A Family Affair: The Secret (17 page)

“Wow, now that is an appealing visual.”

“Shut up.” She toyed with her hair, wound it around her fingers, and let the curls spring back. “Can’t you get them to stop? I don’t want to hurt your dad’s feelings and Pop Benito’s very cool, but this is way past embarrassing.” She leaned forward, gripped the edge of his desk with both hands, and said, “Do you know some lady stopped me in front of Lina’s Café and told me to call her if I needed help picking out a wedding gown?”

“Really?” That sounded like Mrs. Nethers. People said she loved weddings and that’s why she’d had six of her own. Yup, he’d lay his money on Rowena Nethers being the one.

She nodded. “Yes, and the waitress at Lina’s asked how you were, and then she winked at me.” That comment gave way to a huff. “Why would she wink?”

Roman shrugged. “No idea, but it’s a good thing they don’t know about the other night.” The glare said she dared him to mention it. He should keep quiet, but that wasn’t in his nature, so he opened his mouth and said, “How long are we really going to dance around what happened the other night? I don’t want to talk about it any more than you do, but it’s not going away.” She bit her lip, remained silent, and that annoyed the hell out of him. “Oh, so you don’t remember?” He took a step toward her. “You know, I’m talking about what happened outside the hospital building.” Pause. Next came a blush of pink across her cheeks. “The kissing. The touching. I still remember how you—”

“Stop,” she said, fists clenched, gaze narrowed on him. “Just stop.” Those tiny nostrils flared seconds before she opened her mouth and bit out, “Abstinence.”

“What?”

She flung her hair over her shoulder, advanced on him like a she-cat. “Abstinence,” she repeated. “What happened was a physical response associated with my body’s desire to be touched.”

“What?
Your body’s desire?
” What kind of bull was that? “You’re acting like you can separate the two—brain and body.”

“Why not? Men do it all the time; why can’t women?”

“You’re not making any sense.” Roman stared at her. “All I got out of that mumbo-jumbo bull was abstinence and body’s desire. So, how long’s it been since you…” He let the meaning hang in the air, curious to see how she would respond.

“None of your damn business.”

He hid a smile. The woman did not disappoint. “That long, huh?”

“Go to hell, and call off the matchmakers or you’re gonna see really pissed, and trust me, you do not want that.” She flashed him one more look that said she’d just as soon punch him in the gut as talk to him, and left.

He was still contemplating Angie Sorrento and her comments about her “body’s desire” when Natalie Servetti click-clacked into his office smelling like a coconut. “Roman, I need to talk to you, right away.”

Why did everyone think he had the answers to their problems? Natalie needed his help, his mother, Charlotte. Not Angie, though, other than to demand he call off his father and Pop’s matchmaking schemes and he’d lay odds if he weren’t successful, she’d tackle them on her own. As annoyed as she made him, he had to admire her guts, wished Natalie and Charlotte were more like that. But they weren’t and that’s why he hadn’t confronted Natalie with Charlotte’s accusations about having an affair with her husband. But now here she was and he might as well get it over with and filed away. He tossed his pen on the desk, folded his arms over his head, and said, “What’s going on?”

She click-clacked to his desk, her full lips pinched. “Someone sent panties to Jeffery Hardin.”

“Ah.” More panties. “So?”

Natalie placed both hands on her curvy hips and said, “So, Jeffery is fifteen years old.”

“Oh.” Not good.

“His parents contacted me, threatened to call the police. I begged them to reconsider, told them someone was impersonating me, but I know they think I was lying.” She sniffed, swiped at her eyes, careful to avoid the liner and mascara. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

“Funny you should ask.” Roman tapped a finger against his chin, studied her. “I heard an interesting story today.” Where did she want him to start? From the stories flitting about town tying her to young, old, single, married, and engaged, she really shouldn’t be asking what she’d done to deserve payback. But the Natalie he remembered hadn’t learned about accountability and maybe the “mature” version didn’t know about it either.

“What kind of story? Did you find out who’s been doing this?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

She hesitated, asked, “Nothing from Nate or Ben either?”

Natalie knew better than to add Cash to that mix. “Nope.”

“Oh. What then? Tell me.”

“Are you having an affair with Charlotte’s husband?”

“Steven Simmons?” She sniffed and lifted a shoulder. “Of course not.”

Roman held up a hand. “Just asking the question.”

“But
why
are you asking?” She placed her hands on his desk, leaned toward him. “Why, Roman?”

