.

“We’re going to need a lot more than luck.”

There was more to that statement, but Daniel Casherdon came in with Henry before she could ask. He wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders, gave her a peck on the temple, and turned to Angie. “You must be Angie Sorrento. And this big boy—” he pointed to the lanky, black dog next to him “—is Henry. So, I hear we won the lottery and you’re going to create a miniature of our home.”

“You heard right.” But
how
had he heard? Small towns were notorious for spreading tales, but she’d been darn quiet, stealthy almost. Had Miriam said something? Or Mimi? They didn’t seem the type to gossip…

“Ready for the tour?” Cash snagged her thoughts and said, “I’ll give you a rundown on the wood, the different stains, and the paint colors. Tess’s uncle built this place and he’s got everything written down.” He glanced at his wife, his voice turning rough like he’d just downed a shot of whisky. “Will Carrick was the only one who knew I’d be back one day. I must have disappointed the hell out of him, but he never gave up on me.” When Tess smiled up at him, he squeezed her shoulder and said, “Let’s show Angie our home.”

The log cabin was a blend of new and old, spacious and welcoming with vaulted ceilings in the foyer and skylights in the master bedroom. When she reached the small bedroom next to the master, painted in the palest cream with white curtains and a white ceiling fan, she bet they’d chosen this as the nursery. But the sadness on Tess’s face and the protectiveness in Cash’s voice when he led Angie through the room told her something wasn’t right. They’d either lost a baby or couldn’t have one. Why was it always that way? People who didn’t want kids got pregnant, while the ones who would welcome a child were denied. Where was the fairness in that? Maybe adoption would be next. Or maybe not. Angie pushed these people’s problems aside; it wasn’t her business. She’d never been a busybody, and she was not about to become one now, especially when it had to do with a child and a couple who may or may not be able to have one.

“So, what other homes are you replicating?” Cash headed down the steps, clutching his wife’s hand. “There’s a guy in town who’s built a monster house with a sauna, a juice bar, and a full gym in the basement. He’s got a pool, too. You’ve got to see that one. Name’s Harry Blacksworth. Good guy.”

“He’s not on the list,” Angie said, following them to the living room. “There’s your house, the Heart Sent, Sal’s Market, and Nate and Christine Desantro—”

“Nate?” Cash let out a laugh, closer to a howl. “How’d you do it?”

“Do what?” She had no idea what was so funny.

Another laugh, a very loud one that rimmed his eyes with tears. “How did you get Nate to agree to let you in his house to take pictures? You went through Christine, didn’t you? That’s his weak spot. Damn, but I would have bet a hundred bucks Nate would have turned you down flat when you asked him.”

“Maybe he really is getting mellow,” Tess offered, sliding a smile at her husband. “All it takes is the right woman and he’s found her.”

Cash grinned, lowered his voice. “He’s not the only one.”

Angie struggled not to look away. It was one thing to hear about couples who loved each other, but she was not interested in witnessing it. She cleared her throat and said, “Actually, I haven’t asked him yet. I haven’t even met him.” Pause. “His mother said I should come here and meet him, seeing as we’re going to share his workshop.”

“Are you now?” Cash’s whisky-colored eyes sparkled. “Does Nate know?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. Why?”

The man cleared his throat and Angie swore he’d just hidden a big grin. “No reason. Just curious.”

This was about more than curiosity. “Is he antisocial or something?” The man should be honored he’d been chosen to have his house replicated by some New York City eccentric.

“Antisocial?” Cash looked at his wife, who shook her head and stifled a laugh. “I’ll let you decide when you meet him.”

Angie shrugged and tossed out a smile. “I’ve been called antisocial once in a while. It’s clearly an overused word.”

Cash raised a brow. “Not in this case.”

“Bet I can convince him.”

“Ah,” Cash said, “so you’ll go through his wife.”

“Not my style. I like to take the challenge head-on.” Miriam’s son would come around once he saw her work, and besides, what man didn’t love the ego trip of having his home featured? Angie spent the afternoon snapping photos, taking notes, and gathering snippets of information about the residents of Magdalena. They didn’t seem much different from the ones in Montpelier or any other small town. This one had its share of eccentrics, like the man who bartered pizzelles, and the one who invited half the town to swim in his pool. Still, people were people and a job was a job, even one with a gigantic payoff like this one. The faster she got in and out, the sooner she’d get paid, and that would land Frank Sorrento his new knee, and if they were both lucky, a little extra for a trip to the country.

