A Family Affair: The Secret; Truth in Lies, Book 8
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Heartache. Betrayal. Forgiveness. Redemption... It's time to head back to Magdalena, New York, and spend a little time with the people we love to love and even a few we love to hate.
Roman Ventori isn’t looking for a wife. He’s had one of those and it ended badly. He’s come back to Magdalena out of duty, not love for the town that drove him away with rumors and judgments.
Angie Sorrento is in Magdalena to do a job, not find a husband. She almost had one of those, until he dumped her three days before the wedding.
Roman’s father has health problems and his last wish is to see his son settled with a wife, a child, a second chance at a life that doesn’t include city life and flashy women. There’s only one person in town who can make the impossible happen. Angelo “Pop” Benito, the Godfather of Magdalena, is the wiliest matchmaker in the Catskills and if he sets his mind to it, an old man might see his wish come true.
Oh, and remember Gloria Blacksworth’s notebook, the one filled with enough destruction to bring down Magdalena? Well, it’s causing trouble again, and this time the target is Miriam Desantro… Pop’s going to try to intervene, but he might be too late…
Truth In Lies Series:
Book One: A Family Affair
Book Two: A Family Affair: Spring
Book Three: A Family Affair: Summer
Book Four: A Family Affair: Fall
Book Five: A Family Affair: Christmas, a novella
Book Six: A Family Affair: Winter
Book Seven: A Family Affair: The Promise
Book Eight: A Family Affair: The Secret
Book Nine: A Family Affair: The Wish
Book Ten: A Family Affair: The Gift
Book Eleven: A Family Affair: The Weddings
Book Twelve: A Family Affair: The Return
If you love to read about second chances, don’t miss:
That Second Chance Series:
Book One: Pulling Home – (Also prequel to A Family Affair: The Promise)
Book Two: The Way They Were – (Also prequel to A Family Affair: The Secret)
Book Three: Simple Riches – (Also prequel to A Family Affair: Winter)
Book Four: Paradise Found – (Also prequel to A Family Affair: The Wish)
Book Five: Not Your Everyday Housewife – (Also prequel to A Family Affair: The Gift)
Book Six: The Butterfly Garden – (Also prequel to A Family Affair: The Return)
Bonus Material: Be sure to check out the prequel to A Family Affair: The Secret. An excerpt of The Way They Were are included with this e-book.
They promised to love one another forever, but tragedy tore them apart. Now, destiny may just bring them back together.
At eighteen, Rourke Flannigan and Kate Redmond thought they’d spend the rest of their lives together—until a family tragedy tore them apart. Fourteen years have passed, and they’ve both carved out separate lives hundreds of miles apart—hers as a wife and mother, his as a successful, driven businessman.
When a subcontractor at one of Rourke’s holding companies is killed, Rourke decides to pay the widow a visit and offer condolences, never dreaming the widow will be Kate. As they embark on a cautious journey of rediscovery, one far greater than they could have imagined, secrets and lies threaten to destroy their newfound closeness—forever.
A Family Affair:
The Secret
Truth in Lies, Book Eight
by
Mary Campisi
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
The End
Excerpt from The Way They Were
Dedication:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Author
Other Books by Mary Campisi:
Dedication
To Annie—my sister, my confidante, my best friend
Chapter 1
Miriam Desantro believed that life had a way of sending you what you needed, even if it wasn’t what you expected. She did not, however, consider a sister from the family she hadn’t seen or spoken to in almost forty years to be something she needed. That was a stretch of faith, even for Miriam, who had stopped questioning God’s intentions long ago. And now, as she stared at the woman in front of her, she scrubbed the emotion from her voice and said, “Candace?”
“Hello, Miriam. May I come in?”
Time had been gentle to her sister. Perhaps life had been gentle as well; perhaps she hadn’t known the pain of a distant husband, the grief of more than one miscarriage, and worse, the death of a newborn. No one fully recovers from the last, no matter what lip service they might give others. Miriam hoped Candace had been spared. She took in the midnight hair pulled into a slick, tight bun, not a strand of gray in it. The skin, firm, the eyes, wide. Maybe she’d had a tuck or two, maybe even an injection? And the neck: no jiggle, no wrinkles. Perfect. Whether genes, cosmetics, surgery, or a combination thereof had been responsible for her appearance, one fact was undeniable. Candace Prescott, heir to the Prescott dynasty, was stunning. And those eyes—silver, glittering brighter than the diamonds dripping on her small frame—were captivating.
So many diamonds…a symbol of a past Miriam had never quite been able to forget. She’d tried, oh yes, she had, but scraps of memory floated to the surface every now and then, like debris from a clogged sink, reminding her of the life and the family she’d left behind. Candace was her sister, only ten at the time, impressionable, sensitive, furious, and unforgiving when she learned the one person she counted on had chosen a man and a life that did not include her—would never include her. Miriam cleared her throat, pushed out the words. “Yes, please come inside.”
