A Family Affair: The Secret (4 page)

Why could there not be another way? Why had she not told Nathan years ago about her family history, about his real grandparents? Her husband had forbidden her to speak of them or attempt to make contact.
They’re dead to you
, he’d said, his dark eyes black with rage and disdain.
They think I’m not worthy to eat at the same table with them, let alone marry their daughter?
His laugh had been harsh and cruel.
“We’ll see what they think when we refuse to let them see their grandchildren. They’ll be the ones crying then.”

But God hadn’t given them the five children Nick Desantro wanted. He’d given them one son, a daughter who died hours after her birth, and several miscarriages, making Miriam wonder if her husband’s black heart had been the reason. Logic said it made no sense, but a woman who carries a baby in her belly, who plans and dreams about its future only to lose it in a rush of cramps and blood, does not subscribe to logic. Not when the pain is too deep. After Nate was born, she’d defied her husband’s command and tried to contact her parents, certain they would want to know about their beautiful grandson.

But they didn’t. They wouldn’t even take the call. The maid informed her they weren’t in, but they hadn’t been in the next night or the next week. Months later, two days before Nate’s first birthday, she tried again. This time Candace came on the line, her voice a mix of hatred and disdain as she proclaimed no knowledge of anyone named Desantro. When Nate’s father died, the timing hadn’t been right to tell her son the truth about her family, and each year after, the need to tell him faded. When Charlie Blacksworth came into her life, Nate was an angry, tormented man who wanted nothing to do with wealth or wealthy people.

And now here they were, trapped in a lie, the truth closing in on Miriam, threatening to expose a family and an identity she’d hidden for almost forty years. She had to get Nate to agree to her sister’s demand that Angie Sorrento create his log cabin home in miniature. Who knew what the woman would do if Miriam were unsuccessful? She’d been adamant about her friend’s daughter working with very specific clients, ones Candace had chosen—for what purposes, Miriam could only wonder. These past several weeks had been a series of sleepless nights spent on that blasted computer, staring at the blinking cursor, awaiting instructions as though her very breath depended on it—which it did. Candace Prescott had the power to choke the life out of Miriam’s comfortable existence, destroy her relationships, kill her son’s belief in his mother.

She couldn’t let that happen. And Lily, what would she say if she knew her mother had lied about who she was, where she came from, where she belonged? How would she ever explain such a thing to Lily?

The key was Angie Sorrento, the young woman sent to Magdalena to replicate specific structures in their town. Only, the houses chosen weren’t random, not at all. Miriam bet they’d been selected for a reason, even if she didn’t understand what that was. But when she met Angie Sorrento, the young woman didn’t seem any more aware of the “plan” than Miriam did, and that meant Candace had her own agenda, one she hadn’t shared.

“Ma? Hey, what’s wrong? You look like you’re about to keel over.” Her son stared down at her, his expression fierce, his mouth set. “Did you forget to eat again?” He shook his dark head before she could answer, said in a tone that sounded more parent than child, “You know I don’t like when you do that. It’s been too much these past few weeks.” Nate laid a big hand on her shoulder, gentled his voice. “Maybe you’re doing too much. I know you love the garden and canning and all, but it’s not worth your health.”

Oh, Nathan, if it were only as simple as canning bushels of tomatoes and red peppers.
Those were the joys in life, tasks that brought peace to her existence and provided the ingredients to savory dishes her family and friends enjoyed. “I love working in the garden,” she said, trying to push aside her son’s fears. “And canning is tradition, you know that.” Miriam cast him a look she hoped appeared convincing when she added, “You tell Lily we can’t can anymore. See what she has to say about that.”

“Okay, okay.” He smiled at her, his deep voice turning rough, tender. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”

“There’s no need to worry about me, I’m fine.” When she looked into her son’s eyes, she could almost believe her own words, but the truth jabbed her heart, threatened to rip it open.
Do what Candace wants
, her conscience told her.
Or else
. She drew in a breath and let the next words spill out in a rush before she yanked them back. “Angie needs a place to work on her houses and I told her she could use your shop.” Pause. “And a few of your tools.”