Lorraine Ventori guarded her husband like a mama bear tending her cub. Pop couldn’t blame her, though, because Sal wasn’t one to follow orders, especially ones from somebody with an M.D. after his name. The man had a stubborn streak that ran from Magdalena to Chicago and circled around to Dallas, Texas. Ornery cuss, too, full of opinions he didn’t think twice about giving. But he and Pop had been buddies for over thirty years, and Sal might be a good ten years younger, but he was old school, from his wardrobe that didn’t include a single pair of jeans to his ideas on how to run Sal’s Market. People said at least they knew what to expect from Sal Ventori and the knowing counted for something in today’s changing world, where people switched partners and convictions faster than they could switch their toothpaste choice.

Pop waited until day two of Sal’s discharge from Magdalena General Hospital before he boxed up a dozen pizzelles and walked to the Ventoris. Lorraine told him Roman was in town, but Pop had heard the news about the prodigal son’s return days ago. When a young man tells the town to “go to hell” and proceeds to thumb his nose up at three quarters of them, well, that’s not something a person forgets anytime soon. And while fourteen years had passed, it might be a touch too soon for the town to forget the boy’s comments, even if they were deserved. Roman Ventori wasn’t a boy anymore, but a grown man, handsome, wealthy, a city dweller who wouldn’t put his big toe in this town if it weren’t for his father’s heart attack. Or was it his mother’s plea that brought the boy here? Pop figured it might be a little of both.

The first and second visits ended with Sal wanting to know every detail about the newest addition to the Benito household: Teresina Lucinda Benito, Pop’s great-granddaughter. The man asked so many dang questions, Pop told him he should come see for himself, and the next day, that’s exactly what he did. Lorraine dropped him off with a warning to Sal that he needed to follow Doc Needstrom’s orders and not do anything foolish. She might as well have saved the oxygen she used to get the words out because the whole town knew Sal Ventori did whatever Sal Ventori wanted, including the sausage subs, the handfuls of pepperoni and salami, the red wine, the cheeses, the temper that was hotter than a chili pepper. The man could carry a grudge and those grudges caused a lot of problems, particularly one big problem that started and ended with his son. Pop knew about being at odds with your own child, living with the pain that ate at you like a toothache and never went away. He and Anthony had been like that until last Christmas, but now the ache was gone, replaced with hope and weekly phone conversations.

If Sal could bury his pride and tame his stubbornness, he and Roman could work past their hurts and move on like Pop and Anthony had. He’d promised Lorraine he’d talk to Sal about it. Couldn’t hurt.

“You got to leave the boy alone, Sal.” Pop sipped the homemade wine Sal had given him, considered the fallout of pushing your child too much. He’d done it with Anthony and lost touch with his son for too many years before he realized that thinking right and doing right were not the same.

Sal frowned. “You telling me if I see him driving on the wrong side of the road, I’m supposed to sit back and let him get hit head-on?”

Pop blew out a sigh. Salvatore Ventori was more stubborn than ten mules. “I thought the dang heart attack would simmer you down a bit, but it’s gotten you more riled than before.”

Sal tossed back the shot of whisky he favored every morning, the very one his wife removed from his regime since the heart attack. But Sal confessed to Pop that he wasn’t giving up the cigars
and
the whisky, so he told his wife Pop needed a buddy to keep him sane, what with the granddaughter’s new baby wailing at all hours. Then he smacked her with a confession she couldn’t refuse, one that got him a ride to Pop’s.
It’s kinda nice being around a baby. Looks like it’s the closest I’m gonna get
. Dang, but Lorraine was not going to say no to that one.

“Bah.” Sal eyed him from behind his black-rimmed glasses. “The attack made me see there’s a lot to get done and not a lot of time to do it. We got to kick things in gear or I’ll go to my grave not knowing if the Ventori bloodline ends with Roman.”