Her sister followed her into the living room, sat in Lily’s favorite chair, looking out of place, like a ruby mixed in a pile of colored glass. She set her leather handbag on the braided rug next to the chair and said, “You must be wondering why I’m here and maybe even how I found you.” Her pink lips hovered in a half smile. Wistful. Sad? “I could start with all the years between then and now, how Mother and Father never forgave you—or forgave me for not being their precious Miriam.” Her silver eyes narrowed on the vase in the corner. “I spent years hating you for that. But what does any of it matter now when a letter from a stranger is what brought us together?”
“A letter?” Miriam sucked in a breath, slipped into the chair next to her sister. She’d bet the stranger’s name was Gloria Blacksworth. Would the woman’s wish for vengeance and destruction ever stop?
Candace frowned, the faint wrinkles between her eyebrows deepening. “The letter was not complimentary.” Gone was the gentle uncertainty of the young girl Miriam remembered, the timid glances and half smiles that spoke of a ten-year-old’s awkwardness. This woman possessed an air of power and entitlement, and while stories swirled that the Prescotts had a distant though weak tie to royalty, no one would call their ability to wield power distant or weak. Nor would they question their entitlement. Arthur Prescott had ruled his business with a shrewd arrogance, and he’d ruled his children with an expectation that did not permit mistakes. All actions were for the betterment of the Prescott name. Candace slid a glance at Miriam, said, “Definitely not complimentary.”
It was Miriam’s turn
to frown as she waited for the details that would no doubt prove cruel and inaccurate. “I’m sure. I’ll venture a guess I know who sent it.”
Curiosity beat out good manners as Candace leaned forward to get closer to the truth. “Did the woman’s husband really lead a secret life with you? For fourteen years?” Gossip trumped etiquette every single time. No wonder the tabloids still sold so well.
Miriam should be used to the gestures, tones, and expressions that accompanied casual inquiries, smothered with politeness yet bold enough to demand verification of a question that should not be asked. People loved gossip; no matter the situation or the circumstance, they wanted to step into the swirl of rumors and feel the current. It didn’t matter if the rumors were true, because once uttered they spread faster than melted butter on warm bread, seeping into conversations, burrowing into thoughts. Damaging reputations, ruining lives. Charlie had hated it, told her to ignore the talk, but how could she when she was the one left behind to deal with the fallout every month? “It was a complicated situation.”
That should have warned Candace away, but it didn’t. A smile flitted over her lips, the same smile she’d used as a child seconds before she bit into her favorite candy bar. There’d always been such anticipation, such giddiness for that first bite, and this moment looked no different. “Complicated? So, it’s true. And the child?”
Poor Lily, always the center of a stranger’s gossip, first because of her illegitimacy, and then because of—
“Down syndrome.” The silver eyes narrowed, the lips thinned. “How did you handle that? I can’t imagine.” Her voice shifted, dipped. “Children are hard enough when they’re normal, but…”
“Please don’t talk about Lily as though she’s a reject. She sees things most of us don’t.” Miriam clasped her hands in her lap to steady her growing anger over the ignorance of the uninformed. “Her heart is bigger than the whole town, with a wisdom and an unconditional love that’s saved more than one relationship.”
“Of course.” Candace cleared her throat, stumbled to regain her composure, her face a wash of pink.
“You didn’t come to discuss my daughter or my relationship with her father.” Miriam met the woman’s gaze, pushed on. “Did the letter prompt you to contact me? Is it about our parents? Are they ill and want to make amends?” An unlikely possibility considering the decades of silence, but a deathbed had brought about more than one change of heart. Her chest squeezed with an unfamiliar longing. She’d given up on forgiveness years ago and Candace’s next words told her there would be no reconciliation.
“Father died seven years ago. Pancreatic cancer. Mother, two years now. Stroke.”
Miriam nodded, tried to ignore the rush of sadness filling her. A Prescott never forgets who she is or disrespects her name. You’ve done both. Those had been her father’s last words to her when she told him she planned to marry an Italian factory worker named Nicholas Desantro. “I see.”
“The letter from the Blacksworth woman arrived fourteen months ago. I read it and then locked it in a safe. Actually, I almost burned it, but something stopped me.” She paused, smoothed a wrinkle from her tailored slacks. “When my friend approached me a few months ago with a rather delicate situation, I thought of that letter and how you could help her.” Another pause, a pointed look. “Or rather, help her daughter.”
That did not sound like a suggestion; that sounded like a demand. “Me?”
A half smile slid over Candace’s face, spread. “You. This town.” She nodded, tilted her head to one side, eyes bright. “My friend has a grown daughter who doesn’t know she exists. The daughter thinks her mother died. It’s a more noble belief than learning she’s given her up for adoption because she came along at a time in her life that wasn’t convenient.” She let out a quiet sigh. “Who’s ready to be a mother at eighteen? At that age, a person can barely take care of herself, let alone a child. What kind of future does a baby have? And the mother? She might as well forget the plans she’s made because that’s all over the minute she claims the child.” She looked away, a harsh laugh escaping her pink lips. “Of course, I’m sure you don’t agree with me.”
Candace was right; Miriam didn’t agree with her. “If women waited to have a child until it was convenient—when the man, the career, the psyche were all in alignment—most of us would be childless.”
“Exactly.”
