A Family Affair: The Secret (6 page)

Damn
. Roman poured a whisky and tossed it back. His father was in the other room, propped up on the couch with an afghan and the remote control, looking tired and frail. But that wouldn’t stop the old man from barreling right into all the issues he had with his son’s way of life as though there hadn’t been almost nine hundred miles and fourteen years of separation between them.

You should have married an Italian.

You should have had a baby
.

And then, as if his father hadn’t shot enough crap at him, he’d finished with,
You should have stayed in Magdalena
.

Sal had been using these lines for years, but the part about marrying an Italian and having a baby were more recent, since he learned of the divorce. Roman didn’t doubt it would all start up again the second he left this kitchen. And once the neighbors started pouring in with soups and breads and well wishes, the real interrogations would begin. They’d nose around, ready to pounce on him with questions of where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and why he hadn’t come home sooner. As if they’d forgotten he’d told them hell would freeze over
twice
before he’d ever come back. They’d ask anyway because that’s how small towns were. They set you up to spill answers they already knew and then watched the person wallow in his own misfortune. Lucky him; he had to keep his mouth shut because his father had just gotten out of the hospital. But damn, how much was a man supposed to take?

He glanced out the kitchen window at the backyard that had been his safe haven these last few days. Gone were the dead shrubs, the scraggly limbs, the piles of leaves banked against the fence. Tomorrow, he promised his mother he’d venture to Sal’s Market with her, check things out, say hello, though he’d rather croak than make nice with the very people who’d turned on him.

Still, he was a big boy, all grown up and in charge of large tracts of real estate, property that could turn into anything from luxury condominiums to strip malls and retail outlets. If a person knew what he was doing, he could buy and build in Chicago, Pittsburgh, even a place on the outskirts of a nowhere town like Magdalena, New York. Anything could be bought with wads of money and a solid plan. He narrowed his gaze on the whisky, poured another shot.

“Roman?”

Salvatore Ventori might have had a heart attack and he might be recovering in the living room of the tiny house on Melburn with a new heart-healthy diet that did not include cigars, but he was not a man to be intimidated by doctors or a diagnosis. Roman sighed, set the shot glass on the counter, and made his way to the living room.

“Do you need something, Dad?” Roman stood next to the couch, waited.

His father motioned to the rocker. “Sit.” And then, “Nothing’s ever on.” He pointed the remote control at the flat-screen television Roman sent them for Christmas and clicked it off. “Or it’s showing food you can’t eat, shouldn’t eat, or don’t want to eat. What kind of life is that? Why can’t a person cook with butter and use lard for pie crusts? Huh? You tell me, why not?”

Salvatore Ventori would never be a spokesperson for a heart-healthy group. Roman slid into the rocker and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know why, Dad. You can’t eat that stuff anymore.”

“Not even a taste?”

His father’s “taste” was never just a taste. Roman shrugged. “What did the doctor say?”

“Bah, doctors.” He made a face and thrust an arm in the air. “They just want your money. What do they know?”

The man sure loved his misery. There was no solution to any of Salvatore Ventori’s problems, not ones he wanted to hear anyway. That’s how he’d been fourteen years ago, and that’s how he’d be until the day he closed his eyes for the last time. Too bad Lorraine Ventori still believed her husband could change. Or maybe that was hope tangled up in those prayers she counted on to pull them all through tough times.

“Can you check on the menu over there and see if I can have a candy bar?”

Roman glanced at the paper lying on the coffee table. He’d lay one hundred bucks candy bars were not on the menu. “Sure.” He reached for the paper and scanned the list. “Pears, peaches, green beans, lentils. No candy bars.”

The sound that fell out of his father’s mouth was a mix of frustration and self-pity. “Don’t get old, boy. It’s a real pain in the hind end.”

“Do you like the alternative?” Sometimes you had to state the obvious with the man. The glare that followed said he didn’t appreciate it. “Mom said you got a good report. Change up your food, reduce your stress level, take your meds—”

“Stop! That’s all I been hearing since the damn heart attack.” His dark eyes misted behind his glasses and his voice cracked. “I don’t want to talk about me and my condition right now. Your mother’s been yakking at me and praying over me like I’m already in the casket.” He ran a hand over his crew cut, scratched his neck like he did when he was trying to work his way out of a predicament. “Let’s talk about something that isn’t going to give me heartburn, okay?”

