by Mary Campisi
Except he couldn’t do that. Nobody could protect her, and that’s why she’d never let any man close enough to hurt her again.
“Tell me about this town you’re visiting. Magdalena, is it?”
“Yup.” Angie tucked a few more pairs of socks into the suitcase, counted her underwear. He already knew all about it, had probably searched it on the computer, his new best friend. Interesting how curiosity could lead a man to do something he’d once called a “waste of time.” These days, her father spent hours “wasting time” on his laptop. Who would have guessed? She pushed back a tangle of curls and shot him a look. “You’ve been nosing around so why don’t you tell me what you found out?”
The smile told her she’d caught him, and when it pulled out the dimples on either side of his mouth, she wished he didn’t reserve it for her, wished he’d use it more often, maybe even on one of his lady friends. Not that they hadn’t tried to win that smile and the heart that went with it, but it wasn’t going to happen. “I tried to get pictures, but there weren’t many, just a grocery store, a bakery, a diner. The place sounds small and cozy, like Montpelier, but you know what that means: gossip and busybodies.”
“Dad.” Ever since Johnny dumped her, Frank Sorrento had been on the lookout for gossipers who wanted to trash talk his “little girl.” Of course, Angie didn’t bother to tell him she’d done her share of trash talking about her ex, not that it would shock him, but her choice of words might have.
“Okay, okay, but just be careful.” He lifted a hand, shook a finger at her. “And lock your doors at night.” Pause. “Are you taking your gun?”
She shook her head. “No. I really don’t think that’s going to be necessary.” She could shoot as well as most of the men on the police force, but she was not going to drive into Magdalena with a 9-millimeter in her suitcase.
Her father lifted the beer bottle that had been sitting on the table, growing flat. He took a sip, said, “You know the mayor’s a woman.” Nod, another sip. “And there’s an Italian they call the Godfather of Magdalena.”
“Oh? And how exactly do you know this?” Especially the part about the Godfather. Had he asked one of his trucker buddies to take a detour? Frank Sorrento had a lot of friends and that sounded like one of his tricks. “Dad? How’d you find out? Come on, fess up.”
He laughed, saluted her with his beer bottle. “I read about it on the Internet, how else?”
Angie worked up a smile. “Then it must be true, right?”
Another laugh. “Absolutely.” He stood, limped toward her in his jeans and plaid shirt. The knee was worse at night after a long day at work, and with winter near, it would get tighter and more painful. Years of laying brick beat up a person’s body, gave him aches, kept him awake at night, and sent him to the doctor’s office for relief, no matter how small or short-lived. “Just be careful.” He tucked a few curls behind her ear, his smile fading, turning sad. “Okay?”
He meant “Be careful with men” but he didn’t mouth the words, didn’t need to because they were always sitting between them, like mortar, ready to line the truth side by side and seal it in place.
“I will,” she said, clasping his hand. “You know I will.” She’d always been cautious, but then anyone who loses a parent so young would be, right? But since Johnny made his great escape, she’d been downright obsessed with dissecting people’s comments and the reasons behind them.
Her father nodded, pulled her into a big hug and said, “That’s my girl. I’m sure gonna miss you.”
***
Roman Ventori’s back in town.
They say he’s a millionaire.
I heard he went bankrupt.
What’s he do?
Some kind of real estate.
Probably a scam.
I heard restaurants name meals after him.
They do?
That’s what I heard.
Huh.
Bet he still looks like a movie star.
Probably.
They say he dumped his wife.
Huh. Was she pregnant, like the one from high school?
Dunno. Wonder what ever happened to that one?
He always said he wasn’t the father.
Every man says that, right up until the DNA test.
Why didn’t they do one of those back then?
Dunno.
Maybe he did get set up.
Nah. She played the organ at church.
Yeah.
And didn’t his old man call him out, demand he get married?
Come to think of it, he did.
That says guilty.
