A Family Affair: The Secret (13 page)

“Almost broke up Nate’s,” Ben Reed added, his stare slicing Roman’s intentions in half. “We don’t care about her
situation
.”

“We don’t even care if somebody sends the whole town underwear with her name on it.” Cash leaned forward, both elbows on the table, and bit out, “We. Don’t. Care.”

“Okay, I think he gets it.” This from Nate Desantro who seemed the calmest of the three, a curious observation considering the fact that he was the one Natalie had done wrong. But Desantro was the type who sparked loyalty, like a general heading into battle to fight alongside his soldiers—fierce, committed, determined, a man of honor and integrity. He’d taken over the family business when his father died, gone without to pay his employees, tried to protect his mother from an interloper like Charlie Blacksworth, and, above all, loved and protected the product of the union he despised—his sister, Lily. Roman’s mother had filled him in on Nate Desantro and his many attributes, which, according to the town, had matured and grown since he married his nemesis’s daughter, Christine Blacksworth. Now they had a child and another on the way. According to his mother, the man was one of the most caring, empathetic, reasonable people in this town. Next to Pop, that was.

But Roman didn’t see anything caring, empathetic, or reasonable about the man at the moment. What he did see was hatred and disgust and a hardness that was not about to forget and sure as hell not forgive, no matter how calm he appeared.

Desantro pinned him with a look that dared him to say one word that wasn’t the absolute truth and said, “Why is it so important that we help clear her name? You haven’t been back to Magdalena more than five times since you left, and you’re only here short term if what I hear is correct. So—” the stare burned him “—why does it matter to you?”

He wanted the truth? Fine, he’d get it. “Because I know what it’s like to get blamed for something you didn’t do.” He met Desantro’s stare, held it. “My own father didn’t believe me. When that happens you stop believing in good and right, and you just don’t care. It’s not a good place to be. Natalie says she’s changed; maybe she has, or maybe she’s feeding me a line of bull. Don’t know, but what I do know is that whoever’s sending those panties has a sick sense of humor, or maybe they’re out to make her pay.” He turned to Ben Reed. “What if Natalie’s safety is at risk and you ignore it? Aren’t cops supposed to protect people?”

Reed’s gaze narrowed on him. “Are you saying I’m not doing my job?”

“Sounds like it to me.” Cash glared at Roman. “That’s exactly what it sounds like.”

Casherdon was a wildcat. He might be wily and leaner than the other two, but Roman would not want to tangle with the guy. “Come on; don’t make this into something it isn’t. If you don’t want to help, just say it and I’ll find the person myself.”

“We don’t want to help,” Casherdon said.

Ben Reed blew out a breath. “We don’t want to help, but we will. And if these two don’t, I’ll check it out.” Those blue eyes froze him in his seat. “I’m not having some city boy call me incompetent.”

Roman nodded, rubbed his jaw. “Thanks.” Wasn’t Ben Reed from Philadelphia? He could have sworn his mother told him that. So, didn’t that make
him
a city boy?

Nate lifted his beer bottle, took a healthy swig, and set it on the table. “That woman almost ruined my life and I will never forget what she did. I’d just as soon let her drown in her supposed regrets, but I don’t like this cat-and-mouse game somebody’s playing. Next time it could be one of us or our wives.” He met Roman’s gaze head-on, his voice determined. “My wife is pregnant. So is Ben’s. We are not bringing drama into our homes.”

“I get it. Sure.” And then, because he didn’t like the way Desantro had a bead on him, Roman tried to make a joke and turned to Cash. “Is your wife pregnant, too?”

The man didn’t answer, but the clenched jaw and bulging neck veins said Roman had crossed a line into a subject he had no business asking about. Later, he wondered if Casherdon might have reached across the table and punched him if Nate hadn’t stepped in with a distraction.

“There’s only one way I’ll consider helping.”

