A Family Affair: The Secret (7 page)

“You will, dear. He’ll find you, trust me on that.”

“Good.” Was he already checking her out? Angie didn’t like people nosing around her business, especially strangers, and certainly not a man who supposedly had a sixth and seventh sense about things. That could be dangerous.

“You’ll need Pop to smooth the way and get certain people to work with you. If anybody can convince a person to do something they don’t think they want to do, it’s Pop.”

“I see.” Angie rubbed her jaw, decided on one more peanut butter cookie, and said, “Who wouldn’t want to talk to me?” She’d already met Miriam Desantro who planned to introduce Angie to her son, and the Casherdons, and next up was the owner of Sal’s Market.

When a person didn’t want to discuss an issue, they usually looked away, changed the subject, or pretended they didn’t hear the question. Not Mimi Pendergrass. She tackled the problem head-on, those blue eyes sparking with determination. “Have you met Nate Desantro yet?”

“No, but I’ve been talking to Miriam; she’ll make the introductions. She’s even offered his workshop and the use of his tools.” Why did everybody get all jittery when they talked about the guy? Okay, she’d thought it odd when Miriam offered her son’s workshop
and
his tools, but Angie needed both and wasn’t about to ask questions.

“Nate has a very…protective nature.”

“Protective?”

The smile tacked onto a shrug told Angie the woman wasn’t going to expand on the comment other than to say, “He loves his family, his friends, and his town, and heaven help the one who tries to hurt them.”

Ah. What exactly did
that
mean? He would take offense to opening up his home for a replication? He didn’t like strangers asking questions? Or, he didn’t take strangers at their word, least of all people asking him for a favor? Maybe none of these; maybe all of these. Soon enough, Angie would find out. “Thanks for the heads up. I’ll give him a call.”

The woman hid a smile and mumbled, “You do that.”

“I will.” Angie sipped her tea, glanced out the back window. “I think I’ll head outside and sketch for a while.” She’d hoped to catch the owner of Sal’s Market, but Roman Ventori had gotten her so turned around she forgot why she’d stopped in the store. First thing tomorrow, she’d visit the grocery store and maybe Mimi could make the introductions. She’d bet a mayor had a lot of pull in this town, and a mayor who owned the only bed-and-breakfast in Magdalena would hold extra clout. “Could you introduce me to Sal tomorrow? I’d really like to talk to him about the project.”

Mimi’s expression clouded like a thunderstorm about to burst open. “Honey, you don’t know, do you?”

“Know?” Was Sal another one of those protective types like Nate Desantro? Where had this eccentric New Yorker found this town? If the offer weren’t so extravagant, she’d have turned it down, but what was a little inconvenience if it meant her father got his knee surgery and a trip or two to the countryside? So, she had to borrow a guy’s workshop and his tools, a big “no” on so many levels. She could handle the nuances of small-town curiosity, even if they bordered on nosy. And yes, she supposed she could even accept the fact that Roman Ventori lived and breathed in Magdalena, as long as she avoided him. But what she wasn’t prepared for were Mimi’s next words.

“Sal’s recovering from a heart attack. His full name is Salvatore Ventori. He’s Roman’s father.”

***

Pop snatched a chocolate chip cookie from the plate Miriam had set in front of him and bit into its sweet chewiness. The woman sure could bake, and there was nothing better than a chocolate chip cookie, still warm and gooey from the oven. He popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth, considered a second. Best to get the reason for his visit taken care of first, then he could get down to business with these cookies. Pop gave Miriam one of his no-nonsense looks and said, “I came to warn you about your sister.” Miriam’s coffee mug hit the table with a thud, splashed coffee on the plastic apple-green tablecloth. She grabbed a napkin, dabbed at the wet spots on the plastic like she’d just spilled milk on satin. When she finished, she looked up, and the shock he’d spotted on her face when he mentioned her sister had disappeared, replaced with a smile that looked like she’d used heavy glue to paste it in place. That’s what he admired about Miriam Desantro: the woman was a tough bird. She might have had a devil of a husband, and half the town passing judgment on her and Charlie Blacksworth, but she never showed an upset. Not when The Bleeding Hearts Society snubbed her for carrying on with a married Charlie Blacksworth, not when Natalie Servetti almost broke up her son’s marriage, and not even when Gloria Blacksworth pranced into town and knocked on her door for a face-to-face did Miriam show her real feelings.