Made sense, but marriage and babies shouldn’t be pushed. Look at Lucy; she had a baby without a wedding ring. Who would have thought a Benito would enter this world without the Church’s blessing? But Teresina had and Pop wouldn’t trade that little rosebud for three hundred blessings from St. Gertrude’s. Still, it would have been nice… But Jeremy Ross Dean better not think he was the fill-in Daddy for her, and there weren’t going to be any sleepovers or playing house, not with Pop and a baby under their roof. Lucy said they were just friends, but Pop knew the look of a hunter when he saw it, and Jeremy Ross Dean had the look, and Lucy was the prey.

“Where’s the baby?” Sal situated himself in the chair and said, “If she’s sleeping, I want to hold her.”

“Hah. One of these days you gotta take diaper detail.” Pop had changed his own son’s diapers a total of six times. The number stuck in his head because his wife had loved to rant about it. Times were different back then, and disposable diapers were a lot easier than cloth ones that required rinsing, soaking, and a pail for their own stinky business. Could he help it if he had a weak stomach that couldn’t tolerate the sight or the smell? But he’d changed little Teresina’s diaper every day since she came home, the stinky ones, too. Miracle of miracles, his stomach didn’t churn and heave like it had fifty some years ago. There was something to be said for getting old. “Sal? You hear me?” Pop leaned forward, met his friend’s gaze. “You gotta learn how to change a diaper. Lorraine will blubber all over you when she hears that.” He nodded, let the truth slip out. “Forgives a lot of misdeeds, no doubt about it.”

Sal scratched his head, heaved a sigh. “According to Lorraine, I got a lot of forgiveness to ask.”

That meant the business about his son. No use pretending it wasn’t sitting there like a ball of dough rising between them. Best to call it what it was, so it could get dealt with once and for all. “The boy did not get that girl pregnant.”

“Says you.” Sal folded his hands over his belly, stared at the mantel.

Pop glanced at the portrait of his wife, swung his gaze back to his friend. They’d argued about salami and pepperoni, cavatelle and rigatoni, marinara sauce and Bolognese. The arguments weren’t more than “loud discussions” based on an accumulation of tradition and experience. Pop favored escarole in his wedding soup; Sal thought endive was the key. While Pop spent most of his time in jogging suits, his buddy insisted they were for “young” people and jeans had no place in anyone’s closet, especially a senior citizen’s. Bah on that one. Had the man ever worn anything other than the short-sleeved white shirts he favored, or the blue pants and suspenders? And what about those dark shoes? Salvatore Ventori did not know what comfort felt like and Pop swore that before his friend closed his eyes for good, he was going to learn the feel of sweat pants and tennis shoes. That’s what they “discussed” most days. Or whose homemade wine tasted better, who was more Italian, who grew better basil.

But the real problem was the one they avoided, the one they hadn’t argued about in almost fourteen years, since the day the news hit town. It was time, because Roman Ventori had finally come home and he might not stay more than a week or two, and the next time he visited Magdalena could be for his father’s funeral.

“Listen to me, Sal. The boy did not get Paula Morrisen pregnant.”

Sal closed his eyes, clutched his heart with one hand, and made the sign of the cross with the other. “I don’t feel so well.”

“Don’t pull that baloney with me,” Pop said. “If you got chest pains, tell me now and I’ll have Lorraine get you to the emergency room.”

Sal’s eyes snapped open and he jerked toward Pop. “Don’t you dare say one word to Lorraine.”

“So.” Now he had him. Let the old geezer try to weasel out of this one. “Why not? You can’t keep this from her, you know that.”

“I don’t have any chest pains.”

A whisper would come out louder than those words. “Huh? Didn’t hear you.” Pop leaned closer, said, “Speak up.”

“I don’t have any chest pains.” Pause, and then, “But I don’t want to talk about my grandson.”

“’Cause you don’t have a grandson.” Pop ignored the look his friend gave him and went on. “I saw the boy, too, don’t forget that.” Mimi Pendergrass heard the Morrisens were in Renova and drove Pop and Sal to the boy’s school, where they camped out in Mimi’s truck eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drinking hibiscus tea, while they waited for Sal’s supposed “grandson” to emerge. “Even if that boy had hair and eyes the color of an espresso, the shape of the nose was off, the chin was too wide, and wouldn’t he have at least one cowlick? The kid was fair-skinned. Not a Ventori, that’s for sure.”

Sal shrugged. “His name’s Zachary.” Pause, a frown. “Maybe the genes got all mixed up.”

