by Mary Campisi
Angie shook her head, black curls bouncing her answer before she put sound to it. “No.”
“Ah.” Mimi Pendergrass tilted her head to one side, tapped a finger against her chin, the silver ball earrings she wore swaying with the movement. “There’s heartache in that word, I hear it. You’re not the first and, sad to say, you won’t be the last.” Those blue eyes glittered. “We’ve all known our share of sadness, but this town is special because we help each other get through tough times.” A smile inched across her lips. “I could start with myself and work my way up and down the streets until you knew all about the residents of Magdalena and how they survived. I won’t say it’s easy and I sure as heck won’t say any of us enjoyed the suffering, but we didn’t do it alone.”
Did this woman think Angie needed help? Needed a town full of strangers to listen to the pathetic story of the man who left her three days before their wedding? As if she would admit that! “Thanks for the story, but I’m fine. The only reason I’m here is to build a few miniature houses for some rich person in New York City who’s developed a sudden obsession with small towns.” The letter and subsequent phone call requested that Dream Houses by Kate replicate four structures in Magdalena, two requiring completion while in the town, the other two four months later. The individual had selected the structures: two houses, a bed and breakfast, and a grocery store. It was the oddest request she’d ever had, but the amount of money involved proved mind-blowing. And since Kate had gone and gotten married to that pain in the ass, Rourke Flannigan, and moved to Chicago, that left Angie to handle the majority of the business. Oh, her best friend promised to figure out a way to make the long-distance partnership work, but how was that really going to happen? Before too long, Kate would end up pregnant with Rourke Flannigan’s child, again, but this time he’d know about it. The jerk would dote on his wife, probably get morning sickness right along with her, buy her a diamond the size of Rhode Island, not that Kate would care about jewelry. She had the guy’s heart, and no doubt he’d tell her that no less than twelve times a day.
Angie was happy for them; she just couldn’t relate to the I-need-you-to-breathe kind of a relationship unless it had to do with an animal, like the Labrador mix, Oliver, she’d lost two years ago. Dogs would never betray you, and that was one more reason she’d decided to get a dog instead of a husband.
“Angie? I’m sorry, you don’t know me from the mailman, and it’s not my place to inquire.”
You got that right. Angie pasted a smile on her face and said, “No big deal.” Except it was a big deal.
Mimi Pendergrass nodded and motioned toward the kitchen. “How about I fix you a glass of hibiscus tea and you try out the oatmeal raisin cookies I made yesterday? Best get first pick of the cookies before my pal, Ben Reed, stops by to eat them up.” She worked her way to the kitchen, removed two glasses from the cupboard, and said in a soft voice, “That boy sure does love his sweets, but he loves his wife more, refuses to bring anything heaped with sugar into the house. No pies, no cakes, no cookies.” She paused, glanced at Angie. “Not even a vanilla wafer.”
“Why?” Was the woman allergic to sugar? That would be a true shame. Angie thought of the milk chocolate nut bar she had stashed in the top drawer of the dresser upstairs. The perfect post-midnight snack.
“Like I said, he loves his wife more. Gina’s had a lifelong battle with food, and she’s finally got it under control. Ben was a big part of that, but it doesn’t mean he can bring home a tray of cookies, or a cheesecake, or even a box of sugared cereal. She can’t stop at two cookies or one slice of cake.” She shook her head, sighed. “That family of hers is responsible for a lot of it, but they’ll never see it that way. No matter, that’s why Ben stops by a few times a week and loads up on his sugar fill.” She grinned, set a tray of cookies on the kitchen table. “And that’s why I keep the goodies fresh and ready. Sure don’t want to disappoint that boy, not with the baby coming.”
“Baby, huh?” Great. Another happy couple. Was the whole town bursting with men and women professing undying love to each other? Angie didn’t want to hear about Ben who loved his sweets but loved his wife more, and the baby that would be here soon, the one they’d protect until they drew their last breath. But what if their last breath happened before the kid could remember what they looked like? That’s what had happened to Angie, and maybe that’s why she didn’t get the whole maternal bond thing.