Those dark eyes turned black, the brackets around his mouth deep. “Why would you tell her that?” And then, “Nobody uses another man’s tools.”

“Cash uses yours every day, doesn’t he?”

Nate sighed, ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “That’s different. We work together, and he knows what he’s doing.”

Miriam studied her son, waited for him to make the comment she knew was in his thoughts. When he didn’t, she said, “So does Angie. She’s skilled on a table saw, band saw, and drill press. That’s talent.” The scowl said he didn’t agree. “But she’s a woman, so you doubt her skills, right?”

“Of course not.” The blush said that wasn’t exactly true. “The woman’s a stranger, Ma. I don’t let strangers touch my stuff.”

“You are such an old fuddy-duddy. Angela Sorrento’s presence is a big opportunity for Magdalena. Her skill has caught the eye of a wealthy benefactor, and these replications will promote small-town life all across the country.”

“You mean nosy tourists will invade the town looking for their own slice of heaven and then call us hillbillies when they can’t find a restaurant chain or solid cell phone service.” He shook his head, those dark eyes full of questions. “Why would you think putting us all on display like mannequins in a window is a good idea?”

Because I have no choice. It’s the only way I can keep my secret safe
. Miriam laid a hand on her son’s forearm, willed him to accept what she was about to say, even though she didn’t believe it herself, not anymore. “People might not understand small-town living, but that doesn’t mean they can’t appreciate it or respect it.”

“Yeah, right.” He shot her a look that said she was miles off base. “You really think some rich eccentric cares about us? Ma, think again. It’s all about leverage and money. You’ll see.”

“Why would you say that?” How could he know that’s
exactly
what this was about? Candace was blackmailing her to pave the way for a friend’s illegitimate daughter to create miniature houses in Magdalena, but what was the real reason behind this project? Why did it matter so much to her? And why had Candace selected
these
particular places? Miriam forced a smile and said in a quiet voice, “Everything is not always about money and power, Nathan.”

He raised a brow. “Is this where you pull the mother card and ask me to let this Sorrento woman work in my shop and have full access to my equipment?”

It was Miriam’s turn to raise a brow. “Actually, I hadn’t planned on using any ‘cards’ unless they were necessary.” Pause. “Are they necessary?”

Big sigh. Bigger scowl. And then, “Fine. Tell her to come by tomorrow and I’ll show her around. She’s going to have to work her projects around my schedule and Cash’s, okay? Tell her that.”

“Thank you, Nathan.” Miriam offered her son the first real smile since Candace Prescott knocked on her door several weeks ago. “You won’t regret it.”

***

Angie followed Mimi Pendergrass’s directions and drove her Jeep to the outskirts of town until she spotted a sign that read
Blue Moon
. Winding country roads, miles of trees, and a sky so blue you wanted to paint it. Her father had talked about moving out of Montpelier one day to a quiet place with a stretch of land and a view you could enjoy in your underwear without worrying about the neighbors getting an eyeful. He’d collected brochures on places in Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia, even New York State, said he wanted to visit one a year and see what he thought. But the time never came, or maybe it was the money needed to visit those places that never came. A few years ago, she’d offered to help, but Frank Sorrento had refused the offer and shut down the conversation.

Why did he have to be so stubborn? She wanted him to enjoy a little slice of happiness and there should be enough money left from his knee surgery to take that trip. Maybe two. People should be allowed to daydream even if none of those dreams ever came true. So what? The real joy was imagining them, turning them around so you could see what they’d look like, talking about them, sharing how life would be perfect, even if you knew deep down none of that would ever happen. She had daydreams, lots of them, and just because they were never going to come true did not mean she wasn’t allowed to have them.