“Name it,” Roman said. Getting Nate Desantro’s approval was like getting an endorsement, and steering off the subject of babies? Vital to Roman’s health and well-being. But Nate’s next words told Roman that getting a yes from the guy wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, it wasn’t even up to him. “It’s my wife. Natalie Servetti almost destroyed our marriage and Christine’s going to decide what happens next.”

***

When Tess Casherdon made her way to the workshop and invited her for a cup of coffee and brownies, Angie ignored the sideways glance Nate Desantro and Tess’s husband gave each other and said, “Coffee and brownies? I’m in. Give me a sec.” She tossed her buffing cloth on the table, wiped her hands on a towel, and followed Tess outside.

“Ignore those two,” Tess said, shaking her blond head. “They’ll get their own plate of brownies and a pitcher of milk.”

“Brownies and milk?” Angie stared at Tess. “Those two? They look like the beer and pretzel type to me.”

Tess’s laugh skittered across the gravel path, landed at the doorstep of the log cabin. “Do not be fooled by those two.” Another laugh. “They do have growls, but they don’t bite.” She opened the door and said, “Hey, ladies, Angie’s joining us.”

Two very pregnant women sat at the kitchen table, one with dark brown hair, the other black. “Hi Angie. I’ve heard a lot about you.” This from the black-haired woman who smiled and said, “I’m Christine Desantro. Nate’s my husband.”

“Ah.” The pearls and haircut said high class. How had a flannel-wearing, shaggy-haired monster of a man like that snagged a woman like this? Angie nodded and slipped into a chair next to the other woman. Was everybody in this town pregnant, trying to get pregnant, or recently pregnant? She slid a look at Tess who handed her a mug of coffee and a plate with two brownies. Other than that first day, Tess hadn’t said much about having a family, but it didn’t take a psychologist to see the sadness in her eyes or hear the longing in her voice when she talked about children. Maybe one day, she’d have a child that wasn’t a four-legged one named Henry.

“I’m Gina Reed.” The woman next to her thrust out a hand. “Christine said Nate’s impressed with your work.”

“He is?” Angie swung her gaze to Nate’s wife, who sipped her milk and nodded.

“He danced around the subject the first few nights, but then he admitted you’ve got a way with a scroll saw and a sander.”

“Thanks.” Angie snagged a brownie, munched on it. “This is delicious. Did you make these, Tess?”

Christine and Gina laughed. Tess shrugged, hid a smile. “I’m what my husband likes to call a work in progress in the kitchen. I am learning, though.”

“Sure you are,” Gina said, picking up a slice of apple from her plate. “I think you’re on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, right?”

“Stop.” Tess set a mug of coffee in front of Angie and sank into her chair. “You’ll make Angie think I’m a total loser.” She leaned toward Angie, said in a low voice, “If you need marketing or promotions, I’m your person. I’m very good at it.”

“Okay. Got it.” Angie saluted her with her coffee mug. “So, if you didn’t make the brownies, who did?” She figured Christine Desantro might be the baker, but the woman shook her head and said, “Not me. Not Gina either, though she can cook and bake.”

“I don’t bake, however,” Gina added, her left hand resting on her belly. “Too tempting, especially for somebody who can plow through a plate of cookies and wonder what happened.”

So this was the woman Mimi told her about whose husband scavenged for sweets outside the house? Had to be her. That was serious willpower on Gina’s part and serious love on her husband’s. Wow, she couldn’t imagine caring enough about a person to sacrifice brownies, and she sure as heck wasn’t giving up chocolate.

“Nate made them,” Christine Desantro said in a soft voice.

“Nate?” Angie stared at the luscious fudge brownie on her plate. “Nate Desantro, the man outside who doesn’t smile or talk?
That
Nate Desantro?”

“Uh-huh.” Her smile spread, those blue eyes turned bluer, and did a person’s voice ever say
I love my husband
without saying the words with more feeling than this woman’s?

“Don’t you know once a guy meets his match, he crumbles like a week-old cookie?” Tess bit into a brownie, chewed. “It happened to Nate, and Ben.” She paused, her voice shifting. “And Cash.”