Roman nodded. He got it; nothing worse than people drilling home the shoulds and shouldn’ts of your messed-up situation. “Got it.” They could talk about something else, anything…he scratched his neck and realized he did that when he was working his way out of a predicament, too.
Like father, like son? Hell, no
. He snatched his hand back and folded it across his chest. “So, what do you want to talk about?” They hadn’t had a decent conversation since Roman was eighteen.

Sal worked up a smile and said, “Babies.”

“Huh?”

“Babies.” He nodded, his face lighting up like it did when he spotted a beefsteak tomato. “Pop Benito’s granddaughter had a baby girl a few weeks ago; named her Teresina Lucinda Benito. Kinda has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” Why did his father want to talk about babies—with him? There was only one reason, big and glaring, and Roman wasn’t having anything to do with it. He grabbed onto what he hoped would sidetrack his conservative, old-school father. “Pop’s granddaughter has a kid named Benito?”

“Don’t think Pop took too kindly to seeing his only grandchild show up in Magdalena with a baby in her belly and no husband. But Lucy’s a good girl, and Teresina is an angel sent straight from heaven.”

Roman was still stuck on his father not making judgment calls on the Benito girl. When had that happened? He poked around with a few casual inquiries. “Sounds like you’re expanding your opinions.”

His father developed a sudden interest in a snag in the afghan and mumbled, “Opinions don’t do no good if they push everybody away.”

Now that was a comment he’d never expected to fall out of his father’s mouth. Was he talking about them and how their relationship split apart fourteen years ago when Salvatore Ventori accused his son of dishonoring the family name by getting a girl in trouble and refusing to admit it? He wanted to ask the old man to elaborate but chose a different tactic. “How is Pop Benito?” He’d always liked the guy, had appreciated the talk Pop gave him about doing right and standing by your word. Roman hadn’t needed that speech and Pop seemed to know it, but he gave it anyway, and then he’d told him to forgive his father for his bullheaded short-sightedness.

But Roman had never quite been able to do that.

“Pop’s the same old wiry bird he’s always been. People still coming to him for advice, penance, bunches of basil, and a handful of those pizzelles he loves to brag about. His son made it home for Christmas.” He shot Roman a look, went on. “That boy hadn’t been home since his mother died and then only long enough to see to the services. But this time, he and Pop straightened things out between them, and Tony promised to visit again.” He lowered his voice, nodded. “Word has it Tony’s sweet on someone in this town. Now how’s that for a surprise? A California boy finding love in Magdalena.”

“Yeah.” Roman let out a sigh, knew where this was going before his father said another word. “How about that?”

The singsong voice came next with, “You never know.”

“Nope.” The old man was reeling him in, but damn if Roman would make it easy for him.

“You’ve been gone a long time.” Pause. “Maybe that ex-wife of yours didn’t last because she wasn’t the right one. You ever think of that? And how were you gonna have babies with those tiny hips of hers?” He shook his head and tsk-tsked. “And her traveling all over the country, never stopping long enough to think about having a baby? How can you have a baby when you don’t sleep in the same bed?”

“Dad.” He was not going to discuss his and Jess’s sex life with his father.

Sal held up a hand, his face growing flushed, his eyes bright. “I wasn’t always this age. I know about these things.”

“Dad, please. Stop.”

“Your mother and I—”

“Dad!”

The old man actually laughed. “What I was going to say is that your mother and I were talking about you.”

Roman let out a sigh. Thank God they were talking about
him
, even if the talk ended up being a discussion about his sex life. Anything was better than hearing about his parents’ sex life. “Talking about me?”

“Sure.” Sal nodded. “How we wanted to see you settled before we meet our maker. It could happen at any minute. Look at me. Stacking bags of celery one minute, and the next, doubled over the crate, clutching my chest. If it hadn’t been for the paramedics, who knows if I would’ve made it. There’s no time to waste, Roman, because my clock is ticking.”

