A Family Affair: The Secret (8 page)

He laughed. “You’d never make it in Chicago. There’s a choice for every occasion and appetite; floor after floor of food and drink to persuade your palate and convince you to pick up a pound of that new coffee or the spice that’s been declared unsinkable.”

She scrunched up her nose. “Sounds like taste overload. I was thinking I’d showcase a few aisles, scale down the produce, dairy, and meat sections. The miniature will be larger than the houses I’m doing, but it’s going to be a challenge to get the feel of the place.”

Roman considered this, pointed to the front of the store. “Let’s take a look at the registers and the entrances. You don’t want to miss the bagging sections or the old-school register my father has near the office.” He shot her a grin. “I learned to cashier on that old thing. Last I knew it still worked.”

That’s what people would want to see, and Angie guessed that’s exactly what the New York eccentric would love. Everything in today’s world was calculated, automated, and electronic, and that made the old register unique. A conversation starter for sure. When they reached the register, Angie ran her fingers over the black cast-iron case, traced the number tabs. No built-in subtraction or produce codes. If you didn’t have basic math skills in your head, you were out of luck, and probably out of a job. “Does your dad still use this?” She pictured Sal Ventori pecking away on the yellow tabs, the register ringing each time he entered an amount.

“I guess.” Pause. “I really don’t know.”

The uncomfortable expression on Roman Ventori’s face said there was a whole lot he didn’t know, starting with what his father had been doing these past several years. Angie could spit out her father’s routine as well as his likes and dislikes faster than he could: Sunday afternoon meals of pasta and meatballs or homemade stuffed shells, not manicotti; milk chocolate over dark; red wine instead of white; fried chicken, not baked. Cotton socks instead of wool, work boots over sneakers. And the Sunday newspaper trumped everything. But the look on Roman’s face said he didn’t know his father’s habits or his likes and dislikes.

It was none of her business, absolutely none at all. When Kate used to try and nose around someone’s past or present, hadn’t Angie snuffed the idea with a “mind your own business” look?

“So, now you’ve seen the whole place. It holds a lot of memories and I think it’s one of the only things that hasn’t changed in the last fourteen years.”

Angie nodded, rested a hand on the ancient register. “I can see the appeal.”

He coughed, cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I’m sure you’d do a great job with the replication, but the fact is, you’re not going to do one.”

“What are you talking about?” Of course she was doing a replication; she and Sal had already agreed on it.

Those dark eyes met hers, a mix of apology and determination sparking in them. “There isn’t going to be a replication of Sal’s Market. My father just suffered a heart attack and I’m helping my parents with the business until he’s on his feet again. There’s a lot going on and we just don’t have time to oversee some eccentric’s pet project.” His voice softened. “It’s not good business.”

She bit her lip, said, “Your father agreed. He signed papers…”

Roman Ventori’s voice lost its softness, turned hard and unforgiving. “My father’s ill. Are you telling me you’ll hold him to his word, knowing a sick man made the commitment?”

No, she couldn’t do that, but damn if she wanted to tell him that. “Your father’s excited about this project. He wants me to do it.”

He threw her a look that said she was so far off base she was in a different country. “My father isn’t interested in your replications.” He paused, enunciated his next words. “He’s interested in
you
.” Another pause.
“For me.”

She didn’t know if the laughter that burst from her was nervousness or reaction to the absurdity of his statement. Maybe a bit of both. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, I know.” He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Tell me about it.”

He didn’t have to sound so disgusted. It’s not like she’d ever consider somebody like him, not unless she wanted a world of heartache. Roman Ventori was that kind of guy, from the handsome face to the smooth words and killer smile, the man was a player. “Listen, you’re not interested in me and I’m not interested in you.” She crossed her arms over her chest, planted her feet. “I am, however, very interested in my livelihood and that means I have a job to do, one that includes Sal’s Market. I gave my word I’d do it, and when I give my word, I keep it.”

“I’ll pay you whatever you were getting paid for the grocery store.”