“Now that is truly impressive.” Angie bit into the second brownie, thought about Kate and Rourke Flannigan. Yeah, that guy had definitely crumbled when he realized he still loved Kate.

“No special someone for you?” Tess asked. When her friends gave her a look, she said, “I’ve got to ask since Bree isn’t here to hit Angie up with the point-blank questions.” She turned to Angie, offered a smile. “Well?”

“Nope.”
Not on a good day. All gone. That ship has sailed. Hasta la vista
.

“Oh.” Tess sipped her coffee, nodded, and said in a matter-of-fact voice, “Not even Roman Ventori?”

“What? Good Lord, no.” She coughed, coughed again, and fought to get a clean breath. “No,” she repeated once the coughing stopped. “The man is a pain in my behind.”

“But not bad to look at.” This from Gina who studied her with dark eyes that said she wasn’t buying the protests. Well, she should because there was nothing between Angie and
Mr. Beautiful
. “Not bad at all.”

“I can’t believe he’s spending time with Natalie Servetti.” Tess made a face. “Nasty.”

“Who’s Natalie Servetti?” This was better than the entertainment magazines under her bed. Glamor, intrigue…

“Natalie Servetti…” Gina began as though she had a mouthful of cookie blocking the words. “She’s my…cousin…”

“That’s right,” Tess added, her tone a bit too bright, gaze darting around the table like a fly looking for a place to land.

“I hear she ran into Roman the other day.” Gina’s hand inched toward the plate of brownies. Closer…closer… She shook her head and snatched her hand back in her lap.

“I heard that, too. Huh.” Tess shrugged and worked up a smile. “Isn’t that just the strangest thing?”

“Will you two stop?” Christine’s blue gaze narrowed on them, her lips pinched. “I know your husbands told you what Roman asked them.” The words sifted through the room, fought for meaning. “And I know they told you what Nate said.”

What were they talking about? Angie sat very still, trying to figure out what Roman Ventori had to do with these women’s husbands and especially what he had to do with Natalie Servetti. He was a busy, busy man. First there was the old girlfriend who’d come after him with sighs and tears in her eyes. And now there was a woman named Natalie Servetti whom Tess had labeled
Nasty
. The three women glanced at Angie who pushed out of her chair and stood. “I think I’ll grab one more brownie and head back outside.”

“No.” Christine held up a hand, motioned her back to her seat. “Nate says Roman’s a good guy and you seem to be the one who’s been around him the most.”

“Me?” Angie tried to push back the heat climbing up her neck. “Not by choice, you can count on that.”

“There are worse things than getting stuck with Roman Ventori,” Tess said.

“And don’t think he doesn’t know it.” Angie snatched a brownie off the plate in the center of the table, waved it at them. “The man is insufferable. God’s gift in jeans and an Oxford button-down.” The women laughed, sent her knowing looks, and encouraged Angie to spew more dirt on Roman Ventori. She told them about his father’s matchmaking attempts with her as the match, and Roman’s sarcastic comments, moodiness, and the old girlfriend who slobbered all over him… Angie told them all of it while she scarfed brownies and drank two cups of coffee. When she finished her tale, she scratched her head and said, “So, who’s Natalie Servetti?”

“That’s a story for another day,” Gina said, tossing her friends a look.

“Right,” Christine chimed in. “Today’s about you and your discovery. Natalie Servetti can wait,” she said, her lips puckering like she’d tasted two lemons.

“Discovery?” Angie stared at them. “What discovery?”

Tess laughed. Gina smiled. Christine gentled her voice and said, “You’ve got a thing for Roman Ventori.”

Roman did not want to admit he was falling into a routine and actually enjoying it. He’d started to recognize the customers and their buying habits. Mrs. Cummings arrived between nine and ten every third day, bought a quarter pound of chopped ham, three slices of Swiss cheese, and a loaf of sourdough bread. Stanley Ketrowski picked up a blueberry pie once a week, said he’d been doing it for almost ten years now. And would the morning be complete if Gladys Blinten didn’t ride into the produce section on the motorized cart, dip a bony finger in the tray holding the lettuce, and remind him that bacteria collects in standing water? Nope. Wouldn’t be the same. He actually looked forward to the former English teacher-spinster and her never-ending comments.