But just now, well, Pop had seen the shock on her face, maybe a hint of fear creeping along the edges, too. Was Miriam afraid of her sister? Sometimes people with money tried to control and manipulate normal folk…but Miriam wasn’t really “normal” folk now, was she? Hmm. Maybe that wasn’t the issue at all; maybe Miriam was more afraid of being found out. Was she wondering who’d spilled the beans and told him, wondering, too, if they’d told anybody else?

Miriam cleared her throat, set the damp, crumpled napkin next to her coffee mug, and said in a voice so soft he had to lean forward to hear, “How do you know about my sister?”

“Candace?” The name split her smile in two, smashed it into tiny pieces until there was nothing left but a thin line. The pinched brows came next, then the uneven breaths. Oh, but this wasn’t good. Pop clasped her hand, squeezed his reassurance. “Even a country bumpkin like me knows about the Prescotts.” He paused, met her gaze. “What I didn’t know is that you were related to them.”

More uneven breaths, panting faster, shifting to small gulps before she drew in one sharp gasp and said, “How did you find out?” When he hesitated, she provided her own answer, and it was dead on. “Gloria Blacksworth.”

He nodded, wondered at the sudden switch in temperament. “Isn’t that woman behind most of the damage in this town?”

“Of course. She’ll be dead twenty years and still causing destruction in Magdalena.” She blinked hard, cleared her throat, and continued. “If I had known my actions would hurt so many people, I wonder if I’d still have taken up with Charlie, or if I’d have turned the other way.”

Pop considered this, had to agree there was a certain amount of merit to her words. He’d never been one for cheating on a spouse, lying or double dealing, but then he’d never met anybody with a heart as black or a tongue as vicious as Gloria Blacksworth’s. “If you’d turned away, there’d be no Lily, and certainly no Christine.” The thought of a world without Lily Desantro made him so sad, he teared up. The world needed people like Lily to show them about unconditional love and kindness, and they needed people like Christine to melt an ice-heart like Nate Desantro.

“How did you find out?”

He was not about to stack a lie on top of Gloria Blacksworth’s heap of misdeeds. “Confidential.” He raised a hand, placed it on his heart. “I gave my word I wouldn’t tell, and you know Pop doesn’t break his word, no matter what.” Miriam nodded, her shoulders slumping as if they were too heavy to hold up. No wonder, with the weight of this truth piled on her, threatening to bury her any second. Well, he was not having it. He’d come to warn Miriam about her sister and prepare for an attack. “Any signs of your sister?”

She bent her head, shook it. “No.”

“Hmm. That don’t mean she didn’t send someone to do recon.” He scratched his jaw, nodded. “Yup. A fancy name like that couldn’t take half a step in this town before someone noticed. If it were me, I’d send somebody in ahead of time, get the lay of the land, see what’s what, and then I’d set up a meet.” Oh, he liked that strategy, and he’d bet a woman with her name on a building might like it, too. “Who could it be?” He still hadn’t figured out who’d fed Gloria her information for so many years. Was it that person? Hard to tell since nobody knew who was behind the snitching. Yet.

Miriam sat up straight, her hazel eyes a mix of pain and sadness. “My sister isn’t going to bother with me, not after all these years.”

“Stranger things have happened. You know, Lucy’s uncle didn’t talk to his brother for over fifty years. Had a fight over a dang shovel and it took fifty-two years for the oldest to apologize.” He scratched his jaw, considered the tale that had swirled around in Lucy’s family tree for more years than he remembered. “’Course, I think it had to do with the oldest falling in love with the younger one’s wife and running off with her.” He shook his head, recalled how his wife insisted that was not the reason Uncle Louis had nothing to do with Uncle Joey. Strange people, Lucy’s kin.

“I chose a man who was Italian
and
a factory worker. You can imagine the repercussions. But I didn’t care—not about the name, the money, the hurt feelings. All I wanted was Nick Desantro and the life we planned to build together, without money or family influences.” She let out a small laugh that shriveled before it left her lips. “Ironic that I’d end up despising him.”

“He was a difficult one.” Talk about betting on a losing horse. Of course, back in the day, Nick Desantro had a certain amount of charm, or at least that’s what Lucy said, with his dark stare and brooding habits. But the man was a drinker and the moods got worse, especially after Miriam had the miscarriages, and once she lost little Anna Nicolina, well, that was the end of them, even though they still breathed the same air for several more years. The marriage was dead and anybody with half a brain cell and a feel for the emotional could see that. Too bad Nate hadn’t seen it, but he hadn’t. That’s why he’d carried his father around on a dang gold pedestal like the man was better than a saint.

