A Family Affair: The Secret (10 page)

“Sal?”

“Huh?”

Pop tilted his head to one side, narrowed his gaze, and said, “You can’t win a race if you don’t have horses in it, and you can’t make a chicken a duck.”

“What? Are you gonna start with that baloney again? What are you talking about?” What
was
he talking about? No wonder people said the man was headed to the loony bin. They weren’t talking about his conversations with his dead wife; they were talking about his nonsensical blabber that didn’t make one hoot of sense.

“What I’m saying is if you want Roman and Angie to get together, you have to make them want to, like they’re in the same race, trying to reach the common goal.” He nodded, leaned forward, and whispered, “And that common goal is love.”

Sal stared at Pop. “And you couldn’t come right out and say it without going on about a horse in a race?” Sometimes he really did wonder about the man.

“No sense getting all riled up; and no, I tell my stories my way. If you want to spread information and knowledge, you can develop your own system. Don’t steal mine.” He grinned and continued. “Now the part about not being able to make a chicken a duck is pure and simple. Roman and Angie don’t see each other as a potential mate. Roman is the chicken, Angie’s the duck. They’re not looking to marry each other and if my powers of observation are correct, they’re both steering clear of anything having to do with relationships and marriage.”

“I kinda got that feeling, too. She did seem a little prickly, didn’t she?”

“No doubt.” Pop’s grin spread. “And Roman? I thought he’d catapult out of his chair.”

Sal laughed. “He was antsy, wasn’t he?”

“Of course he was. Didn’t take a doctor to spot that one. Roman hasn’t had any luck in the relationship area, and now he’s got a failed marriage behind him. Who knows what baggage the Sorrento girl is carrying around? I’d say it’s heavy and not pretty. That’s why she acts like she’s going to take on every man in the world with a right hook, and then a left.”

“So what do we do?” Sal scratched his head, thought of Pop’s words. “Try to make Roman want to be a duck so he can join Angela at the duck farm, or turn Angela into a chicken, so she and Roman can live happily ever after?”

Pop jumped out of his chair, raised his arms in the air, and twirled around like he was doing the hokey-pokey. “Now you’re talking. But we aren’t going to
make
them do anything. What we’re going to do is help them see what I like to call the magic in each other.” Pop twirled around again, did a little tap dance in his high-topped sneakers, and added, “And when magic strikes, anything’s possible.”

Sal nodded. Now it all made sense. “A chicken really can turn into a duck.”

Pop let out a laugh, eyes bright behind his glasses. “Or a duck can turn into a chicken.”

***

Angie stood at the counter of Lina’s Café trying to decide between a slice of chocolate cream pie and an éclair when the sound reached her. Laughter. Muted, yet rich, deep…definitely male. Vaguely familiar. She turned, studied the first row of booths, but men with stooped shoulders and gray hair didn’t have that kind of laugh, one that would make a girl forget about chocolate cream pie and éclairs. Who was it? And where was he? If she hadn’t read one too many entertainment magazines, studied the face, the name, the clothing, the partner so she could create her own stories about them, she wouldn’t have been so obsessed with matching the laughter with the man. But curiosity got to her. And pride, too, pride in the fact that she was very good at guessing who and what went together. Angie took another step, heard the laughter again, this time followed by a wave of giggles. Female, of course. Seriously? The man had his own fan club? She peered around the partition separating the booths, spotted the back of a dark head, the strong neck and broad shoulders stuffed between two females, one blond, one brunette. Another laugh and the man turned, his face in profile, his smile broad, trained on the tiny blond going all gooey over him like warm frosting on a cinnamon bun.

Roman Ventori
.

Of course.

What would
Chicago Nightlife Magazine
say if they caught a shot of this?
Roman Ventori: back in business? Roman Ventori: getting cozy?
Or maybe,
Roman Ventori: up close and very personal?
Was this why he wasn’t married anymore? Hmm. His wife probably got tired of the smiles not intended for her, the laughter spilling over someone else, the invitations from women that offered a whole lot more than conversation. At one point did she just give up and think,
done? No more?
Angie narrowed her gaze on the back of his neck, picturing it red, redder still as she throttled sense into him. He needed somebody to shake him up and set him straight, let him know all women did not believe he lived, breathed, and walked three feet off the ground, did not think him a god, or a king, or anything. But there would always be
those
women who believed a man was god, king, and oxygen to them. Thankfully, Angie wasn’t one of them.