What did that say about him? He’d gone from wall-to-wall executive meetings, phone calls, teleconferences, and dinners in swanky restaurants with the Who’s Who of Chicago to meatloaf and mashed potatoes, sticky notes, and verbal reminders on the proper usage of who and whom. He was going to miss this bizarre town with its quirky personalities, but that’s because he knew all of it was only short-term. Hell, he might even miss one spunky Italian’s sarcasm. It was too soon to talk about heading back to Chicago, but in another week, he’d broach the subject with his mother. It’s not like he had to be in Chicago to do business, not with a partner like Adam Brandon and today’s technology, but where else would he go? Sal looked better, said he felt better, but if he’d hinged that comment on Roman getting together with Angie Sorrento, the man was in for a huge setback. He heaved a sigh, thankful the woman was nowhere near the grocery store—and therefore guaranteed him a few minutes of peace—and made his way toward the small floral section. African violets, peace lilies, orchids. As a member of The Bleeding Hearts Society, his mother prided herself on making sure the flowers at Sal’s Market were top quality.
No aphids, no mealybugs, no spider mites.
She’d mentioned something about the Society selling them Christmas cacti and poinsettias for the holidays, said the proceeds would go toward a scholarship fund for an upcoming high school graduate. Was the whole damn town a bunch of do-gooders? In the past three days, he’d heard about a Women’s Guild project to knit hats, scarves, and mittens for this year’s Christmas gathering, a cake bakeoff judged by four of the town’s premier bakers with the winner receiving a $500 scholarship toward culinary school, and a rummage sale at St. Gertrude’s with the proceeds donated to help an out-of-work father bring Christmas to his two children.

Roman didn’t mean to be harsh, but did no one do anything for a profit? How the hell did they make money around here, or did they just make enough to get by? And didn’t they ever tire of just getting by? Didn’t they want more—a new car and not an old pickup truck with rust on the fender? Or a pair of designer shoes? How about a wad of cash?

“Excuse me, do you have more spinach? Two bags won’t cut it.”

Roman turned toward the man’s voice, took in the silver hair, the tan, the brilliant blue eyes, the slacks and shirt that said high-end, tailored, not wash and wear. The man looked like he’d stepped out of a clothing catalog and he smelled better than a cologne counter. What the hell was
he
doing in a place like Magdalena? “Spinach,” Roman repeated. “Sure, I’ll check in the back. How much do you need?”

The man looked at his list, squinted, and said, “Ten bags? Wait. Make that twelve.” He glanced up, grinned, and said, “What the hell. More’s always better than not enough, right?”

Roman nodded. “Right.”

“Harry Blacksworth,” the man said, thrusting out a hand. “You must be Roman Ventori.”

He had a decent handshake and a no-nonsense style. “I am. How did you know?”

Harry Blacksworth threw back his head, laughed. “How else? Pop Benito, better than a private investigator. I hear you’re in from Chicago?” His face lit up beneath the tan, the blue eyes sparkled. “I used to live there. Great place. Great food.” The voice drifted, softened, “But not like this place, right?”

What to say to that? “No, certainly not like this place.” Chicago had style and class and people who didn’t butt into your business.

“Hah! I can see you don’t agree. Hell, don’t think I did at first either. When my niece told me she was moving here to ‘follow her heart’ and that damn mountain-man in flannel, I didn’t know whether to schedule her for a psych evaluation or laugh. But she was serious, damn straight about that one, so what could I do?” Those blue eyes misted. “Miserable time for me, but a great time for her, and you know what? She was happy, and I don’t mean the kind of happy you feel when the stock market jumps and your portfolio puffs out, but the real, gut-deep happy that lights you up, gives you a glow, or a halo, or—” he paused, shrugged, his face shifting to a dull red “—hell, listen to me, sounding like a simpering fool. I wouldn’t have believed it, but I saw it, and the more time I spent with these people, the more I wanted a piece of it. So, I packed up the wife and kids and headed out of town.”