What did that mean? Miriam didn’t miss the scraps of pain in her sister’s voice or the flash across her face that looked an awful lot like misery. Why? “There is no such thing as the perfect time for anything, least of all having a child.”
Her sister latched onto that last comment and spit back her own. “Maybe not, but youth is ill-prepared to understand the obligations of parenthood, and less capable of meeting them. A teenager shouldn’t have to pay for an indiscretion, especially when her whole future is so bright, so perfect.” She shrugged, went on. “But life has a way of making us wish we’d made different choices, and that’s what happened to my friend. She married well, had a son and a daughter, a profession she loved. Then it all ended.” Candace sighed, settled back in Lily’s chair, her expression bleak. “The son skipped out of his third stint in rehab, the daughter ran away with a reggae musician and is living in the Bahamas, spending her parents’ money and making jewelry out of buttons. And the husband?” She met Miriam’s gaze, offered a sad smile. “He took up with a twenty-six-year-old, a blond who gave him a baby last month.”
Pain twisted the expression on her sister’s face, making Miriam wonder if the wronged woman were more like a sister than a friend. Blood didn’t make a family. “I’m sorry.”
“My friend has a lot of regrets; the biggest one is giving up her daughter. But you’re going to help her change that.” Candace’s gaze narrowed, zeroed in on her long-lost sister. “You and this town. I’ve done my own investigating and I know all about the goings-on here, how people rally over causes with a conviction that would rival the best-paid promoter in the country. It’s fascinating, truly it is. I’ve got a whole game plan.” Her voice shifted with emotion and her smile spread. “I’m very good at strategies; it’s what I’ve done for the past thirty years. You see, I consider every aspect down to the tiniest detail: the possible complications, the delays, the intrusions. Good and bad. Everything.” She crossed her arms over her chest, nodded. “I’ve been working on this particular plan for three months, and I think it’s time to begin implementation. All I need is your cooperation.”
“How can I cooperate with something I don’t know about?” Miriam gripped the edges of the chair, waited. Next would come the threat to expose a past Miriam had spent the greater part of her life trying to forget.
“It’s not that difficult and it’s for a good cause.” Candace leaned forward, unfastened her handbag, and removed a small notebook and pen. “If my reports are accurate, it’s in your nature to help everyone, even strangers.” Her smile thinned, faded. “But of course, I wouldn’t know that firsthand. So, are the reports accurate? Do you indeed help those in need, even strangers?”
Miriam pursed her lips, but the truth slipped out. “If help is required.”
“Good. Help is required.” Candace jotted down a few notes. “Do you have access to a computer?” When Miriam nodded, she said, “I’ll correspond with you by email. We’ll exchange addresses before I leave. Later tonight, I’ll send background information on Angela, her expected arrival date, and I’ll attach your assignment, along with goals and expectations.”
“I’m not in school or working on an undercover operation. Why don’t you just tell me what’s really going on? It’s not like I can refuse without risking exposure, is it?”
Her sister’s expression remained blank, her shoulders stiff. “I’ll tell you what you need to know when you need to know it.” She closed her notebook, slipped it into her handbag, and stood. “The success of this plan depends on your level of participation. A lukewarm response is not going to elicit success.” A
shrug, a sigh, and then, “How I would hate to tell that righteous son of yours that his mother’s been lying to him his whole life, about who she is and really about who he is. I don’t want to do that, Miriam, so do the right thing, and you won’t have a thing to worry about.”
***
“Dad, it’s only three months, not three years.” Angie Sorrento stuffed a few more biscotti into a baggie and tossed it in her suitcase. Magdalena, New York, sounded more backward than Montpelier and she wasn’t taking a chance they’d never heard of the Italian cookies.
“That’s how everything starts,” he said on a sigh, his dark eyes narrowing on her suitcase. “‘It’s only.’ Like it’s temporary and doesn’t matter because it’s not going to last. It’s only for a few days, or, it’s only for a few weeks.” He rubbed a hand over his weather-beaten face, frowned. “But somehow the weeks turn to months, the months become years, and the ‘it’s only’ sinks and disappears until you can’t remember what the past looked like. You can’t remember anything about it.”
“I’m not going to forget you or this town. Montpelier’s in my blood.” She softened her voice, forced patience into her words. How could she be harsh with him when he’d been both mother and father to her? “It really is only a few months and you can visit if you like.”
“Humph.”
That meant he had his doubts on the timeframe. If Frank Sorrento could use his trade to build a brick wall around Montpelier and dig a moat to secure the residents’ safety, he’d do it. Strangers would remain on the other side of the moat, and townspeople would spend their lives inside the wall. Nothing would change; there would be no blending of ideas or choices that were different from the town of Montpelier, New York. Being a possessive father was one thing, but from the moment Angie’s life fell apart with her runaway groom, he’d become obsessed because her fiancé hadn’t been an outsider like Rourke Flannigan. Johnny Connelly had lived three doors down, rode the same school bus, gone to the same church. He’d been one of them and he’d betrayed Angie, and Frank was not about to forgive that and he damn sure planned to make sure nobody hurt his daughter again.