by Mary Campisi
It was Miriam’s turn to raise a brow. “Actually, I hadn’t planned on using any ‘cards’ unless they were necessary.” Pause. “Are they necessary?”
Big sigh. Bigger scowl. And then, “Fine. Tell her to come by tomorrow and I’ll show her around. She’s going to have to work her projects around my schedule and Cash’s, okay? Tell her that.”
“Thank you, Nathan.” Miriam offered her son the first real smile since Candace Prescott knocked on her door several weeks ago. “You won’t regret it.”
***
Angie followed Mimi Pendergrass’s directions and drove her Jeep to the outskirts of town until she spotted a sign that read Blue Moon. Winding country roads, miles of trees, and a sky so blue you wanted to paint it. Her father had talked about moving out of Montpelier one day to a quiet place with a stretch of land and a view you could enjoy in your underwear without worrying about the neighbors getting an eyeful. He’d collected brochures on places in Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia, even New York State, said he wanted to visit one a year and see what he thought. But the time never came, or maybe it was the money needed to visit those places that never came. A few years ago, she’d offered to help, but Frank Sorrento had refused the offer and shut down the conversation.
Why did he have to be so stubborn? She wanted him to enjoy a little slice of happiness and there should be enough money left from his knee surgery to take that trip. Maybe two. People should be allowed to daydream even if none of those dreams ever came true. So what? The real joy was imagining them, turning them around so you could see what they’d look like, talking about them, sharing how life would be perfect, even if you knew deep down none of that would ever happen. She had daydreams, lots of them, and just because they were never going to come true did not mean she wasn’t allowed to have them.
She pulled off the country road and turned onto the gravel driveway that led to a clearing and the log cabin she planned to replicate. Off to the left she spotted a large barnlike structure that she guessed was the workshop Miriam Desantro had mentioned. What a kind and generous woman, and the son must be decent, too, because Angie didn’t know many men who would share their workshop, and certainly not their tools. Actually, she didn’t know any man who would do it. This was the first project she’d not built in her own workshop. It was also the first time she’d gone solo, without Kate. The part about being without Kate left her stomach jumpy, but what choice did she have? It’s not like Rourke Flannigan would agree to let his wife traipse off to no-man’s land, especially when he’d waited years to be with her. Okay, so maybe she couldn’t expect Kate to join her, what with a new husband and new home in Chicago, but it didn’t mean Angie liked it. She hated the thought of going it alone; she didn’t have her friend’s knack for conversation, intuition, or compassion. Damn Rourke Flannigan for stealing her best friend and making Angie’s life triple difficult.
She pulled up to the log cabin, shut off the Jeep, and jumped out. Miriam said her son’s business partner lived here with his wife and their, dog, Henry. Funny, how she threw in the dog’s name, like he was their kid. Maybe he was their kid.
Stranger things had happened.
Angie made her way to the front porch, took in the matching rocking chairs and hanging baskets of petunias, the Welcome sign painted next to the front door. Daniel and Tess Casherdon. Great, more couples, probably even planning a family. Maybe she was already pregnant. A twinge grabbed her gut, shot to her chest, and swirled back down. A person did not need a mate to feel complete. A person could be happy all by herself, or if she couldn’t find absolute happiness, then dang it all, she could get a dog. Looks like this couple had every angle covered.
“May I help you?”
Angie swung around, faced the tall, slender woman. Tess Casherdon was model beautiful, with pale blond hair and golden skin, her eyes green, her smile hesitant, like a butterfly dipping from flower to flower but never landing. Angie thrust out a hand and said, “Angie Sorrento. Miriam Desantro sent me.”
“Ah.” The woman shook her hand, her gaze curious. “You’re the artist who’s going to replicate our home.”
Artist? That was a big no, but if the woman wanted to call her Van Gogh or Renoir, who was Angie to argue with that? “Sure. That’s me. Miriam said I could share her son’s workshop. I would have called first, but she said he doesn’t answer his phone when he’s working and it was best to try and catch him up here.”
“Miriam said that, huh?”
Angie nodded. “Is he here? I wanted to talk to him about where he gets his wood and how the place is set up for painting and staining.”
A smile played about the woman’s full lips, spread until it pulled dimples from her cheeks. “Nate’s not here right now, but my husband should be back soon.” She paused, added, “He and Nate are partners, but I think you should wait for Nate to give you the grand tour of the workshop. If you like, you can come inside and when Cash gets here, he’ll show you around our house. That way, the trip won’t be a total waste of your time.”
“Thank you.” Angie followed her into the entrance of the log cabin. “So can I meet the baby?”
The woman’s smile faltered, slipped a second, before she tugged it back into place. “Baby?”
“Henry, your dog.”
“Oh. Of course.” She cleared her throat and tried to recover. “Henry’s our dog, but the way we spoil him, you’d think he was our firstborn.”