Yup. Sure does.
***
Roman Ventori yanked the dead bush from the ground and tossed it into a wheelbarrow. The bush could have been a boxwood or an azalea, but that was at least two seasons ago, when the owner watered and fertilized the damn thing. This sad excuse for shrubbery hadn’t seen anything but neglect. Same with the sticks along the back property his mother once called her favorite trees. Most of those would need to go, their diameters so scrawny he could use a bow saw to chop them down. Damn, but the place was a disaster, inside and out. He glanced at the house he’d grown up in, his gaze drifting to the second-story window and the room that had been his for the first eighteen years of his life. How many nights had he opened the window, even in the dead of winter, stared at the blackness outside and imagined the life he’d have? Monumental, never-to-be-forgotten, stellar—an existence that would achieve the unimaginable and, in the process, achieve greatness. He was destined.
And then it was gone; murdered by a rumor, stripped without warning, stealing hope, crushing a future along with his belief in others, even family. The town turned on him, or most did, with the exception of a few like Pop and Lucy Benito and Mimi Pendergrass. His mother never lost faith in him, though whether that was because she really believed his innocence or whether she couldn’t stand not to believe him was always a gray area. But his old man, Salvatore Ventori? He tossed out the “guilty” verdict before he heard the whole story. Even though there was no story. There were lies, though, lots of them, ones people accepted as the truth. All Sal Ventori cared about was guarding the family name like his father and grandfather had, and making sure no one brought shame to it, especially not a Ventori.
The old man’s lack of faith in him shouldn’t still gnaw at Roman like a ripped-open scab, not after fourteen years. So why did it? Roman scowled and thrust the shovel into the hard soil, intent on unearthing the next dead bush. Why the hell did it still matter? The answer stared back at him from the end of his shovel. It mattered because family was supposed to stick together, no matter what, believe in you, even when no one else did. They were supposed to pull you out of hell, and if they couldn’t, they were supposed to stand by you, denounce the naysayers and nonbelievers until you could pull yourself out.
“Roman?” His mother’s voice drifted to him from the back porch, soft at first and then louder. “Roman?”
He glanced up, swiped the back of a gloved hand over his forehead. “Hey, Mom.” Lorraine Ventori offered him a smile, moved toward him carrying two glasses of water. People said if it weren’t for her level headedness, Sal’s Market would have gone out of business months after opening. The old man might know how to spot a solid head of endive and how to make a person want it, but he’d just as soon give it away than charge for it. They have five mouths to feed, he’d say, or He just had knee surgery and is out of work. It was always a sad story tied to food or lack thereof, and Salvatore could not stand to think of an empty belly. But if it hadn’t been for Lorraine stepping in and taking over the business end, the empty bellies might have belonged to the Ventoris.
“You shouldn’t be working in this heat. It’s not good for you.” His mother handed him a glass of water, added a reprimand to it. “Drink up; you need to replace your fluids.” She thought her son needed someone to look after him since he didn’t have a wife anymore. What would she say if he told her Jessica h
adn’t been interested in looking after him, a baby, or anyone other than herself? He was not going to give his mother any more ammunition to badmouth the ex-wife she’d warned him against marrying. Yeah, well. Once again, the mother sees what her children can’t, or refuse to, see. Roman removed a work glove, accepted the glass, and drank. It felt good to work up a sweat that didn’t come from a gym.
“I thought I’d run to the store and pick up a few things for dinner.” Those dark eyes slid to his face, drew him in. “I could wait for you to get cleaned up and we could go together.”
He ignored the hope swirling through her words and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
The eyes grew bright, brighter still, but she didn’t look away. No, she plowed on as though she actually thought he should say yes. “I want you to come to the store. See what he’s done with it.” And then, a quiet sigh followed by, “Your father’s heart attack is a sign to make amends, Roman. You might not get another chance.”