She pulled off the country road and turned onto the gravel driveway that led to a clearing and the log cabin she planned to replicate. Off to the left she spotted a large barnlike structure that she guessed was the workshop Miriam Desantro had mentioned. What a kind and generous woman, and the son must be decent, too, because Angie didn’t know many men who would share their workshop, and certainly not their tools. Actually, she didn’t know any man who would do it. This was the first project she’d not built in her own workshop. It was also the first time she’d gone solo, without Kate. The part about being without Kate left her stomach jumpy, but what choice did she have? It’s not like Rourke Flannigan would agree to let his wife traipse off to no-man’s land, especially when he’d waited years to be with her. Okay, so maybe she couldn’t expect Kate to join her, what with a new husband and new home in Chicago, but it didn’t mean Angie liked it. She hated the thought of going it alone; she didn’t have her friend’s knack for conversation, intuition, or compassion. Damn Rourke Flannigan for stealing her best friend and making Angie’s life triple difficult.

She pulled up to the log cabin, shut off the Jeep, and jumped out. Miriam said her son’s business partner lived here with his wife and their, dog, Henry. Funny, how she threw in the dog’s name, like he was their kid. Maybe he
was
their kid.

Stranger things had happened.

Angie made her way to the front porch, took in the matching rocking chairs and hanging baskets of petunias, the
Welcome
sign painted next to the front door. Daniel and Tess Casherdon. Great, more couples, probably even planning a family. Maybe she was already pregnant. A twinge grabbed her gut, shot to her chest, and swirled back down. A person did not need a mate to feel complete. A person could be happy all by herself, or if she couldn’t find absolute happiness, then dang it all, she could get a dog. Looks like this couple had every angle covered.

“May I help you?”

Angie swung around, faced the tall, slender woman. Tess Casherdon was model beautiful, with pale blond hair and golden skin, her eyes green, her smile hesitant, like a butterfly dipping from flower to flower but never landing. Angie thrust out a hand and said, “Angie Sorrento. Miriam Desantro sent me.”

“Ah.” The woman shook her hand, her gaze curious. “You’re the artist who’s going to replicate our home.”

Artist? That was a big no, but if the woman wanted to call her Van Gogh or Renoir, who was Angie to argue with that? “Sure. That’s me. Miriam said I could share her son’s workshop. I would have called first, but she said he doesn’t answer his phone when he’s working and it was best to try and catch him up here.”

“Miriam said that, huh?”

Angie nodded. “Is he here? I wanted to talk to him about where he gets his wood and how the place is set up for painting and staining.”

A smile played about the woman’s full lips, spread until it pulled dimples from her cheeks. “Nate’s not here right now, but my husband should be back soon.” She paused, added, “He and Nate are partners, but I think you should wait for Nate to give you the grand tour of the workshop. If you like, you can come inside and when Cash gets here, he’ll show you around our house. That way, the trip won’t be a total waste of your time.”

“Thank you.” Angie followed her into the entrance of the log cabin. “So can I meet the baby?”

The woman’s smile faltered, slipped a second, before she tugged it back into place. “Baby?”

“Henry, your dog.”

“Oh. Of course.” She cleared her throat and tried to recover. “Henry’s our dog, but the way we spoil him, you’d think he was our firstborn.”

There was pain in those words, sharp, deep, gnawing—and none of her business. She was in this town to do a job, not get all chummy with the residents and dig into their lives and the secrets that kept them awake at night. Not. Her. Business. Kate had always been better about the touchy-feely aspects of the customers. Why they used Great-Grandma Mabel’s linen tablecloth at Thanksgiving, how they kept the radio in the kitchen even though it stopped working a year ago. And why poor old Bailey’s dog collar had a permanent spot on the bedpost despite his passing six years ago. Too many stories to be told without tearing up and that was why Angie avoided those kinds of conversations and stayed with the estimates, the design, and the details. Emotional connections were not her specialty. But Kate was living in Chicago with
Mr. Handsome
and that left Angie on her own.
Dang it all
. She cleared her throat and thought about what Kate would say. “The dogs we add to our houses
are
like kids.” A laugh, a smile, and then, “Some have their own rooms, monogrammed sweaters, blankets, too. Can you imagine?”