If Natalie were rethinking her path in life, she really had to switch out her wardrobe. No more low-cut dresses that squeezed her breasts like a welcome treat. Did the guy she supposedly had a thing for really want other men fantasizing about her? As if they didn’t already. Worse, a lot of them knew what those breasts looked like minus clothing. Yeah, Natalie had a lot of work to do, starting with the wardrobe.

“Roman? Stop looking at my boobs and answer the question.”

The comment annoyed him because while he had been looking at her breasts—kind of hard to ignore that presentation—he preferred the smaller breasts that belonged to a woman who drove him crazy. That was ridiculous and he knew it, but what else was new? “What? Oh, Charlotte told me.”

She huffed, her tanned face bursting with red. “That is not true. Why would she say that?” Her blue eyes narrowed on him. “Unless…”

Natalie had always been one for dramatics. Okay, she wanted him to ask, he’d ask. “Unless, what?”

“Don’t you see? She wants you to think I’m having an affair with her husband. That way, you’ll feel sorry for her and whisk her away to happily-ever-after.”

Roman stared at her. “What the hell are you talking about?” He and Charlotte weren’t getting together, he’d told her that this afternoon. Besides, she didn’t really want him; she wanted to go back to the past, when life was easier and they didn’t have to worry about being grown-ups with grown-up responsibilities.

“She wants you, Roman. How could you not see that? I heard her talking to her sister about you, gushing all over the place like she’d sprung a leak. It was nauseating, especially since she dumped you for that walking book of rules and regulations.” She flipped her hair behind her shoulder, rolled her eyes. “She’s ridiculous and I do not appreciate her starting rumors. I’ve got enough floating around that are actually true. So, do you want me to talk to her, set her straight about me and her husband?” Pause, a slow smile. “And while I’m at it, make sure she knows you and she are never going to happen?”

Miriam hadn’t heard from Candace in four days. After the second day of no communication, she’d tried to email her but had gotten no response. In a moment of grave desperation, she’d phoned the home number but hung up when the maid announced Mrs. Prescott was unavailable.
Mrs. Prescott
. The name carried weight in boardrooms across the country and maybe that’s why Candace hadn’t taken her husband’s name. Or maybe she simply wanted to maintain her own identity. Miriam had no idea because she didn’t know her sister, and all the supposing wouldn’t change that.

She placed a loaf of sliced banana nut bread in a bag, grabbed her purse and keys, and headed out the door. Angie had asked her to stop at the Towne Hall so she could meet Sasha Rishkov, the artist who’d been commissioned to paint Sal’s Market, Nate’s, Cash’s, and the Heart Sent. According to the stories floating around town, the woman was “colorful,” to say the least, with a sultry laugh and stories of love, heartache, and the best way to make lamb stew. Where had Candace found her and why was she here? Miriam knew there was a reason and it had nothing to do with painting. Had Sasha been blackmailed into coming here, forced to comply with Candace’s demands or risk exposure of a dark secret? Who could say? It didn’t matter; nothing did except giving her sister what she wanted so she’d go away and take the Prescott affiliation with her.

The Towne Hall wasn’t a place she visited often, but it had old charm and a sense of Magdalena. Christine had been after her to attend a Bleeding Hearts Society meeting, said the group did a lot of good and she thought Miriam would be a great addition. But her daughter-in-law didn’t know how many of the people at that table had judged her father, called him a kind but weak man who had no business giving Miriam hope for a future with more than four days a month.

Oh, Charlie, you were a weak man, but that only made me love you more. I miss you so.

She climbed the steps, took in the photographs Mimi had taken. The woman had known the loss of a son and husband, the estrangement of a daughter, and still, she did not give up hope on humanity.

Laughter spilled into the hallway from the second meeting room, snaked its way to Miriam, wrapped itself around her. She followed the sound, smiled. Angie didn’t laugh often, at least not when Nate was in the room, but then he had that effect on people who didn’t know him. When she reached the doorway, she hesitated, preferring to watch Angie and Sasha from a distance. The “colorful” comment had been correct. Though Sasha Rishkov sat with her back to the doorway, Miriam had a clear view of the woman’s yellow peasant top, the magenta skirt, the stacks of bangles covering both wrists, the gold sandals. Next to Angie’s jeans and Yankees T-shirt, the woman looked like a perennial flower explosion—zinnias or maybe cosmos. Miriam advanced into the room, her smile spreading as she caught the feather earrings dangling from Sasha’s ears.

“Hello.”

The laughter stopped and Angie swung around, her expression lighting up when she spotted Miriam. “Hey, glad you made it.” She pushed back her chair, pointed to the woman next to her, and said, “This is Sasha.”