Roman Ventori laughed again, shifted his gaze, and spotted her. The smile faded, the gaze narrowed, pinned her from across the room. Guess he didn’t like that she’d caught him acting like a testosterone-fueled idiot surrounded by his mini-goddesses. She dismissed him with a frown and a shrug, made her way back to the counter and her dessert dilemma.

“Can I help you, hon?”

The waitress snapped her gum and grinned, her gray bun bouncing with the motion. Did all small towns have diners like this? Montpelier had Sophie’s Diner—and a waitress named Sophie who also wore a bun and support shoes. “I can’t decide between the chocolate cream pie and the éclair.”

“Both are good. Depends if you want the kind of sweet that creeps up on you and makes you all warm inside, or the one that hits you with a sugar rush so hard and fast, it makes your stomach jumpy. If you want the one that takes its good old time getting in your system, go with the pie. If you want the one that hits you hard and fast and spins you around so you can’t remember your name, get the éclair.” She paused, looked up and smiled. “Speaking of sugar, hello, Roman. How are you, darlin’?”

Mr. Beautiful
moved into position until he was beside her, his tall body dwarfing hers. He really was a big guy, not just tall, but muscled, toned. She looked away, concentrated on the desserts, and attempted to ignore the man who would not be ignored.

“Hello, Phyllis. How’s my favorite waitress?”

Was he kidding?
Surely Phyllis wasn’t going to fall for that line or the way he made his voice dip when he said her name. Come on, the guy was playing with her. But the flushed cheeks and throaty response said Phyllis didn’t care.

“We’ve missed you, Roman. Every woman from here to Connecticut hated to see you leave and wondered if you’d ever make it back this way.”

He leaned forward, placed his hands on the counter, and offered up a slow smile. “Good to know.”

Angie snorted. “For heaven’s sake,” she mumbled. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

He ignored her, continued his conversation with Phyllis the waitress as though Angie weren’t standing right next to him. “If you see a pint-sized woman with wild black hair and a temper, sell her five éclairs.” He pointed to the row of éclairs in the case. “She needs all the sugar she can get.” Then he nodded at Phyllis, threw her one last dazzling smile, and left.

When the door jangled closed, Phyllis let out a low swoosh of air and said, “Now that man will set a girl’s panties on fire.”

Angie rolled her eyes, pointed to the case, and said, “I’ll take the chocolate cream pie and two éclairs.”

Later that night, Angie sprawled on the bed at the Heart Sent and bit into an éclair. It was her second and Phyllis had been right about the sugar rush and the jumpy stomach. Whew, did it ever make her jumpy. She’d dug the copies of
Chicago Nightlife Magazine
from their hiding spot under the bed and had been studying them for the past hour and a half, or rather, she’d been studying a certain person in them. Okay, so Roman Ventori looked half decent in a tux, she’d give him that. The smile worked, too, even the crooked one, though she preferred the straight-on half smile. And casual jeans and sweaters suited him, though she’d lay a week’s paycheck the jeans and sweater cost more than half her wardrobe. She glanced at the shoes: shiny, no doubt Italian leather, hand-stitched. Cha-ching.

What was it about the guy that had pulled her in and made her obsess over him? Of course the obsession was only between the pages and
only
in her imagination. Once she met the man, the dreaming was over; reality could never match up to what the brain could conjure. Why did the man have to show up in Magdalena? Why couldn’t he have stayed in print and never morphed into a living, breathing person?

That’s when everything got screwed up. Keep a man in your imagination, and you could make him a king, a prince, a warrior. Heck, you could make him downright perfect. Let him out into the real world, let him talk, think, and dang, it was game over. Is that what had happened to her ex-fiancé? Was he more what she wanted him to be and not really what he was? She could hardly remember, but there’d been a thing or three that hadn’t set well with her, like his unreasonable demand that she “gift” all of his relatives a miniature of their home, complete with children and animals, and his desire to eat meat with every meal, and not just a fistful either. But the one that really made her wonder about him was his request that she sew the clothing for all of their future children. How would that have worked when she could barely thread a needle, let alone operate a sewing machine? Angie liked her freedom and did not want anyone telling her what she could and couldn’t do. She pressed a finger into the powdered sugar coating the bottom of the box of sweets. Maybe she
was
too independent to be with a man. It’s not like she needed one, and if she experienced an occasional twinge of sadness when she spotted a couple holding hands, or a baby, so what? All she had to do was remind herself the world was full of cheaters and users, many of the male variety, and she was cured for another several months.