There was pain in those words, sharp, deep, gnawing—and none of her business. She was in this town to do a job, not get all chummy with the residents and dig into their lives and the secrets that kept them awake at night. Not. Her. Business. Kate had always been better about the touchy-feely aspects of the customers. Why they used Great-Grandma Mabel’s linen tablecloth at Thanksgiving, how they kept the radio in the kitchen even though it stopped working a year ago. And why poor old Bailey’s dog collar had a permanent spot on the bedpost despite his passing six years ago. Too many stories to be told without tearing up and that was why Angie avoided those kinds of conversations and stayed with the estimates, the design, and the details. Emotional connections were not her specialty. But Kate was living in Chicago with Mr. Handsome and that left Angie on her own. Dang it all. She cleared her throat and thought about what Kate would say. “The dogs we add to our houses are like kids.” A laugh, a smile, and then, “Some have their own rooms, monogrammed sweaters, blankets, too. Can you imagine?”
That made Tess Casherdon laugh. “Henry’s got two beds, and one’s orthopedic, but they’re not monogrammed.”
“Ah. Well, that sounds rather neglectful, don’t you think?”
The woman lowered her voice, said, “I’d do it in a heartbeat, but my husband wouldn’t be impressed. Or happy. You know, I almost bought Henry a yellow rain slicker for rainy days, but Cash said no dog of his was going to parade around in a yellow raincoat.” The smile crept back. “But it was so darn cute.”
“I’ll bet.” Angie had never owned a dog growing up because her father said they were too much responsibility, too time-consuming, too expensive. Too everything. But what he really meant was that they just didn’t live long enough; they died too soon, like her mother. When Angie turned twenty-one, she brought home Oliver from the pound, a scrawny, skittish Labrador mix who ate with her, slept with her, went to work with her. And then he died. She pushed the sadness away and said, “You should see the dogs we put in our clients’ houses. They get more attention than the kids do.”
“Really?”
“You have no idea.”
And thus began the unintentional friendship between Tess Casherdon and Angie Sorrento. They shared iced tea and the chocolate chip cookies that Tess confessed her husband baked. Talk of food and cooking, Angie’s knack for it and Tess’s struggle with it, came next. When the subject of family came up, Tess’s voice gentled. “My husband’s parents left when he was just a boy.” Her next words spilled out in a blend of pain and compassion. “Do you know what that does
to a child? How it eats at him, makes him feel worthless and unlovable?”
No, Angie couldn’t imagine that level of betrayal. Her father loved her, and if her mother were still alive, she’d be right by his side, loving their daughter. “That’s rough.”
Tess swiped a hand across her cheek. “If his aunt hadn’t been there for him, he would have done a lot worse than turned into a hoodlum.”
“Your husband, the former policeman, was a hoodlum?”
“Yes.” A faint smile crept over her lips. “Hard to picture, isn’t it? The first time I saw Cash, he was in the backseat of a police car. My uncle warned me away from him, but I didn’t listen. Cash was mesmerizing: the eyes, the voice. I’d never met anyone like him.” She laughed. “When my uncle found out we were sneaking around, he told Cash to cut his hair, clean up, and come to the front door to pick me up. That meant ‘meet the parents,’ and for a rebellious guy like Daniel Casherdon, that was a huge jump. But he did it.”
“Guess some people are meant to be together.” Angie bet this guy wouldn’t skip out on his future wife.
Tess shook her head, her voice dipping. “It wasn’t that easy, even though we thought it would be. Tragedy has a way of separating people, no matter how much they love each other. It happened days before the wedding, and we spent the next eight years hating each other.” She paused, looked away long enough for Angie to think about her ex-fiancé and the pain he’d caused her. “But we got our second chance. Now all we need is a baby and life will be perfect.”
Angie slid a glance to Tess’s concave stomach. No baby in there. Maybe they hadn’t started trying yet. Maybe they were still in the “talking about it” phase. “Well, good luck to you.” What else could she say? She had no idea about babies other than Kate’s daughter, Julia, and even then she hadn’t been required to change diapers or rock the kid to sleep. Still, she might want one before her biological clock stopped ticking; her father said children provided legacy and proof we’d walked on this earth.
“We’re going to need a lot more than luck.”
There was more to that statement, but Daniel Casherdon came in with Henry before she could ask. He wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders, gave her a peck on the temple, and turned to Angie. “You must be Angie Sorrento. And this big boy—” he pointed to the lanky, black dog next to him “—is Henry. So, I hear we won the lottery and you’re going to create a miniature of our home.”
“You heard right.” But how had he heard? Small towns were notorious for spreading tales, but she’d been darn quiet, stealthy almost. Had Miriam said something? Or Mimi? They didn’t seem the type to gossip…
“Ready for the tour?” Cash snagged her thoughts and said, “I’ll give you a rundown on the wood, the different stains, and the paint colors. Tess’s uncle built this place and he’s got everything written down.” He glanced at his wife, his voice turning rough like he’d just downed a shot of whisky. “Will Carrick was the only one who knew I’d be back one day. I must have disappointed the hell out of him, but he never gave up on me.” When Tess smiled up at him, he squeezed her shoulder and said, “Let’s show Angie our home.”