Pop let out a snort. “Or maybe the daddy’s names did.” He slid Sal a knowing look. “Admit it or not, but you knew the second you saw that boy that he was not Roman’s son. Why on earth you kept up the tale is beyond me. It did no good but to spread ill will between you and your son. And for what? To save face?”

Sal’s complexion paled beneath his weather-beaten skin. “Why would Paula’s father lie to me? He said it was Roman.”

“The question you ought to be asking is why would my son lie to me. And the other question you should ask is why did the whole family up and move out of town, resurface eight months ago in a three-story brick house in Renova. Got a pool, too.”

Sal shrugged. “Guess I held on because that would mean I had a grandchild somewhere, even if the child didn’t know my name.” When he pushed out the next words, his voice cracked and split open like an overripe watermelon. “Ventori blood would run through him, and maybe one day we’d meet.”

Pop shook his head, kept his words gentle. “I’ll bet a year’s worth of pizzelles that boy doesn’t have a drop of Ventori blood in his veins, and I’ll bet another year’s worth the whole Morrisen clan knows it, and somebody’s been paying them to keep quiet.” Who in blazes would do that? Had to be somebody with a nice-sized bank account and a big reason to keep quiet. Hmm. He’d have to think on that. Pop knew there was something fishy about the whole deal when the family up and disappeared, but he didn’t think he’d ever find out why or where they went. And then eight months ago, they just reappeared with their fancy house and a thirteen-year-old boy that looked nothing like Roman Ventori, the supposed father.

“Who would pay them to lie?”

“People who don’t want a secret to come out.”

Sal removed his glasses, ran a hand over his face. “I just want a grandchild before I draw my last breath. Is that too much to ask?”

“’Course not. But you’re going about it all wrong. You got to set things right with Roman first, and then you got to nudge him in the right direction.” Oh, yes, the right direction was key and Pop knew all about directions and relationships.

Before Sal could respond, Lucy’s sweet voice filled the room with a lullaby. Pop and Sal turned toward the sound, and there she stood, a vision dressed in white, red hair tied back, her pale skin glowing. In her arms, she held Teresina, the most beautiful baby Pop had ever seen.

Lucy made her way to them, her smile spreading warmth and light. “She’s asleep. Would you like to hold her now, Mr. Ventori?”

The crusty bugger melted like butter in a saucepan, his face brighter than a firefly. “I’d love to hold that little angel,” he whispered.

She smiled at him and placed the baby in his arms. “You’ll make a good grandpa,” she murmured, stroking her daughter’s soft hair. “You’re very gentle with her.”

Sal’s smile spread, landed on Teresina’s dark head. “There’s nothing like a baby to put zest in a household. Makes an old codger like me feel almost young again.”

“You’re not that old, Mr. Ventori.” Lucy’s sweet words flitted around Sal’s head like honeybees. “Neither is Grandpa.” She nodded at Pop and said, “My grandma always said people are only as old as they feel.”

Pop glanced at the portrait of his wife. Yep, that sounded like his Lucy, always searching for the part of the rotten apple that didn’t have the worm in it. “Your grandma could never see the downside of anything.” His voice softened, his gaze settling on his wife’s peaches-and-cream complexion. “She was a good woman and God took her way too soon.”

“At least she got to see her granddaughter, rock her to sleep,” Sal said, a fierceness tugging at his words. “At least she had that before she closed her eyes for the last time.”

Pop knew where this was headed and he knew if he didn’t get involved, Sal would still be yakking about it a year from now. Roman would be long gone back to Chicago, and the old man would be no closer to getting his own grandchild. Who really knew how long Salvatore Ventori had left on this earth? The good Lord could call him tomorrow, and then what? Sal would close his eyes one last time and there’d be no vision of Baby Ventori at all.

But Pop had a notion on how to fix that. It just required a bit of fast thinking and fancy footwork, and those were his specialty. Yes, indeed they were.

***

Roman wished he were anywhere but Magdalena, the town that had destroyed his dreams and killed his future. But here he was, stuck in the middle of a promise to his mother, and no way out. He’d gotten used to throwing piles of money at requests, anything that didn’t actually require his time or his efforts. Nobody turned down money. Ever. But it wasn’t like he could offer to send a stand-in for Sal and Lorraine Ventori’s only son. He was it, unfortunately, and that meant, no substitutes, not even the kid sister who’d gotten used to playing the responsible child.