The magazines helped and yes, it was a warped method of dealing with the occasional loneliness, but it was also a good way to dissect the supposedly “rich, famous, and fortunate” until they were exposed as scheming, cheating, and empty. Or just plain unlucky. She traced Roman Ventori’s jaw—strong, square… Would it feel rough beneath her fingertips? More tracing to his neck…down the front of his starched shirt…to his belt…lower still…what would
that
feel like?

Good Lord, what was she doing? Angie slammed the magazine shut, hurled it across the room, and stuffed a hunk of éclair in her mouth, welcoming the sugar rush as it rolled over her, took control, and snuffed out visions of jaws and belts and zippers.

The lemon meringue pie arrived first, along with a lilac-scented note and an invitation to dinner from a woman Roman had never heard of but who, his mother said, was the new fifth-grade teacher at the middle school. The chocolate chip cookies came two hours later, two dozen of them, double chips, from the new librarian. Roman didn’t know her either. The third and most memorable delivery came in a black box with a pink satin ribbon containing a pair of red lace, see-through panties, with a lipstick-print card signed by Natalie Servetti. Her, he did know.

“What is it, dear?”

Roman slammed the box shut and looked up, straight into his mother’s questioning gaze. The woman might attend Mass three times a week and sing in the choir at St. Gertrude’s, but she was no fool. She could sniff out secrets a block away, especially if he was involved. “More gifts,” he muttered, rifling a hand through his hair and attempting to shove the box behind him.

“Oh?” Her dark gaze landed on the pink satin of the box. “What is it?”

“Just a joke from someone trying to get my attention.” Heat snaked from his neck to his cheeks, burst into full flame.

“I see.” She snatched the box from him, lifted the lid. Stared. Read the card. Pinched her lips. Met his gaze. “Do not go near that Servetti woman, do you hear me?”

“Mom, I’m not a kid or an idiot. I know all about Natalie, knew about her back in high school.”

She sniffed, handed him the box. “She’s nothing but trouble, and age has only made her more dangerous and more desperate. Do you know she almost ruined poor Nate Desantro’s marriage?” His mother tsk-tsked like she used to when she scolded him and his sister. “I’m talking destruction so cruel, you couldn’t imagine it. Pop told Sal about it. Seems Nate’s wife’s mother didn’t like her daughter being married to a small-town boy, not with them being from Chicago and all. And you know what she did?” Of course, she didn’t expect him to answer, but plowed right on. “She hired Natalie to drug him and pretend to seduce him, and they got pictures of it. That’s what your father said Pop told him. Can you imagine?”

“No, actually, I can’t.” This was worse than a bad soap opera, and it definitely sounded worse than his split from Jess. At least that was based on good old greed and financials, no photos necessary.

“Pop says Natalie’s like a bad penny and until she shines herself up and changes, she’s going to end up in one bad situation after another and maybe one day, it’s going to be too late to change.” She nodded, made the sign of the cross, and clasped his forearm. “But you, Roman Salvatore Ventori, will not be her male intrigue, do you understand?”

Male intrigue?
Roman smiled, pulled her into his arms for a quick hug. “Of course, I do. Don’t you worry, Mom. I won’t let big, bad Natalie Servetti get to me.”

“Humph. You aren’t the first man who said that.” She eased away, looked into his eyes, and said in a firm voice, “But when a man stops thinking with his brain and starts thinking with another part of his body,” she sighed, shrugged, “that’s when you know you’re in trouble.”

Roman hid a smile. “Got it.”

She stroked his cheek, murmured. “You need to find a nice girl, settle down, and raise a family. Then you won’t have strange women leaving food and underwear at your doorstep.” He cocked a brow, waited for her to go on. With his mother, there was always a part two to every lesson. “Your father and I have a few suggestions if you’re interested.”

“Which I’m not.” His parents wanted to play matchmaker? That was rich—and not at all funny.

“I think you might like our choices, though actually we only have one real contender.” She paused, studied him. “Would you like to hear about her?”

“No.” Absolutely not. “Mom. You know I’m not moving back to Magdalena, right?”

She looked away seconds before she fixed her gaze on him. “Of course I know that, silly.” The smile slipped out but he didn’t miss the tremble in her voice, a sure sign that said she did not know that.