Roman picked around his father’s rambling and spotted the real meaning glaring straight at him.
We want you to give us a grandchild
. Yeah, well, in his current status, that wasn’t likely. Since his split with Jess eight months ago, he’d been casually linked to a few models, a newspaper reporter, a socialite, and a country singer. None of them were long-term or interested in babies. His friends were married and having kids, working toward a legacy that was a helluva lot more important than their name in the business section of the newspaper. They had families, people who really mattered. He’d thought he and Jess would have that, too, until the night she informed him plans change, people change, and she had no interest in having a child with him. She did agree to a dog, though; maximum fifteen pounds so she could carry it into boutiques with her and lift it without worrying about injuring herself. And outfits, she liked the idea of dressing a Chihuahua in a ballerina outfit.
That could be our baby, baby. Wouldn’t that be so much fun? We could get a girl and a boy, have parties for them, take family portraits, go on vacation.

Yeah, that’s when he knew the marriage was over. He’d had women friends who complained they hung onto a guy for years, waiting for him to pop the question and make the commitment that would send them into “family mode.” When they reached the other side of thirty, they got desperate, and that’s when they started with the “full-court press,” making demands that included ultimatums. Guys didn’t like being forced into anything, especially a lifetime commitment. When the guys bailed, and they all did, with the exception of two Roman knew who got trapped by a pregnancy, the women were shocked, then ticked, and then depressed, not necessarily in that order.

“Roman, are you listening?” His father poked through his thoughts, yanked him back to the present. “Let your mother and me help you find a nice girl.” He offered a smile and a nod. “One who doesn’t mind losing her flat belly to a baby.” His voice dipped to just above a whisper when he added, “And she doesn’t even have to be Italian.”

Entertainment magazines and gossip tabloids were Angie’s weakness, and though she hated to admit it, peeking at the train wrecks that often became other people’s lives fascinated her. When she read about celebrities who supposedly “had everything” and still bombed in their personal lives, it made the whole getting-dumped-by-your-fiancé less humiliating. And when those same people played leapfrog from one bed to the next, Angie sucked in a breath and considered herself lucky she’d cut men out of her life. Who needed that pain? Even if you found somebody who might be halfway decent, how did you know he’d stay that way? Heck, how did you know he’d
stay
? You didn’t. End of story, close the gate on relationships with guys. If the fallout turned out to be an occasional bone-deep loneliness, she’d get another dog.

Diving into magazines that peeled the varnish from celebrities was Angie’s favorite pastime. Who wouldn’t want to look at a glamorous model without makeup or boob and butt “enhancers”? That was what made it feel real. Every week, a new magazine arrived in Angie’s mailbox filling her in on who broke up, who cheated, who got pregnant, married, and any number of other life issues that almost always ended in one heartache or another. She’d begun devouring the stories, and while she’d like to blame her obsession on her ex-fiancé, she’d been hooked from the age of fourteen when she found a stack of entertainment magazines at the house where she babysat.

The first time Angie spotted Roman Ventori, he was staring back at her from page six of the
Chicago Nightlife Magazine
, beneath a heading that read,
Mr. Beautiful is beautifully free
. Now that was a saying that made her look twice
and
zero in on the caption attached to the man.
Roman and Jessica Ventori, Chicago’s powerhouse couple, call it quits. Sources close to the couple attribute Mr. Ventori’s constant travel and Mrs. Ventori’s desire to start a family, as the possible cause. Look out, Chicago, here comes Mr. Beautiful!

Those dark good looks and slow smile said
player
, and she didn’t need a magazine to spell it out for her, though second and third photos with more commentary appeared in the
Chicago Nightlife Magazine
a few days later. She’d never have heard of the guy if Kate hadn’t started sending her entertainment magazines and newspaper clippings from Chicago. That’s one thing about a best friend. They knew your guilty pleasures, and gossip of the rich, famous, and gorgeous was Angie’s. Plus, there was something about this guy that intrigued her, made her wonder what had really happened between him and his wife, made her wonder about the hint of sadness around his eyes. What did a guy like that have to be sad about? Other than the fact that his life was probably built on a bed of quicksand…It was the wondering that kept Angie guessing, compelled her to make up stories about the supposed “fortunate” ones as though she were reading a book or watching a miniseries on television. It was a harmless method of entertainment that lived in her head and kept her from engaging in the real world of men, dating, and disasters.

Roman Ventori might not make it into
People Magazine
, but she’d seen and read enough about him to make him noteworthy. Still, it was one thing to wonder about the man and his backstory…but to go full flesh-and-blood on her, stand less than ten feet away as Roman Ventori was at this very moment? The real man, not the picture or the smile? How the hell had that happened and what was she supposed to do with that? Interact? She squinted, studied the man, and listened. His voice dripped honey, sweet and sticky, and she bet that voice made women cling to him, made them get all soft and gooey, promise him anything he wanted. And she bet he took them up on their offer, plus she’d bet her stash of biscotti that the man didn’t try to stop the clinging either.