“Oh, indeed.” Mimi handed Angie her hibiscus tea and motioned for her to take a seat. “We’re all so excited about this baby, and nobody knows the sex, not even Ben and Gina. How many things in life are still surprises? Not many, I’ll tell you that. Ben and Gina didn’t care about painting the room the right color and getting blue outfits instead of pink ones. Who says a girl can’t wear blue? It’s one of my favorite colors; bet I wear blue four days out of the week.”
Angie couldn’t resist. “What about pink for a boy? Think that’s an issue?”
Mimi Pendergrass shook her head so hard her earrings whacked her neck. “Absolutely not. A few months ago, we had a wedding here and every single male who attended wore a pink shirt.” She held out a hand and began ticking off names on her fingers. “Michael Androvich, Nate Desantro, Ben Reed, Daniel Casherdon. Honey, these men will make you forget to breathe, but they wore pink for their women.” Her brows pinched, her voice turned hard. “Brody Kinkaid wore pink, too, but you won’t meet him.” Those blue eyes shifted to silver. “Unless you visit the cemetery.”
Angie was curious about the men in pink because it did take a guy with a lot of confidence and guts to wear a color that might be considered feminine. Just her opinion, but Frank Sorrento had raised her to believe men did not wear “soft” colors, and they never wore pink. But what she really wanted to know about was the one at the cemetery. “What happened to the guy?”
Mimi opened her mouth and spit out, “Heart attack.”
“How old?” Something told her he wasn’t a senior citizen.
“Young. Thirty-two.” And then, “He hurt a lot of people, especially his wife. Poor Bree. She did not deserve that.” Her gaze settled on the glass of hibiscus tea. “It’s going to be a long while before she trusts a man again.”
What to say to that? Yup. Most men are untrustworthy jerks? Mimi’s tone implied betrayal, like a cheating husband. Damn men to hell, could they not keep it in their pants? Angie bet the woman had kids, too. “Does this woman have children?”
“Bree’s got three girls. Darling, but a handful.”
“Sounds like a mess.” At least there was one person in town who knew happily-ever-after was more fairy tale than fact. Angie should be used to the whole illusion by now because the people who bought into it were the ones who contacted Dream Houses by Kate to expand the illusion with a miniature house, exactly like their own. Kate was the one who fell head over heels with the stories and the feelings tied to them, while Angie focused on the plans and the mechanics. That was her comfort zone: no gush of emotions, just blueprints and objects you could actually touch.
“Relationships are messy, even the best ones. My husband and I loved each other, but we sure did have some battles.” She tsk-tsked, let out a laugh. “He almost divorced me but that was because I’d booted him out of the house.” Mimi leaned toward Angie, lowered her voice as though there were other people in the room and said, “He was afraid of commitment, even though he’d put this ring on my finger.” She held out her left hand and showed Angie the plain gold band on her ring finger. “The dang man up and disappeared for days, then tried to waltz back in as though he’d done nothing more than gone to town for the newspaper. I kicked him out, and no matter how many bouquets of roses he sent, or boxes of cherry cordials, didn’t matter. He finally had enough and sent the divorce papers.” The next words slipped out, coated in pain. “I almost lost him, but those papers woke me right up. We never spent another night apart, not until the day he closed his eyes for good.”
“I’m sorry.” An
gie stuffed half an oatmeal cookie in her mouth because she didn’t know what else to say. There was nothing else to say, not anything that would matter. Pain was pain, and loss was loss, bone-deep, piled in a hurt that never went away. And this was why she didn’t want anybody nosing around in her business, even if she claimed to bake a killer apple pie and had a kind smile. That was the trouble with people; they wanted to get to know you, have you sit down while they poured you a glass of tea and then expected you to spill your guts, starting with why you didn’t have a mother and ending with why you didn’t have a husband. Bull. Private was private and if Angie wanted anybody to know, she’d tell them without the invitation to sit or have tea. But this wasn’t Montpelier, New York, where everyone knew better than to get too close or ask too many questions, and Kate wasn’t here to keep the curious away. It was all on Angie, and she had to work on her mouth and her people skills because she needed this deal. For her father. So he could finally enjoy life: a new knee, a trip to the mountains, storm windows and siding on the house, maybe an updated living room set and the new truck he’d been eyeing. If she had to engage in the occasional touchy-feely chatter, she’d do it—for her father—the one man who’d never let her down.