Was he serious? “Did you not hear me? I said I gave my word. This isn’t just about money.”

His jaw twitched. “I can see where this is going. My father asked me to show you the store. Tomorrow he’ll want me to look at your sketches, maybe during lunch. Then it will be talking about the plans over dinner, and before we know it, he’ll have us setting the wedding date.” He ran a hand over his face. “You don’t know my father. Trust me, you do not want to do this. It will be a nightmare.”

“I talked to your father this afternoon and I did not get that impression at all.” What an exaggerator. “How about you let me handle it, okay?” She forced a smile. “I promise, you will not have to marry me.”

He scowled. “Funny.”

“No, there’s nothing funny about being married to me. Trust me on that one.” Roman Ventori really did look distressed about the possibility of being paired up with her. Honestly, the man had to relax so they could figure this out. Distraction was the key. “What do you do in Chicago?”

He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

Angie rolled her eyes. “It’s not a trick question. What kind of job do you have? I’m guessing business.” Of course, she already knew exactly what kind of job he had thanks to the gossip magazines.
Mr. Beautiful Beautifies Chicago
. Hadn’t that been the headline of a newspaper article lauding his real estate brilliance? Yup, she was pretty sure she hadn’t made that one up.

“Real estate,” he ground out.

“Ah. Single dwelling? Commercial?”

“Commercial.”

Wow, and the magazines called him a brilliant entrepreneur? He sounded more like a dud.
Think, think, think
. How could she get him talking so he’d relax and she could convince him not to interfere with the replication? “Have you ever heard of Rourke Flannigan?” Roman Ventori seemed like the type to know
Mr. Perfect
. They were both businessmen, lived in Chicago, had lots of money. Oh, yes, lots and lots of money; she could tell by those fancy loafers the guy wore.

“Rourke Flannigan?” He stared at her as though she’d asked if he knew the president. “I’ve never met the man, but I know of him. I think we cosponsored a charity event two years ago.” He shrugged, his full lips pulling into a grimace. “I don’t know. My assistant handles that and tells me when to show up and where.”

Angie couldn’t resist. “I’m sure. Does she tell you what to say, too? You know, make the small talk easier to get through? Hand out cue cards? Because you are totally blowing this conversation.”

The grimace deepened, marking the brackets on either side of his mouth. “I’m a very skilled conversationalist.”

“Of course you are. I can tell.”

It was his turn to change the subject. “So, how do you know about Rourke Flannigan?”

She lifted a shoulder, shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, and considered his question. “Anybody who reads an entertainment magazine has seen that face.” Angie paused, waited a few extra seconds before she zinged him with “And he’s married to my best friend.”

“What?” His gaze slipped from her chin to the T-shirt and washed-out jeans, landed on the high-topped sneakers, and bounced back to her face.

His expression said he seriously doubted her claim. Yeah, no doubt. “Why are you staring at me like that? You don’t think I know someone Rourke Flannigan would fall in love with and marry?”

“Actually…” his voice drifted. “No.” Two seconds after he spoke, he turned beet-red. “That’s not what I meant.” Beet-red shifted to maroon. “What I meant was that it’s hard to believe you would know someone who lives in Chicago.”

Angie shook her head, put her hands on her hips. “I know what you meant.” Men were such idiots. They thought big boobs, fancy clothes, and stilettos made the woman. Right. What did she care what Roman Ventori thought about her? She didn’t think much of him either with his fancy clothes and two hundred dollar haircut. He could go suck a lemon and maybe practice a few manners while he was at it.

“Look, that didn’t come out right.” The maroon had downshifted to pink.

She narrowed her gaze on him. “Oh, I think it came out exactly right. But just so you know, Kate’s not a powder puff, but a real woman. One with curves, and a real smile, and even stretch marks, and you know what? Rourke Flannigan loves his wife and the daughter he adopted.” Angie scowled and spat out, “You look like the kind of guy who has no idea what that means.” She didn’t wait for him to stumble over another apology but grabbed her bag and made her way to the door. “I’ll see you in the morning. Your father’s house. Nine o’clock sharp. I like my coffee black and strong.”