Roman Ventori was a magnet and that smile said he absolutely knew it.

“Excuse me, may I help you?”

“Huh?” Roman Ventori, a.k.a.
Mr. Beautiful,
had closed the distance between them to barely breathing room.

“The lettuce,” he said, pointing to the romaine in her right hand. “My personal favorite.”

The smile spread, the eyes glittered. She tossed the romaine back on the shelf. “My mistake. I was looking for endive.”

The man’s laugh could steal a woman’s logic if she weren’t prepared for it. “My mother won’t use anything but endive in her wedding soup.” He made his way toward the clusters of endive, lifted two and held them out for her. “Are you making wedding soup, by chance?”

No, she wasn’t making wedding soup or anything else this man suggested, with or without that smug smile of his. Dang, but he was better looking than his pictures. And that voice made her jumpy... and those hands… She coughed, cleared her throat, and darted a glance at the endive. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“What time’s dinner?”

She didn’t have to look at his face to feel the smile. Oh, this was ridiculous. Did he really use that line on women? And did it work? Angie frowned and lifted her gaze to his. Yup, there was that smile and the softness around the mouth that said, “Relaxed and in control of the situation.” She snatched the endive and said, “Sorry, but I’m not interested.” And with that, she matched his smile and walked away, leaving the flesh-and-blood Roman Ventori behind in the produce aisle of Sal’s Market.

When she returned to the Heart Sent with two heads of endive and a confused look on her face, Mimi Pendergrass wasted no time inquiring. The shock of seeing Roman Ventori in person outweighed common sense and before Angie could stop herself, she blurted out, “I just met Roman Ventori.”

Mimi’s blue eyes sparkled, captured hers with a knowing look. “Ah, yes, Roman.” Her voice dipped, softened. “Such a fine boy. It’s so good to see him again.”

Boy?
Hardly. “What’s he doing here?”
In the same town with me?

The woman paused, regarded Angie with a curiosity that said she was searching for layers of meaning behind the last question. “Why, he’s from here. Born and raised. His father took ill recently, heart attack, and Roman’s come home.”

There was a hint of something in Mimi’s words that caught Angie’s attention. Sadness? Compassion? Was the father not going to recover? She couldn’t imagine something happening to her father, not when he’d been the most important person in her life. Maybe the sadness on Mimi’s face was about Roman Ventori, or his divorce? The possibilities snagged Angie’s attention and while it was none of her business, this was her opportunity to find out real-life information—instead of the tidbits in the latest edition of
Chicago Nightlife Magazine—
that might or might not hold a speck of truth in it. Finding out the scoop was like knowing the secret in a movie, and Angie couldn’t resist. “You sound so sad.” And then, because she had to know more, she pushed on. “Why?” She wanted to pinch herself for her nosiness, but that didn’t stop her from wanting an answer to the puzzle that was Roman Ventori.

“I
am
sad.” Mimi nodded her salt-and-pepper head. “Grievously so. That boy has paid for the unjust accusations many in this town hoisted on him. I never believed they were true, still don’t, and I can’t say I blame him for not wanting to set foot here.” She sighed, set a plate of peanut butter cookies on the kitchen table and motioned for Angie to have one. “It’s a long story gathered up in lies and betrayal, and what that boy didn’t suffer all because of a lie is unthinkable.”

“What lie?”

“This one’s handkerchief-worthy, and his mama shed a lot of tears over it. Didn’t do any good, though, not when his own father believed the lie.” Mimi told her how Roman Ventori’s “Golden Boy” image was tattered when he refused to do right by a girl who claimed he’d gotten her pregnant. Gone were the kind words of the town looking for him to do great things in life; gone was the girlfriend he’d planned to marry once they finished college; gone too was the relationship with his father. Roman’s belief in the goodness of others? Gone. His conviction that doing right was noble and necessary? Gone. His hope to one day return to Magdalena so his children could know the value and importance of small-town life, a place that really
was
like a second family? Gone and gone.