***
“She builds dollhouses?”
“Not dollhouses exactly. They’re miniatures of people’s homes.” Miriam might as well have told her son Angie Sorrento built paper airplanes. Her son didn’t believe in professions that provided no practical application and he certainly wouldn’t think replicating someone’s home in small scale was practical.
Nate blew out a sigh, shook his head, and muttered, “Dollhouses,” and turned back to the task of installing a new belt in Miriam’s washing machine.
“They’re very intricate,” Miriam said, staring at her son’s back, glad he couldn’t see her face. “She showed me photos of her work; one of the houses even had a heart-shaped tub in it.” She clasped her hands, pushed on. “Imagine that?”
“Yeah,” Nate said, his voice flat. “Imagine that.”
“She’s replicating a few houses in Magdalena as well as the Heart Sent and Sal’s Market.” And your house is on her list. Candace had been very specific about which houses she wanted Angie Sorrento to replicate.
“Huh.” That was his only response, which wasn’t a response at all. Just when she thought he wasn’t going to comment, he did. “I don’t know why anybody would agree to that. Sounds like an intrusion and a damn inconvenience.”
This was exactly what she’d expected her son to say, and she didn’t have a lot of time to change his mind. “I don’t think so.” Miriam stared at the back of his head. Nathan had come a long way since Christine walked into his life. He’d softened his attitude, grown more patient, and on occasion, even shown immense compassion. But he would not let his privacy or that of his family’s be breached. Miriam understood this better than anyone, and now she would be the one to breach that privacy. She focused on the dark curls at the back of her son’s strong neck and sipped in air.
Why could there not be another way? Why had she not told Nathan years ago about her family history, about his real grandparents? Her husband had forbidden her to speak of them or attempt to make contact. They’re dead to you, he’d said, his dark eyes black with rage and disdain. They think I’m not worthy to eat at the same table with them, let alone marry their daughter? His laugh had been harsh and cruel. “We’ll see what they think when we refuse to let them see their grandchildren. They’ll be the ones crying then.”
But God hadn’t given them the five children Nick Desantro wanted. He’d given them one son, a daughter who died hours after her birth, and several miscarriages, making Miriam wonder if her husband’s black heart had been the reason. Logic said it made no sense, but a woman who carries a baby in her belly, who plans and dreams about its future only to lose it in a rush of cramps and blood, does not subscribe to logic. Not when the pain is too deep. After Nate was born, she’d defied her husband’s command and tried to contact her parents, certain they would want to know about their beautiful grandson.
But they didn’t. They wouldn’t even take the call. The maid informed her they weren’t in, but they hadn’t been in the next night or the next week. Months later, two days before Nate’s first birthday, she tried again. This time Candace came on the line, her voice a mix of hatred and disdain as she proclaimed no knowledge of anyone named Desantro. When Nate’s father died, the timing hadn’t been right to tell her son the truth about her family, and each year after, the need to tell him faded. When Charlie Blacksworth came into her life, Nate was an angry, tormented man who wanted nothing to do with wealth or wealthy people.
And now here they were, trapped in a lie, the truth closing in on Miriam, threatening to expose a family and an identity she’d hidden for almost forty years. She had to get Nate to agree to her sister’s demand that Angie Sorrento create his log cabin home in miniature. Who knew what the woman would do if Miriam were unsuccessful? She’d been adamant about her friend’s daughter working with very specific clients, ones Candace had chosen—for what purposes, Miriam could only wonder. These past several weeks had been a series of sleepless nights spent on that blasted computer, staring at the blinking cursor, awaiting instructions as though her very breath depended on it—which it did. Candace Prescott had the power to choke the life out of Miriam’s comfortable existence, destroy her relationships, kill her son’s belief in his mother.