***

Witch. The woman harbored gallon-sized bitchiness in a pint-sized body. He only half believed her story about knowing Rourke Flannigan’s wife. And a kid? The man he’d heard about hadn’t been in the market for a wife, that was for damn sure, not with the glamor girls linked to his name. But according to Angie Sorrento, Flannigan found himself a wife and a kid. Worse, he was actually happy about it. That was a hard one to swallow. She was playing him because she’d gotten ticked about his comment implying she wouldn’t know someone like Rourke Flannigan. He’d been out of line and whether he thought it true or not, he never should have said it. But a woman like her wasn’t going to let him forget it. She seemed the type to make him pay for his thoughtlessness, pecking at him like a bird after a worm.

He needed to talk to the old man and make sure his father understood he had to stop this “replication of the grocery store” business. His father needed rest, not an aggravation that would land in Roman’s lap if his mother had her way. Rest, relaxation, and reduction of stress, that’s what Doc Needstrom said. Roman would do his part starting with a conversation that ended this ridiculous “miniature” talk.

The next morning he went for a run on the outskirts of town. There was nothing like a run along a country road, and he knew this one well, had spent hours on it, improving his lung capacity, his endurance, the muscles in his legs. Cars and trucks cruised by as though not in any particular hurry…as though they didn’t care if they arrived at their destination ten minutes or ten hours later. Small-town driving was nothing like the steady, head-pounding maneuvering of Chicago’s busy roads. In Magdalena, there were winding roads, open lanes, and row after row of trees that brought him back to the hours he and his mother spent as he learned to drive. His father had been too busy at the store to teach him, so the task had landed on Lorraine Ventori’s shoulders, a job she’d both dreaded and welcomed.
You have no idea what goes through a parent’s head the first time a child pulls out of the driveway alone
.

She was right. He had no idea. There were a lot of child-related emotions he couldn’t understand, and he’d been okay with that at first. Why would he want to think about the gray-haired worry or the pit-in-his-stomach illness he’d experience with children? One or five, he heard the worry was just as great. He’d figured there’d be time enough to accept the inevitable responsibility of parenting and the worry attached to it. But he never guessed the opportunity would elude him. Jess had known, though, had probably known from the very beginning; he’d been the one who hadn’t known.

He jogged up the driveway of the small house that had fostered his dreams as a child, kept him safe, and later served as a reminder of how families could hurt one another. He dragged the towel from around his neck, wiped the sweat from his face. A shower would feel great, and then he’d tackle the Angie Sorrento conversation with his father.

Roman bounded up the back steps, flung open the screen door, and stepped inside the tiny kitchen. Cracked linoleum, white appliances, faded “zinnia” wallpaper. They’d refused his offer to update with stainless steel, granite, and tile. They weren’t interested in a garbage disposal or a dishwasher either. Who didn’t have those in today’s society? Salvatore and Lorraine Ventori, that’s who. The only item they permitted Roman to gift them was a high-end coffee maker that ground fresh beans. That was it. His parents loved their coffee and on special occasions, like Christmas and birthdays, they accepted fancy coffees from him. Other than that, the Ventoris drank whatever Sal’s Market carried; in other words, no flavors, no special grinds, no high-end stuff.

He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and downed half of it. Something that sounded an awful lot like laughter filtered from the other room, swirled to the ceiling and grabbed him. Was that a woman’s laughter? Sure as hell sounded like it. His father reserved laughter for Pop Benito’s jokes and his favorite television program. But the woman’s laughter was not coming from the television. Who was with his father? He’d just begun the guessing game when the woman spoke and damn if that voice didn’t send a jolt straight to his gut.
Angie Sorrento!
She wasn’t supposed to be here until nine and it wasn’t even eight-thirty. What was she up to now? Roman took another swig of water, wiped his face again, and headed for the living room.