Sasha turned. “Hello, Miriam.” The silver gaze glittered, matched the smile on the woman’s face as she spoke with a heavy accent. “Angie’s told me so much about you.”

Candace?
There were no words to speak, or think, nothing but the warning in her sister’s eyes as they targeted Miriam, a silent threat that would unleash itself if necessary. Miriam opened her mouth to speak, closed it. Why was Candace
here
, in Magdalena? This was worse than the day Gloria Blacksworth arrived on her doorstep. Miriam hadn’t been surprised by that, had half expected it given the woman’s obsessive need to control her daughter and destroy Magdalena.
But this?
Candace had drawn Miriam into her plot, threatened exposure if she didn’t comply, and though she despised what she’d been forced to do, Miriam had done it.
Was continuing to do it.
And still, it wasn’t enough? No, it
was
enough. The games stopped now. Miriam forced a smile, advanced on her sister. “How nice to meet you, Sasha.” She extended a hand, clasped her sister’s in a firm grip. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

“Miriam’s an artist, too,” Angie said, the admiration in her voice spreading from one woman to the other. “I told Sasha you’ve been helping me with the project and she said you might be able to help her, too.”

“Really?” Oh, but Candace was a crafty one. It appeared the make-believe stories she created as a child had come in handy for the ones she fabricated now. “What do you paint?” Her sister had never mastered a coloring book and crayons, at least not when Miriam knew her. Was she really an artist, or was this simply one more lie piled on a stack of others?

A shrug, a slow smile, and a soft, “Watercolors. Very telling, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” The woman was lying, and somewhere buried between the words was a threat. Miriam turned to Angie, held out the loaf of banana nut bread wrapped in foil. “I’ve brought a snack, but it needs a good cup of tea to go with it.” She reached in her purse, pulled out three tea bags. “It’s a special cinnamon-cardamom mix my friend Harry sent me.”

“Sure. I’ll heat up the water; be right back.”

The second Angie stepped out of the room, Miriam turned on her sister, leaned close, and spoke in as fierce a manner as a whisper would permit. “How dare you come here? I’m doing everything you asked and still, it’s not enough.”

“A temper does not become you.”

The accent was gone, replaced with culture and a lifestyle that spoke of good breeding and money. Lots of both. “What are you up to now? And don’t tell me it’s not my business because I’m making it my business.” Miriam placed both hands on the table, leaned toward her sister, and said in a low voice, “You seemed awfully cozy with Angie a few minutes ago. That tells me you like her, want to get to know her, even if you have to create a whole other persona. Why would you do that?”
Why would she do that?
“It makes no sense. People don’t just go around dressing up, tossing around accents and stories that aren’t true unless there’s a darn good reason, like she’s really your daughter, or—” The gasp cut off the rest of Miriam’s words. Her sister clamped a hand over her mouth, stared at Miriam, her eyes a mix of sadness and pain…the eyes of a person sinking in regret…maybe the regret over giving up a child?

Candace swallowed twice. “She’s... she’s...”

The woman who must have conducted hundreds of board meetings, held dinner parties for the rich and influential, and shared conversations with business people all over the world, could not say the words. Miriam laid a hand on hers and said, “She’s yours, isn’t she?”

A nod, accompanied by a whispered “Yes.” And then, “Please don’t tell her.”

Miriam had no intention of telling Angie anything, but she wouldn’t let her sister know that. “I want the demands to stop.”

“All right.” Pause. “She’s special. Full of energy and so much talent.”

“Yes, she is.”

Candace cleared her throat, blinked several times. “I can’t paint. I need you to help me. Please.”

Apparently her sister hadn’t thought this situation through, or maybe she was so used to getting everything she wanted, she hadn’t anticipated the need to do so. “I’ll help you,” Miriam let the next words spill out, trickle to her sister’s brain. “But no more demands or threats from you. Period. Or there will be repercussions.”

***

Angie eased a comb through a section of wet hair, careful not to yank on the knot. She’d been tempted to chop off this mess more than once but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Not because she had any great love for the wild curls that swirled and swayed with the weather and her temper. She didn’t cut her hair because her father said it was beautiful, just like her mother’s. He used to stare at her curls as if pulled back to another time and place, another person. She separated the next section, worked the comb through it. Her father never asked for anything but her happiness; she could gift him this one small memory.

They’d spoken earlier as she sat cross-legged on her bed in the Heart Sent, wrapped in a red terrycloth bathrobe compliments of the bed and breakfast. He called every three days to ask about the project, inform her about the goings on in Montpelier, and make gentle but obvious inquiries.