“Amends? For telling a truth he didn’t want to believe?” It had all happened so long ago, they didn’t talk about it anymore, hadn’t in years, and yet the incident and the fallout that had damaged Roman and his father’s relationship lived and breathed just below the surface, festering, oozing, threatening to erupt given the right conditions. Like now. Or with Roman standing in the hospital room and his old man staring at him with those black eyes and working up enough oxygen in his lungs to tell him he hadn’t needed to come. Because his father didn’t want him here or because Salvatore Ventori didn’t think his situation was critical? Or had he pumped out the words because he thought he still ran the show, even hooked up to monitors and IVs?
All of the above. And Lorraine Ventori could deny it all she wanted, try to smooth it out like a ball of pizza dough, but Roman had seen the disappointment in his father’s eyes, the same look that had been there the day the old man accused him of disgracing the Ventori name. Nothing had changed, not time, not a heart attack, nothing.
His mother made her way toward him, shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him. “Please, Roman.” She placed a hand on his forearm, said in a voice filled with a desperation that bothered him. “Make this right before it’s too late. Your father did wrong by you, so did most of the town, but you have a chance to make them see they were wrong. They have to live with their judgments, but if you keep making choices to prove a point, then what is the point? You’ll destroy the man I know is inside: the kind, compassionate one who was filled with so much goodness and hope. Stay on your path, and you’ll choose another woman who’s the wrong one, friends who only care about your status, and work that gives you more money than you could ever imagine but steals your soul.” She made the sign of the cross, bowed her dark head, and whispered, “Come home, Roman. Make amends, so you can save yourself.”
“It’s too late for that.” Fourteen years too late.
His mother looked up, her dark eyes wet. “It’s never too late,” she murmured. “Not until you close your eyes.”
Typical comments from a woman who believed in fourth and fifth chances, the healing power of prayer, and caring for the less fortunate. Salvatore Ventori had made it very clear on several occasions, in Italian and English, that he didn’t want Roman anywhere near Sal’s Market, or Magdalena.
“He wants you to stay,” she blurted out.
“What?” Roman squinted past the sun and shock to focus on his mother’s face.
“It’s true,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, he didn’t come right out and say it because you know that’s not your father’s way. And don’t tell your sister, because he only asked about her twice and you know how she gets. Your father started talking about you the day after the heart attack, a few words at a time, bits and pieces of how you used to fish together, and the time he taught you to bake pizza. And then there was the championship football game when you threw the winning touchdown and waved to him in the stands.” She sniffed, swiped a hand across her face. “He talked about the trays of rigatoni and meatballs you brought to the Rossellis when their father had back surgery. He said the meal was all your idea, and oh, that made him smile.”
“Mom.” It would take a lot more than a plate of rigatoni and meatballs to melt the issues between them. Didn’t she see that? Her next words told him she didn’t, not at all.
“He’s been saying your name a lot. ‘Roman figured out the problem with the old Chrysler,’ or ‘Roman could always tell when a frost was coming.’ And sometimes, his voice would turn rough and he’d say, ‘You know, Lorraine, our son, he can figure out anything.’” Her voice cracked, pierced his heart. “You can’t give up on him now. He needs you here. I need you here.”
How could a son refuse those words? Add the grief-stricken look on a mother’s face and a handful of tears, and no good son could turn away. The old man might be weak right now, but he wasn’t going to change or apologize, no matter how much his wife willed it to happen. So, Roman would stay an extra few days, two weeks tops, and then he was heading back to Chicago and the shell he called his life. “Don’t cry, Mom.” He planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’ll stay.” He’d give his father two days before the old man tried to kick him out.
His mother smiled through her tears, touched his face. “I think I’ll run to the store now. You take your time out here, but don’t work too hard.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, made her way to the back porch, turning before she opened the door. “It doesn’t have to get finished in a day. There’s always tomorrow, or next week.” The smile spread, threatened to burst open. “Welcome home, Roman,” she said, seconds before she disappeared inside.