Damn, but she really did think he’d stay. “I have a home in Chicago, a job.” He gentled his voice and added, “Season tickets to the Bears.”

Those dark eyes filled with tears. “You have things, Roman. Things that mean nothing next to a family.” A tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another. “You don’t even have a wife anymore.” She shook her head and sniffed her disgust. “Not that I ever thought you belonged together, but she’s gone, too.” Another sniff. “No children, not even a dog.”

“I’m fine, Mom. Really. And I’m happy.” Why did they have to push him so much? Didn’t they think he wanted a family, a place to come home to at night where he belonged, where someone might actually be waiting for him? Of course he did, and he’d thought he’d have that with Jess, but it didn’t work out and now he wasn’t sure he wanted to go through the heartache of risking that kind of pain again for a maybe. Hell, he was pretty sure he didn’t want to risk it, and his parents needed to understand there were worse things in life than not having a wife or a kid.

“You promised you’d stay until your father’s feeling better. I think he’s perked up because he’s convinced you’re going to give him a grandbaby before he meets his Maker.”

Roman blew out a quiet breath. “Who put that idea in his head?” He already knew the answer. When Sal Ventori and Pop Benito got together, it was a real rollercoaster ride of ideas and schemes. Roman would bet the grandbaby idea had hatched in Pop’s living room. “Isn’t it convenient that Pop Benito has a new granddaughter and now Dad’s talking about a grandchild?”

She shrugged, looked away. “I wouldn’t know. Is it?”

“I’d say so. In fact, I’d say the idea to have a grandbaby emerged ten minutes after Dad visited Pop. What do you think?” More looking away, a slight lift of the shoulder. Oh, she knew something, like the truth, and she wasn’t about to spill either. “Are you in on this with them, Mom?”

“No!” She swung her gaze to his. “No,” she said in a quieter voice. “Though I did help with the names. They concocted a few and trust me, you would not have liked the choices.”

“I see.” He glanced at the box from Natalie Servetti and thought of the pie and cookies in the kitchen. “How did these women just so happen to send me food and underwear on the same day? Did Dad and Pop place an ad in the paper advertising for a wife?” The laugh caught in his throat when he spotted his mother’s pale face. “Mom? They didn’t.” Pause, a gulp of breath. “Did they?”

“Not an ad actually, just a small note in the window of Lina’s Café.” He stared at her, trying to comprehend her words. “And Victor’s Pharmacy,” she added. “Pop thought the traffic would be good.” Pause. “He hung a note at Barbara’s Boutique and Bakery, too, but that’s all,” she finished in a rush. “I swear.”

He ran both hands through his hair, blew out a breath. “Wow. Now that’s what I call humiliating.”

“No, don’t feel that way.” She clutched his arm, worked up a smile. “Those two men just want to see you happy, and I haven’t seen your father this excited in months. I didn’t have the heart to tell him to mind his own business.”

“So you figured it’s only Roman, he’ll do whatever we tell him to, even ruin his life by marrying somebody he doesn’t love. What do we care as long as we get our baby?”

His mother stepped back, shook her head. “No, it wasn’t that way at all. Not with me, anyway. And I didn’t have the heart to tell those two that their matchmaking attempts were not going to work.” The tone of her voice shifted, turned desperate. “Your father needs something to look forward to right now.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” When she didn’t answer but swiped at her eyes, he said, “Is he sicker than what you told me?”

“No, but he isn’t as well as he lets on. I’ve seen him when he thinks he’s alone. He gets this far-off look on his face, and there’s a sadness there that makes me ache. I don’t know if he’s in pain, and I doubt he’d admit it if he were. Who knows? There could be other symptoms he’s feeling and chooses to ignore. You know how your father is, stubborn to the very end.” She gasped, bit her lower lip, and let out a ragged breath. “But I do not want this to be the end for him. The only bright spot is talk of a baby, and helping you find a mate. I know this puts a horrible burden on you, and I know it isn’t fair, but I don’t see any way around it until he gains his strength back.”

Was she saying what he thought she was? “You mean you want me to pretend to fall in love and then pretend we’re going to have a baby?” How could his own mother make such a suggestion? It was just plain wrong, and plain crazy.