Roman didn’t picture this guy with a wife and kids. He did, however, picture him with women, lots of them. “You’re married?”

Another laugh, this one deeper and louder than the others. “Hell, yes, and proud of it. Never thought I’d say that. I got a young kid, too. Jackson’s still a baby, and I’ve got two stepkids, but I love ’em like they were my own flesh and blood.” He studied Roman, said, “You got kids?”

“No.”

“Wife?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” He leaned in, lowered his voice, and said, “Pop told me you got a thing for that new girl in town, the one with all the crazy hair and sass.”

Angie Sorrento. It was Roman’s turn to say, “Hell, no. That woman’s got a mouth as big as the Chicago River and an attitude to match.”

“Those are the best kind. Take some advice from a confirmed bachelor-turned-husband. Marry her. You’ll never be bored.” He nodded, gave him another once-over and said, “You’ll have great-looking kids.”

“I’m not in the market and definitely not with her.” What was it with everybody and their insistence that he and Angie Sorrento get together? The thought pinged his temple, started the beginnings of a headache.

“That’s what I said, and now here I am, buying bags of spinach for my wife.” He checked his watch, frowned. “I’m already ten minutes late. Greta’s not going be happy. How about you get me that spinach so I can get out of here? I’ll just run over to the flowers and see what I can find.” He winked. “If you screw up, bring home flowers and a big apology.”

Harry Blacksworth left a few minutes later with his spinach and a bouquet of Gerbera daisies. Interesting guy with some strange ideas about happiness and people in general—especially Angie Sorrento and her future as Roman’s wife. Right. As if that would happen in ten million years.

“Roman?”

Charlotte stood a grocery cart away, a hesitant smile on her face. He’d seen her twice in the past few days, and it still shocked him when he looked at her. Fourteen years apart was a lifetime ago. They’d had such plans, such dreams for a future that included marriage, kids, a dog…

“This is Steven Junior,” she said, yanking him from the past. “He’s nine. And this is Emily. She’s seven.”

“Hello.” Roman found his voice, managed a smile, and somehow shook the boy’s hand. Steven Junior was tall and lanky for a nine-year-old, a younger version of his father with solemn eyes and a quiet smile. Would the boy grow up to be a lawyer like his father? The girl could have been Charlotte at that age: blond, blue-eyed, delicate as a flower. “Nice to meet you.” The child hid behind her mother and peeked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. The boy studied him as if he knew something wasn’t quite right.

Charlotte let out a small, nervous laugh and said, “Well, we’ve got to get going. Emily has gymnastics.” She moved toward him in a rush, leaned on tiptoe, and whispered in his ear. “Meet me tonight at our old spot. Eight o’clock.”

***

Sasha Rishkov rattled into Magdalena in a burgundy minivan with a dented front fender and a bumper covered in stickers that read things like
Peace. Love. Happiness
. By the time she checked into the Heart Sent and had her first bowl of Mimi’s chili and cornbread, the town had started gathering data on her: small-built woman in her early fifties, heavy eyeliner, hoop earrings, bandanna, necklaces and bangles, bright-colored top, and flowing skirt. Slight accent? Eastern European? The comments and calculations followed.

She looks like a bohemian.

Could she be one of those?

No idea. I’ve never seen one.

And more.
What’s she doing here?

I heard she’s a painter.

I heard a dancer.

Maybe she’s a painter and a dancer
.

Nobody could conjure up stories and possibilities faster than the residents of Magdalena. They loved a good tale, stretched out like warm taffy, sweet on the tongue, tasty when chewed, and oh so tempting to share. By the time the story swirled around town and made its way back to the owner of the tale, there was a lot more spice, pizzazz, and fiction in it than when it started.

But that’s what made a good story, and that’s what got people talking in small towns. That’s also what gave newcomers the opportunity to spin their own tale, which inevitably was a lot tamer and less scintillating than anything the town created.