Home? Where was that? Or rather, what was that? A place? An emotion? A person? Hell if he knew. He might have a four-thousand-square-foot home in Chicago, with more artwork than a gallery, and he might hold lavish celebrations that boasted celebrities and who’s who, but that didn’t make it a home. He’d even added a wife—now an ex-wife—but still, it wasn’t a home. Maybe a child or two would have done it, made the place mean something, made the relationship with his wife mean more than the next “big” whatever: house, trip, car. Fill in the blank. But it wasn’t enough to keep Jess happy, and even if she hadn’t changed her mind about having kids, a change of heart that didn’t occur until after he put the ring on her finger, she wasn’t suited to parenthood. There was no room for ego and self-importance once a kid came along, and maybe that was one of the reasons his mother had been so against the wedding in the first place.
She’d known it wouldn’t last, and she’d been right. Three years of marriage wasn’t a lifetime, but damn close when you realized your mistake at the six-month mark. Then you were stuck, so you tried to pretend around the truth with lavish gifts, trips, parties, though none would be enough, not when the foundation wasn’t there. It had taken his mother one visit to realize Roman’s future wife wasn’t a foundation builder or a baby maker.
His friends told him his ex-wife had set her sights on an investment banker, Princeton educated, old money. Lots of it. They said there’d be a wedding before spring. Interesting that she was ready to jump back into the wedding ring when he’d rather get neutered than say “I do” again. At least for now, maybe for good. Relationships, especially bad ones, left scars, some so deep they pinched when a person took a deep breath. His and Jess’s relationship had been a bad one, based on lust, loneliness, and the need for excitement. Why not? He’d tried the full-out, head-over-heels in love routine when he was eighteen and what had it gotten him? Nothing but a hurt so deep he vowed to never love that much again.
And he hadn’t.
Chapter 2
Angie Sorrento studied the crown molding in the dining room of the Heart Sent as Mimi Pendergrass, proprietor and mayor of Magdalena, New York, told her about the town and its residents.
“You’ve already met Miriam Desantro,” Mimi said, her voice a conspiratorial blend of humor and information. “Kind soul, good-natured, patie
nt, so talented. Bakes the best banana nut bread you ever tasted, and I’ve tasted a few in my time.” Her husky laugh filled the room. “From the looks of you, I’d say you haven’t. We’ll fix that soon enough. Between me and Miriam, we’ll help you fill out that shirt and give you a nice little back end, too.”
“Uh…” Angie turned and spotted the mischief in Mimi’s blue gaze. Was she joking or serious?
Mimi Pendergrass tsk-tsked. “Are you one of those girls who doesn’t eat, and if she does counts every speck of food, even the parsley?”
“No. I’m one of those girls who eats everything, even the parsley they use as a garnish.” Angie grinned, shrugged. “Fast metabolism and genes, I guess.” Her father said the Sorrentos could eat two bowls of pasta with meatballs three times a week and never gain a pound. Now that was a gene worth keeping.
“I used to be as skinny as you, could eat whatever and however much I wanted.” Mimi’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, but it was pure pleasure. Then I had my first baby, and by the second, I couldn’t eat a carrot stick without putting on five pounds.” Another shake of her salt-and-pepper head. “Just you wait. You’ll see.”
Angie looked away, pretended great interest in the lace tablecloth covering the dining room table. At thirty-two, her chances of a baby were dwindling with each month that brought her closer to forty. And a husband? Good Lord, that was not going to happen, not when the only man she’d ever loved ditched her three days before the wedding. The untrustworthy, lying jerk. She didn’t need a man, didn’t want one so she could go all goo-goo-eyed and heartbroken when he didn’t call or when he didn’t do what he promised—like show up for his own wedding. Yeah, she was so done with men and relationships. But there was the matter of a child. She might like to have a kid, a girl, but not the man. Just his sperm.