A Family Affair: The Secret; Truth in Lies, Book 8

by Mary Campisi

  Nate shook his head and muttered, “Wait until I see Cash tomorrow. I’ve got a thing or two to say to him.”

  “About the secret weapons?” Lily asked, eyes wide. “Don’t get mad at him. He’s my friend.” Her voice softened, dipped, and turned gooey. “And he’s so handsome.”

  A big sigh from Nate. “Really, Lily? You think he’s handsome?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Miriam watched as the smile spread, the eyes grew bright, and Lily had the same look as every other female who talked about Daniel Casherdon. The boy had a look about him that said, Come closer, but that look was reserved for his wife. Thank goodness, or the town would be in a real battle over him. “Well, if you think he’s handsome, wait until you meet Roman Ventori.” Miriam glanced at her son, asked, “Did you hear he was back in town?”

  “Yeah, I did.” He turned to Christine and said, “That guy got a raw deal, blamed for something he didn’t do, and was basically driven out of town. I’m surprised he came back.”

  “His father had a heart attack,” Miriam said. “What would you expect him to do?”

  “His old man stood right along with the rest of them when they accused Roman, remember? There weren’t many of us who believed his story.” He leaned back in his chair, sighed. “That kid got screwed.”

  “Nate!” Lily glared at him. “Bad word.”

  “Sorry. That kid got a bad deal.”

  “I don’t think he’s a kid anymore. I ran into him the other day at Sal’s and I’d say he’ll give Cash a bit of competition in the looks department.” Oh, yes, Roman Ventori was one handsome young man, with a smile and charm to go with the designer clothes.

  “Really?” Christine piped in, sliding a glance at her husband. “Better-looking than Cash?” The scowl Nate gave her said she’d better not be looking at anybody but her husband.

  “How about you find out for yourself? I hear he’s helping out at Sal’s.” Miriam paused, winked at her daughter-in-law, and said, “I’d tell you how to find him, but you won’t miss Roman. Once you see him, you’ll know what I mean.”

  Nate let out a sound that could be a snort or a snarl. “Am I not sitting right here, next to my wife, and my own mother is talking about the new handsome hunk in town. Really, Ma? I don’t know what to say about that.”

  Miriam hid a smile, pushed back her chair, and stood. “I’d say you have nothing to worry about, dear. Christine isn’t interested in a handsome hunk or a man with charm and designer clothes.” The smile slipped out, spread. “She’s only interested in you.”

  She left him at the kitchen table, open-mouthed and staring. It wasn’t often she could best her son in fun, but tonight she’d done it. It felt good to joke and gave her a reprieve from the heavy heart of worry and dread she’d carried since Candace appeared at her door. For all of his gruffness, there could never be a better son than Nathan, or a kinder, more honest soul, though he didn’t let many see that side of him. But it was there, beating beneath the rough exterior. Christine had seen it, had fallen in love with that man, and Miriam would do whatever was necessary to keep her son from learning the secret of her past.

  ***

  Did Pop know how lucky he was to have a grandbaby? Not that Sal wanted one living in the same house with him—sleeping, crying, and doing her business—but they smelled so darn good after a bath, and their skin? Soft as the insides of fresh-baked bread. Sal liked to hold Teresina Benito after she’d eaten, her breath fanning his hand, her body warm and cozy as thermal underwear. This was what being a grandfather was all about, and this was what he wanted.

  Sal stroked the baby’s back, traced the faint curls at the back of her neck, pictured Roman and Angela Sorrento’s baby, dark-haired, dark-eyed, feisty. “She’s a beauty, Pop. A real beauty.”

  “Yup, she sure is.” Pop grinned, his eyes taking on a special glow like he’d had one too many glasses of Sal’s homemade wine. “Guess in the end it don’t matter how these angels get here, or who their kin was or wasn’t.”

  He was talking about his granddaughter and her unwed state. The girl was in for a rough road ahead on her own, but maybe she wouldn’t be on her own for long if that Dean boy stepped in and took on the father role. The boy was a young one, but anybody could tell he was smitten with Lucy Benito, maybe had his eye on marriage. Not right away, but in a while. Pop’s eagle-eye glare said he wasn’t too thrilled with the idea, but maybe he’d warm up to it. Eventually. Just like Roman and Angela would warm up to being a couple and then a family and then parents. They needed a little help, that’s all, and Pop and Sal would be the helpers. He kissed the top of Teresina’s head, whispered a prayer for her safekeeping.

  “You want one of those, don’t you?” Pop pointed to his great-granddaughter.

  “I sure do and the more I hold her, the more I want one.” An ache started in his chest, spread like a hot pepper burning his insides. “And I’m gonna get one. Roman’s had enough time to give Lorraine and me grandbabies. It’s not our fault he chose one of those designer types who don’t want to give up their figure or their vacations for a baby. I don’t want to close my eyes thinking the Ventori bloodline is done.”

  Pop tapped a finger against his chin, slid a glance at the portrait of his wife hanging over the mantel. People used to say he’d gone loony when they heard he talked to his dead wife, but when you saw the way he did it, how his voice got all soft and his eyes turned bright, almost like he was saying prayers at Mass, then you understood the man wasn’t headed to the loony bin. His heart ached for the woman who’d been his partner more than half his life, had birthed his son, cooked his meals, slept next to him, fought with him. A person didn’t just move on like it never happened. Lucy Benito’s body might be gone, but she lived in Angelo Benito’s heart, his soul, his brain, and Sal knew when his friend talked to his wife, she heard him and he heard her. That’s how it was, how it was supposed to be when you lost a soulmate and too bad if seeing it made a person look away. Too dang bad. Life wasn’t always nice and neat and clean. It was messy and filled with dirt, like bunches of fresh-picked lettuce. But if you didn’t give up, if you took your time and cleaned them up, well, there was nothing tastier. If he lost Lorraine tomorrow, he’d get that photo of her smiling in the backyard blown up as large as he could without having it go blurry on him. Then he’d hang it in the living room and see if he cared when people started calling him loony after they heard he was talking to his dead wife. See if he cared.

  “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.

  Chapter 7

  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.