She couldn’t let that happen. And Lily, what would she say if she knew her mother had lied about who she was, where she came from, where she belonged? How would she ever explain such a thing to Lily?
The key was Angie Sorrento, the young woman sent to Magdalena to replicate specific structures in their town. Only, the houses chosen weren’t random, not at all. Miriam bet they’d been selected for a reason, even if she didn’t understand what that was. But when she met Angie Sorrento, the young woman didn’t seem any more aware of the “plan” than Miriam did, and that meant Candace had her own agenda, one she hadn’t shared.
“Ma? Hey, what’s wrong? You look like you’re about to keel over.” Her son stared down at her, his expression fierce, his mouth set. “Did you forget to eat again?” He shook his dark head before she could answer, said in a tone that sounded more parent than child, “You know I don’t like when you do that. It’s been too much these past few weeks.” Nate laid a big hand on her shoulder, gentled his voice. “Maybe you’re doing too much. I know you love the garden and canning and all, but it’s not worth your health.”
Oh, Nathan, if it were only as simple as canning bushels of tomatoes and red peppers. Those were the joys in life, tasks that brought peace to her existence and provided the ingredients to savory dishes her family and friends enjoyed. “I love working in the garden,” she said, trying to push aside her son’s fears. “And canning is tradition, you know that.” Miriam cast him a look she hoped appeared convincing when she added, “You tell Lily we can’t can anymore. See what she has to say about that.”
“Okay, okay.” He smiled at her, his deep voice turning rough, tender. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”
“There’s no need to worry about me, I’m fine.” When she looked into her son’s eyes, she could almost believe her own words, but the truth jabbed her heart, threatened to rip it open. Do what Candace wants, her conscience told her. Or else. She drew in a breath and let the next words spill out in a rush before she yanked them back. “Angie needs a place to work on her houses and I told her she could use your shop.” Pause. “And a few of your tools.”
Those dark eyes turned black, the brackets around his mouth deep. “Why would you tell her that?” And then, “Nobody uses another man’s tools.”
“Cash uses yours every day, doesn’t he?”
Nate sighed, ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “That’s different. We work together, and he knows what he’s doing.”
Miriam studied her son, waited for him to make the comment she knew w
as in his thoughts. When he didn’t, she said, “So does Angie. She’s skilled on a table saw, band saw, and drill press. That’s talent.” The scowl said he didn’t agree. “But she’s a woman, so you doubt her skills, right?”
“Of course not.” The blush said that wasn’t exactly true. “The woman’s a stranger, Ma. I don’t let strangers touch my stuff.”
“You are such an old fuddy-duddy. Angela Sorrento’s presence is a big opportunity for Magdalena. Her skill has caught the eye of a wealthy benefactor, and these replications will promote small-town life all across the country.”
“You mean nosy tourists will invade the town looking for their own slice of heaven and then call us hillbillies when they can’t find a restaurant chain or solid cell phone service.” He shook his head, those dark eyes full of questions. “Why would you think putting us all on display like mannequins in a window is a good idea?”
Because I have no choice. It’s the only way I can keep my secret safe. Miriam laid a hand on her son’s forearm, willed him to accept what she was about to say, even though she didn’t believe it herself, not anymore. “People might not understand small-town living, but that doesn’t mean they can’t appreciate it or respect it.”
“Yeah, right.” He shot her a look that said she was miles off base. “You really think some rich eccentric cares about us? Ma, think again. It’s all about leverage and money. You’ll see.”
“Why would you say that?” How could he know that’s exactly what this was about? Candace was blackmailing her to pave the way for a friend’s illegitimate daughter to create miniature houses in Magdalena, but what was the real reason behind this project? Why did it matter so much to her? And why had Candace selected these particular places? Miriam forced a smile and said in a quiet voice, “Everything is not always about money and power, Nathan.”
He raised a brow. “Is this where you pull the mother card and ask me to let this Sorrento woman work in my shop and have full access to my equipment?”