She gave him the same look he used to get in high school when he’d figured out an answer but she didn’t want to come right out and admit it. Like the time he asked if the story about Mr. Jacobson’s wife being a former trapeze artist were true, or if Samuel Durham lived for three months in the hills of West Virginia before becoming one of the county’s most respected lawyers. Lorraine Ventori never gave a flat-out yes or no, but her breathing pattern changed, grew short and choppy like she was trying to hold in the truth. The eyes were a key, too. Glazed, distant, darting right, left, everywhere but on the person asking the question. Like now. Roman rubbed his jaw, crossed his arms over his chest and waited. Yup. The senior citizen matchmaking crew of Pop and Sal had designs on him that included a wife and a kid.

Not happening. So not happening.

“I’m sorry, Roman. I don’t know what else to do right now. The grocery store is your father’s life, has been since he was a boy sweeping out the back room and stocking shelves. Now he’s told to stay away, that he can’t lift a crate of lettuce, and the worst part is he has to depend on others, and you know how he hates that.” She touched his cheek, smiled through her tears. “I know it’s a horrible burden to ask you to consider this, but this baby business gets him up in the morning, and yesterday he got dressed before lunch. Without a reminder. Would it be so bad to give him something to hold onto until he’s back to his ornery self?”

“It’s a lie, Mom. You think he’d want that?” If there was one thing they all knew about Salvatore Ventori, it was that he couldn’t stand a lie or the person who told it.

She fixed her gaze on his chin. “Actually, Pop thinks it might not be a lie. He says if you give it a chance, there might end up being more truth to the story than we think.”

“Right.” He liked Pop, thought he was clever and wise, and the spirit of Magdalena. But the damn man was a busybody and fourteen years away from the old guy hadn’t changed that. “He’s nosing around again, isn’t he? Trying to make life work the way he thinks it should.” He sighed. “It didn’t work fourteen years ago and it’s not going to work now.” Pop had tried to convince the town they were making a big mistake, that Roman was not the father of Paula Morrisen’s baby, but most weren’t interested, especially Sal Ventori.

His mother was not about to let that last comment go. “The town’s softened,” she said, her voice a blend of sadness and hope. “So has your father.”

“Right.” Roman glanced at the black gift box from Natalie Servetti, thought of the pie and cookies in the kitchen. Would there be other enticements? More goodies, edible and inedible? “So, who’s the dream girl I’m supposed to fall for?” This would be good. “Cantor in the choir? One of Pop’s friends’ grandchildren?”

Lorraine Ventori stretched a smile across her thin lips and said, “Angie Sorrento.”

***

His mother’s big reveal burrowed deep in Roman’s brain for the next three days, set up home in his subconscious, and meandered around at night, stealing sleep, logic, and his good mood. How could his mother actually buy into this ridiculous scheme? Get enough exposure to a potential mate and eventually feelings would sprout, like potato “eyes” left in a dark cupboard? He flipped through the week’s inventory. Crazy. Insane. Angie Sorrento? Good God, no. More page flipping, checking line items…thinking about potatoes, Brussel sprouts, and schemers.

If he stepped back and thought about the people making up the plan, he’d guess this strategy wasn’t unique or foreign to them. Hadn’t he heard tales of his great-grandparents, Pasquale and Maria Ventori, spotting each other at the fruit market while Pasquale stacked oranges? They smiled, exchanged a hello, maybe two weekends in a row, and the next thing you know, the parents were arranging the nuptials and the wedding Mass. Interesting times. Nobody asked if you were happy or thought you could be with an almost stranger. Didn’t matter, they didn’t care. So what if you weren’t fulfilled, in love,
complete
? You had a duty and damn it, you were not going to cry about it. He sighed, entered the codes for the cantaloupe and watermelon. Maybe that was the problem with so many relationships today. Too damn many choices, too many easy outs. Jess had sure had an easy out, but he’d given it to her because he hadn’t wanted her to stay unless she was all in. And refusing to consider a child was definitely not “all in.”

Supposedly there were still marriages that worked, relationships that complemented one another, and couples who actually
liked
being together. Not that he’d seen a lot of that in Chicago, but he’d heard they existed. His mother had hinted that Nate Desantro was a reformed man, married with a baby and another on the way. Unless he saw that one for himself, he wasn’t buying it. Same with Cash Casherdon, supposedly in love and enjoying wedded bliss with Tess Carrick. Doubtful. There were a few other men his mother insisted had found true love, like the guy who lived in the mansion across town and the cop with the pregnant wife who was going to have the kid any second.