“Pop, I appreciate your concern, but there’s no need to worry.” Her voice thinned, flattened like rolled-out pasta. “I’ve weathered worse.”

Yes, indeed she had. Still, Pop had a knack for investigation and trusting his gut and right now that gut told him there might be a spy in Magdalena, gathering information to harm one of its residents. That would be Gloria Blacksworth’s style, indeed it would. He scratched his jaw, pondered this. What about that new girl in town, the one who got sent to build some kind of dollhouses for a rich person in New York? Mimi said her name was Angela Sorrento. Hmm. A fellow Italian. Had Gloria planted an Italian spy because she thought it would throw Pop off his game? Well, the woman was dead wrong because a twist like this would only sharpen his nose for funny business. Pop hadn’t met the girl yet, which in itself was odd because he made a point to welcome and “evaluate” every newcomer. But Roman Ventori’s return and Sal’s heart attack had put him way behind in the welcoming committee department, but tomorrow that was all about to change. Yes, indeed it was.

God had a way of sending angels in times of sorrow and need. That had been Salvatore Ventori’s motto for decades and since the heart attack, he’d clung to that belief with stronger conviction and a knowing that would not let go. It was this knowing that brought the spicy Italian to him in the form of Angela Sorrento, saying she wanted to make a small replication of his store. Something about a person in New York falling for small towns. He didn’t understand all of it, didn’t understand most of it, between recovering from the surgery and the pills that made him groggy. But it was also the fear of almost dying. It was the last that pulled him under like a dunk in the lake, sucking the air from his lungs, forcing him to realize he might not have much longer on this earth.

And that’s why he had to act and act fast. Pop said he’d help and when Angelo Benito set his mind to a task, there was no losing. Of course, Lorraine wanted him to act like he was already six feet under and reserve his energies for range-of-motion exercises, pill taking, eating, and going to the bathroom. If those were the greatest pleasures Sal had to look forward to in his twilight years, then he might as well climb in the grave and be done with it.

But he had his mind on something else right now, or rather,
someone else
, and that required mental attention and planning. That’s where Pop came in, but Sal had to lay the groundwork and he had to be quick about it before his son realized what he was doing. Roman didn’t know about women, not the ones who lasted and made babies and families. That last woman didn’t know the difference between endive and Bibb lettuce. Who didn’t know that? He doubted the woman had known what a kitchen looked like. Not that he was blaming her because his son had an eye for short skirts and tight shirts. Who didn’t? Any man with a breath left in his lungs could admire legs and curves, but then what? Those legs and curves better know how to make a man a good bowl of pasta fagioli and take care of his babies…or at least be interested in doing it. That was the problem with the last wife: no interest in being a wife. She liked the travel and the fun, but Sal guessed it didn’t sound like fun anymore when the subject of a baby came up, and that’s probably when she divorced him, got a big chunk of money and property, all for putting “Mrs.” in front of her name for a few years. At least that’s what Lorraine thought, but they were only guessing because they had no idea what went on in Chicago. Worse, Sal hadn’t had a decent conversation with his son since the disaster fourteen years ago.

That mess would stay with Sal as the single largest regret he’d ever had. Whether the boy was innocent or not, he’d gone against his son, sided with the town, and created a rift with him that oozed to this day like a bad boil. Lorraine still teared up when she talked about it, and so did he, though the tears came in private. The heart attack was an eye-opener and a warning that the clock might stop ticking any second. The time to act was yesterday, but now would have to do before it was too late. No amount of prayers could fix the damage he’d done to his son, but he could help the boy find happiness. That he knew how to do, and with Pop’s help, a mix of prayer, luck, and a girl named Angela, Roman would get his second chance
and
his family, all wrapped up in one.

Sal pulled the afghan over his legs and leaned back against the couch. Angela Sorrento perched on the same chair Roman had used yesterday, like a baby bird ready to spread its wings. She was a fresh-faced, tiny thing with curly black hair that looked like it could weigh as much as the rest of her body. He hid a smile, thought on that. Roman was a tall boy, long and lean with muscles and a determination that matched his old man’s. Roman and Angela would make nice babies, dark-haired, dark-eyed. He frowned, slid a glance to the area of her hips. Was she big enough to carry one of Roman’s babies?