And that was the case with Sasha Rishkov as she sat in Lina’s Café, sipping hibiscus tea and nibbling on a lemon cookie. A small crowd gathered to say hello, ask if she were indeed traveling from Louisiana to Maine, if she painted, and why she’d chosen their town for a rest.
Will you be here a few days? A few weeks?
And then,
What do you paint?

Angie stepped into Lina’s Café thinking about the burger and fries when she noticed the group of four women and two men clustered around a table, voices low, excitement thrumming through their words. She moved toward the table, curious to see what had them so entranced. An exotic-looking woman with heavy eyeliner, high cheekbones, and red lips spoke to the group in a soft accent, her voice spilling over them like a spell. When she flung her hands in the air to enunciate her story, the bracelets jangled with emotion and emphasis.

Who was she?
Angie hadn’t been in this town very long, but this woman didn’t look as if she belonged in Magdalena. But then, neither did Roman Ventori. She pushed the pest of a man from her thoughts and concentrated on the woman’s accent. Italian was about the only accent Angie recognized, the bonus of being raised by a father who still spoke Italian with his sisters at Sunday dinner.

“Sasha, would you like to try a piece of apple pie?” A middle-aged woman with curly hair and cat’s-eye glasses offered a smile and a nod. “Fresh-baked apples, picked from our local orchard. Nice and tart with a side of ice cream.” The woman licked her lips, the smile spread. “Top it off with a drizzle of caramel sauce and you are in pure heaven.”

“I like the sound of that,” the woman named Sasha said. “Extra caramel sauce for me, please.” Her silver eyes glittered with humor as she slid her gaze around the room, connected with the small group of admirers. When her gaze landed on Angie, it narrowed. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Angie stepped forward, thrust out a hand, and said, “Angie Sorrento. I take it you’re new in town, too?”

The woman’s lips hovered in a half smile seconds before she clasped Angie’s hand in both of hers and said, “You’re the designer who’s building miniature replications of people’s homes. It’s a delight to meet you.” She paused, her voice dipping with emotion. “A true delight.”

“Thank you.” Angie didn’t like anyone having an advantage over her, certainly not a stranger. “How do you know about me?”

The woman rested her hands on the table, bracelets jangling with each movement, and lifted a slender shoulder. “Mimi Pendergrass. I’m staying there, too. Just got in a few hours ago.”

Small towns really were gossip mills, and that’s why Angie kept her mouth shut unless the information leaking out had to do with people she cared about. She knew how small towns lived and breathed for the details of other people’s lives—good and bad—but in the past, the small town had been
her
small town, with residents she knew about, tales she’d heard before, suspicions and complications she could ignore or not. But Magdalena was an outlier, and Angie was unfamiliar with the residents and their stories. She’d wanted to remain impartial, do her job so she could get out of here with a minimal of fanfare and complication. But that was proving a true challenge. There was Sal Ventori butting into her personal life with attempts to arrange a match and a baby with his son, Mimi Pendergrass all but handing her a personal questionnaire, and now a bohemian-looking woman named Sasha acting as if she knew her. Angie had no choice but to gather her own information. The better prepared, the better to protect, and protecting her privacy was goal number one. Angie pasted a smile in place and said in the most casual of voices, “Ah. So, what brings you to Magdalena?”

The woman returned the smile. “I’ve been commissioned to create watercolor renderings of the same projects as you. You’ll provide the miniature house and I’ll add the watercolor.” She lifted her glass, sipped her tea. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Not really. Angie thought it a large waste of money to satisfy an eccentric’s interests. It would be different if the person had a vested interest in the locations or the town, but how likely was that? She’d bet this was more about the ability to throw cash at a project than a love for the project itself. And while she enjoyed building miniatures, part of her resented the fact that she needed the money so much. The commission she’d earn would pay for her father’s surgery and go a long way to fulfill his dream to see the country. Still, Angie hated to be beholden to anyone and she was definitely beholden to the eccentric New Yorker. “I’m not sure I’d call it fascinating.”