No wonder the guy had a rough time with relationships, not that Angie knew about that firsthand, but she could speculate, given the information Mimi just shared. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the guy would struggle with trust issues, women issues, family issues, letting anybody get close enough to hurt him. Oh, she understood that last one, multiplied by ten. Tabloid rumors said he’d been taken in a divorce, with numbers that would stun a normal person. Something about the ex-wife getting tired of his games, a.k.a. flirtations and maybe more, his refusal to start a family, his emotional unavailability. Yeah, given his history, that made sense. Men with this background never made good husbands, and why the poor woman thought she could reform him was plain crazy. The guy had issues, lots of them, ones Angie would probably understand very well.

If she cared to try—which she didn’t. It was already bad enough that the real-life guy existed in her world now and she had to pretend she didn’t know about his tabloid presence. Why had she needed to see the rich and important get a smackdown in their personal lives? Breakups, cheating, divorce? Because it confirmed she wasn’t the only one who had had relationship disasters, that no matter how much fame or money people had, they were not immune to pain. Kate had always said this obsession with guys who lived between the pages of a magazine wasn’t healthy. Okay, she might have a point there, but if Angie told her she’d actually met one of those between-the-pages guys, Kate would have a thing or three to say about that, starting and ending with a big “I told you so.” The best plan of action was to avoid the man as long as possible. How long could he stay in a place like Magdalena with Chicago waiting for him? Not long. Not a guy like that who was used to gala events and extravagant parties.

Angie took a peanut butter cookie from the tray, studied the crisscrosses on it. Her aunts had taught her to make pizzelles and ricotta pie and biscotti, but they were not big into cookies of any type. A thirty-two-year-old woman should know how to bake a decent cookie, shouldn’t she? If Mimi kept her in the kitchen with baking lessons, Angie could wait out Roman Ventori’s presence in Magdalena and return home armed with the skill to make her own cut-out sugar cookies this Christmas. A win-win all around.

“You look awfully thoughtful, my dear.” Mimi offered her a smile and a glass of hibiscus tea. “Isn’t that just about the saddest story you ever heard? Father against son, the town against one of its own.” She shook her head, tsk-tsked. “The odd thing was that the girl who accused him was quiet, never bothered a soul, vice-president of her class. Roman used to help her with calculus, at least that’s what his mother said when she could bring herself to talk about it.”

Angie did not want to hear any more about the persecution of Roman Ventori. Whatever happened was not her business. Life got in the way of
right
and
should
and
honest
. Look at Kate and Rourke and how their relationship went sideways because their mothers got involved. Even those she thought she could trust had ulterior motives for Kate and Rourke’s happily-ever-after. Who knew how it would have turned out if they’d been left alone to deal with the pregnancy? Could have worked out fine and saved them a lot of heartache, or maybe the weight of parenthood at eighteen would have sunk them. Point was, they lost their choice because other people thought they were doing the right thing, protecting lives and building futures. Maybe her ex thought he was protecting a life and building a future, too—his own—and that’s why he’d ditched her. She’d never know and that was one big reason why she avoided relationships with men.

Mimi went on and on about Roman Ventori, citing the good deeds he’d done in the community, how he’d helped coach Little League, tutored kids in math and science, even let his girlfriend’s kid brother wear his football jersey around town Homecoming weekend. “The boy was a sweetheart,” Mimi said. “With enough goodness in him to fill the town. Until the scandal.” She clutched her coffee mug, looked away. “That just deflated him, and no matter how hard he tried, not more than a handful of us believed his story. I know he didn’t have anything to do with the Morrisen girl other than giving out math help, but she insisted.” Pause, a sniff. “Rather, her father did. He was a junk dealer, bought second-hand items and tried to sell them as treasures. Never did care for his slippery double-talk, and I didn’t care for his comments about Roman either, but that didn’t stop some from listening.”

“So, you think the father lied?” What could it hurt to dig around a bit? Maybe the truth would leak out.

“Sure do. Pop and I have discussed this over the years.” Her lips pulled into a faint smile. “You haven’t met Pop Benito yet, but he’s the barometer for the town. The man has a sixth and seventh sense about things. People go to him with their troubles and he guides them, makes them see the answers staring back at them.” The smile spread, spilled onto her face in a burst of affection. “He’s been called the Godfather of Magdalena. Nothing happens in this town that he doesn’t know or find out about, good and bad.”

“Oh.” So, this was the man her father had told her about. Now she was really curious. “I’d like to meet him.”