“Mr. Ventori? Are you okay?”

He cleared his throat, threw a smile at her, and adjusted his glasses. “Fit as rain. Now, tell me more about this replication you want to make of my store.”

“I have a business called
Dream Houses by Kate
that duplicates houses in miniature.”

Sal scratched his jaw, pondered this. “Who’s Kate and why are you interested in my store when it’s not a house?”

“Kate’s my partner; we usually work together on all of our projects. However, she got married and moved to Chicago and couldn’t make it.” She shrugged, met his gaze. “I’m very capable of handling this project myself. As for the fact that Sal’s is a store, I can’t really say why the person who commissioned me chose your place, but I’m sure it will make a great miniature. I’m excited to get a look and would like to take some pictures of the inside and outside of the store as soon as possible.”

He waved a hand in the air. “The sooner the better. I’ll have my son show you around.” He winked at her. “You’ll like Roman.” Did her face turn white like a ball of dough when he mentioned his son? Sure looked like it. Now why was that?

Angela coughed, sputtered. “That’s not necessary, Mr. Ventori. I could go during store hours and take the pictures. I just need your approval.”

Of course she couldn’t take pictures during store hours. That would mean people would be there, lots of them, and she and Roman wouldn’t have any time alone together. Sal knew a thing or two about this matchmaking business, even though Pop tried to lay claim to the ultimate expertise in the area. The key to a good match was making sure the couple had time alone, not in the company of half of Sal’s customers. “Nobody knows that store better than I do, and the best way to get a feel for it is to walk the aisles at night.” He nodded, smiled at her. “No sounds, nothing but the buzzing of the overhead lights. It’s real peaceful, like being in your own sanctuary; you’ll see.” She fidgeted, clasped her hands together so tight he swore the knuckles turned white. Oh, but she did not like that idea. Why on earth not? He aimed to find out. “You…don’t want my son to give you a tour?”

Those dark eyes grew wider than an extra-large black olive, and Angela swallowed, swallowed again before she spat out, “It’s not that, but he must be very busy, too busy to worry about me. You see, I’m very self-sufficient.” The words fell out faster, the eyes got wider. “One of my greatest assets is my ability to blend and work in any given environment, as if I’m invisible. Yup, that’s me.” She jabbed her chest, worked up a smile. “People don’t even know I’m around.”

Sal took in the dark hair and slender neck. “My son will know you’re around. Count on that.” He checked his watch and said, “I’ll tell him to meet you at the store tomorrow night at 9:15.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Roman’s a city boy now, but he hasn’t forgotten his days in the store. I’ll bet he can still slice salami and pepperoni with the best of them. I hear he’s a decent cook, but I don’t eat raw fish and finger foods that you pop in your mouth in one bite.” She stared at him, lips pinched. “Don’t be shy; my boy’s a real gentleman. You’ll see when you meet him tomorrow night.”

***

If Salvatore Ventori hadn’t been recovering from a heart attack, Angie would have shut down the man’s idea that his son would be the perfect choice to escort her through the shop after hours. Roman Ventori belonged in Chicago, or staring back at her from inside a magazine cover, not standing outside his father’s grocery store, arms crossed over his broad chest, waiting. And not too happy about the waiting either. The pacing gave it away, back and forth like a trapped lion. He didn’t see her approaching from the side parking lot as he turned his back to begin another round of pacing.

Angie made her way toward him, sucked in a deep breath, and willed her voice to remain even. “Roman Ventori?” The man turned and stared, six-foot plus of muscle and annoyance zeroing in on her with eyes darker than ink. Those eyes widened when he recognized her, the mouth flattened, the brackets on either side became a deep slash.

“You.” He ran a hand through his hair, blew out a sigh. “I should have known.”

She matched his sigh, tilted her head to look up at him. Dang, but he was a tall one. “Should have known what?”

“That my old man would pull this. How much did he pay you?”