Are you enjoying your stay?

Any interesting people there?

How about a special someone, a man?

What he really wanted to ask was,
Have you met someone you could spend time with, maybe a lifetime
?

The answers dribbled out.

Yes, I’m enjoying my stay.

Yes, there are a lot of interesting people here
. She expanded on that with talk of Sal Ventori, Mimi Pendergrass, Miriam Desantro, and the other residents she’d met. No mention of Roman Ventori, the one man her father might qualify as a
special someone
.

No man?

Of course there are men in Magdalena.

But…nobody you’re interested in?

No way was she going there
. Not really.

Oh.
And then
, Owen Hollins has been asking about you.

No. Do not encourage him.
Montpelier’s bachelor dentist had been after Angie for three years and still didn’t understand that
no
meant
no
.

You’d never pay for another dental exam in your life.

No, Dad.

A chuckle
. I know.
His voice turned serious
. I really hoped you might find somebody in a place where nobody knew you and you could relax.

Nope.
Roman Ventori’s face blasted her brain, the dark eyes, the full lips, the square jaw.
Nope,
she said again
.

He let it go after that, changing the subject to the hot peppers he’d planted and the pot of wedding soup he’d cooked yesterday. When they hung up, Angie pictured her father sitting in his brown and gold plaid recliner, studying the travel brochures he’d picked up. West Virginia, Pennsylvania. Mountains, streams, trees. Once she finished this project, she’d get him to see about that knee surgery and while he was recovering, they’d plan a trip, and...

“Angie?”

Mimi Pendergrass’s voice reached her from the other side of the door. “Yes?” Angie slid off the bed, tightened the belt on her robe, and moved toward the door. She opened it to find Mini staring back at her, a curious look on her face.

“You have a visitor,” she said in a way that implied more than that simple statement.

“I do?” Angie crossed her arms over her middle, peeked over Mimi’s shoulder. Nobody there. “Who?”

The knowing look she gave Angie said more than her next words. “Lorraine Ventori. Roman’s mother.”

Ten minutes later, dressed in jeans and a pink T-shirt, Angie entered a sitting room papered in blue and white peonies. The antique furniture had been painted ivory, the vases on the tables stuffed with silk roses, the pictures on the wall displayed in fancy gold frames. Lorraine Ventori sat on the long couch, hands clasped in her lap. When Angie entered, she smiled, patted the spot next to her. “Hello, dear. Lovely to see you again.”

“Mrs. Ventori.” Angie made her way toward Roman’s mother, sat down. “Would you like tea or coffee?” Roman’s mother might have surprised her with a visit, but Frank Sorrento had taught her that manners prevailed.

The woman shook her dark head. “No, I don’t have much time. My husband gets antsy if I don’t go home right after work.” She sighed. “Now if he were the one at work, he’d lose track of time and who knows when I’d see him?” Her laugh spoke of tolerance and tenderness. “You get used to your husband’s eccentricities, come to expect them, and when they stop, you miss them. But,” she sighed, patted Angie’s hand, “that’s not why I’m here and I’m guessing you already know that.”

“I figured.”
Roman, she’s here about him. Was Lorraine Ventori really going to push her son on Angie as the perfect match?

“I want to apologize for my husband’s behavior.” Her dark eyes met Angie’s, held them. “It wasn’t right of him to play matchmaker for you and Roman and I should have stopped him. At the very least, I should not have let Pop Benito encourage him. When Sal had his heart attack and I almost lost him—” she covered her mouth with her hand, blinked hard “—I was so afraid. My husband’s a fighter, never gives in to sickness, but he looked so frail in that hospital bed with tubes coming out of his body, beeps and buzzes. I sat in the chair and counted his breaths, over and over, afraid to close my eyes. When Roman came home, it was easier and harder.” She rubbed her temple, said in soft voice, “They’ve had their differences these past years, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“It’s not my business.” But she had heard the stories of Roman being accused of getting a girl pregnant in high school, and how his father did not support his son’s claim of innocence.

“It’s not unless you’re dragged into their history, which you have been. I wanted to give Sal something to hang onto and when he almost died, and then he saw Pop’s great-granddaughter, well, that was all he could talk about. I should have shut him down, should have pulled Pop aside and made him convince Sal they couldn’t match up two near strangers who had nothing in common.” She worked up a smile. “Do you and Roman have anything in common?” The blush creeping up Angie’s neck must have given her the answer because she said, “I’m sorry. That was rude. It seems almost losing my husband has made me insensitive
and
rude.”