“What are you talking about?” The tabloids should get this charmer on tape. It would mark the end of
Mr. Beautiful’s
lovely persona. Angie guessed the man hadn’t wanted to play chaperone to his father’s business associate. Too bad. She needed pictures and if the only way to get them was after closing in the company of Sal’s son, then that’s what she’d do, even if the son was the man from the inside of
Chicago’s Nightlife Magazine
. Roman Ventori ignored her and fitted the key in the lock of Sal’s Market. “Why would your dad pay me?” she asked, determined to get an answer. But the man said nothing, merely opened the door and flicked on the lights, leaving Angie to follow, camera slung on her shoulder.

When they reached the customer service area, Roman Ventori turned to her, his massiveness dwarfing her breathing space, and said, “My father paid you to get in my line of vision, didn’t he?”

“Line of vision?” Angie scrunched up her nose. “For what?”

He scowled, narrowed his gaze on her. “You know damn well for what. He just had a heart attack and now he’s gotten it into his head that he wants to see me settled before he dies.”

“Settled.”
Settled?
As in married, with a family? No.
No
.

“Yeah, that’s what he said, and then he started dropping hints about this nice little Italian girl he’d met who’d come to town to make a miniature rendition of his store, said I should escort you around and see what I could see. Whatever that means.” He flipped on more lights, let out another sigh that sounded like pure disgust, and continued. “Ignore whatever he told you. I am not looking for a girlfriend and I’m sure as hell not looking for a wife.”

“What?”
Had he just said
wife
?
Angie moved toward him, hands on hips, and a bucket of attitude in her voice. “Mister, I am not looking for a boyfriend
or
a husband. I don’t even want a dog. You got that?” The nerve of some people. “I came to this town to do a job so I can get paid, period. Whatever issues you and your father have are not my issues and you better damn well not make them mine. You got that?”

Those eyes narrowed, the jaw twitched, and dang if the mouth didn’t flip into a smile seconds before he said, “Got it.”

Angie crossed her arms over her chest, tipped her chin up to see his face and held her ground. “Do not confuse me with a groupie gold digger again.”

The smile spread. “Groupie gold digger?”

“Right.” She hid a smile. Now was not the time to let him see he could barrel through her anger and make her smile.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He thrust out his hand. “Roman Ventori, collector of groupie gold diggers.”

She laughed, offered a firm handshake, and pulled away before she could register the warmth of his skin against hers or the fact that she enjoyed it. “Angie Sorrento, partner at
Dream Houses by Kate
, custom-built miniatures. Now, can we check out the store? I’ve got a lot of prep work to do.”

The next hour was an educational seminar on small-town grocery stores and the importance of good customer relations as a way to keep them from closing. “The people will forgive you for not having five brands of flour, but do not forget who graduated high school and took off for college or the military unless you want to be blackballed. Or that Tommy only eats peanut butter sandwiches, no jelly for him, and his mother orders three jars at a time.”

Angie snapped a picture of the produce area, complete with a stack of bananas and six bins of apples. She wanted to get the feel of the place so she could capture it on a sketchpad and later, in a wooden structure. Sal’s son provided interesting tidbits about the store and its customers: how several brought his father homemade cookies and cakes, trays of manicotti and meatballs, baked bread, and bottles of wine at the holidays, and how his mother rationed them so he didn’t overindulge and end up with heartburn, a bellyache, or a hangover. When he talked about the old days, she didn’t miss the hint of sadness there, but there was something else, too…longing? If Angie didn’t look at him, she could almost imagine him as an ordinary guy, not a tabloid-worthy, handsome jetsetter whose shoes cost more than her car payment.

When they reached the dairy aisle, Roman stopped, picked up a block of cheese, and said, “Mozzarella. That’s as fancy as he’s ever going to get.” He shook his head, placed the block next to the others, and straightened. “Of course he has Pecorino Romano and parmesan, but no Fontina, no chèvre, no brie. Just plain old American, cheddar, Swiss, and mozzarella.” He rubbed his jaw, scanned the case. “Oh, that’s right. He added Colby-Jack and Muenster a few years ago.”

Angie glanced at the cheese case. “There’s comfort in the familiar.”

“Yeah, that’s called thinking like a dinosaur.” He moved down the case, picked up a jar of pickles. “We have kosher dill, but what about people who don’t like pickles? What can we offer them?” He pointed a finger at the top case. “What about hummus, even plain old regular hummus?”

“Not everyone wants so many choices.” Spoken from someone who still drank regular milk. “Give me one kind of orange juice, not low pulp, no pulp, or fortified with calcium.” She blew out her disgust. “When that happens, I skip all of it and pick up a lemonade.”