The log cabin was a blend of new and old, spacious and welcoming with vaulted ceilings in the foyer and skylights in the master bedroom. When she reached the small bedroom next to the master, painted in the palest cream with white curtains and a white ceiling fan, she bet they’d chosen this as the nursery. But the sadness on Tess’s face and the protectiveness in Cash’s voice when he led Angie through the room told her something wasn’t right. They’d either lost a baby or couldn’t have one. Why was it always that way? People who didn’t want kids got pregnant, while the ones who would welcome a child were denied. Where was the fairness in that? Maybe adoption would be next. Or maybe not. Angie pushed these people’s problems aside; it wasn’t her business. She’d never been a busybody, and she was not about to become one now, especially when it had to do with a child and a couple who may or may not be able to have one.
“So, what other homes are you replicating?” Cash headed down the steps, clutching his wife’s hand. “There’s a guy in town who’s built a monster house with a sauna, a juice bar, and a full gym in the basement. He’s got a pool, too. You’ve got to see that one. Name’s Harry Blacksworth. Good guy.”
“He’s not on the list,” Angie said, following them to the living room. “There’s your house, the Heart Sent, Sal’s Market, and Nate and Christine Desantro—”
“Nate?” Cash let out a laugh, closer to a howl. “How’d you do it?”
“Do what?” She had no idea what was so funny.
Another laugh, a very loud one that rimmed his eyes with tears. “How did you get Nate to agree to let you in his house to take pictures? You went through Christine, didn’t you? That’s his weak spot. Damn, but I would have bet a hundred bucks Nate would have turned you down flat when you asked him.”
“Maybe he really is getting mellow,” Tess offered, sliding a smile at her husband. “All it takes is the right woman and he’s found her.”
Cash grinned, lowered his voice. “He’s not the only one.”
Angie struggled not to look away. It was one thing to hear about couples who loved each other, but she was not interested in witnessing it. She cleared her throat and said, “Actually, I haven’t asked him yet. I haven’t even met him.” Pause. “His mother said I should come here and meet him, seeing as we’re going to share his workshop.”
“Are you now?” Cash’s whisky-colored eyes sparkled. “Does Nate know?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. Why?”
The man cleared his throat and Angie swore he’d just hidden a big grin. “No reason. Just curious.”
This was about more than curiosity. “Is he antisocial or something?” The man should be honored he’d been chosen to have his house replicated by some New York City eccentric.
“Antisocial?” Cash looked at his wife, who shook her head and stifled a laugh. “I’ll let you decide when you meet him.”
Angie shrugged and tossed out a smile. “I’ve been called antisocial once in a while. It’s clearly an overused word.”
Cash raised a brow. “Not in this case.”
“Bet I can convince him.”
“Ah,” Cash said, “so you’ll go through his wife.”
“Not my style. I like to take the challenge head-on.” Miriam’s son would come around once he saw her work, and besides, what man didn’t love the ego trip of having his home featured? Angie spent the afternoon snapping photos, taking notes, and gathering snippets of information about the residents of Magdalena. They didn’t seem much different from the ones in Montpelier or any other small town. This one had its share of eccentrics, like the man who bartered pizzelles, and the one who invited half the town to swim in his pool. Still, people were people and a job was a job, even one with a gigantic payoff like this one. The faster she got in and out, the sooner she’d get paid, and that would land Frank Sorrento his new knee, and if they were both lucky, a little extra for a trip to the country.
Chapter 3
Lorraine Ventori guarded her husband like a mama bear tending her cub. Pop couldn’t blame her, though, because Sal wasn’t one to follow orders, especially ones from somebody with an M.D. after his name. The man had a stubborn streak that ran from Magdalena to Chicago and circled around to Dallas, Texas. Ornery cuss, too, full of opinions he didn’t think twice about giving. But he and Pop had been buddies for over thirty years, and Sal might be a good ten years younger, but he was old school, from his wardrobe that didn’t include a single pair of jeans to his ideas on how to run Sal’s Market. People said at least they knew what to expect from Sal Ventori and the knowing counted for something in today’s changing world, where people switched partners and convictions faster than they could switch their toothpaste choice.
Pop waited until day two of Sal’s discharge from Magdalena General Hospital before he boxed up a dozen pizzelles and walked to the Ventoris. L
orraine told him Roman was in town, but Pop had heard the news about the prodigal son’s return days ago. When a young man tells the town to “go to hell” and proceeds to thumb his nose up at three quarters of them, well, that’s not something a person forgets anytime soon. And while fourteen years had passed, it might be a touch too soon for the town to forget the boy’s comments, even if they were deserved. Roman Ventori wasn’t a boy anymore, but a grown man, handsome, wealthy, a city dweller who wouldn’t put his big toe in this town if it weren’t for his father’s heart attack. Or was it his mother’s plea that brought the boy here? Pop figured it might be a little of both.
The first and second visits ended with Sal wanting to know every detail about the newest addition to the Benito household: Teresina Lucinda Benito, Pop’s great-granddaughter. The man asked so many dang questions, Pop told him he should come see for himself, and the next day, that’s exactly what he did. Lorraine dropped him off with a warning to Sal that he needed to follow Doc Needstrom’s orders and not do anything foolish. She might as well have saved the oxygen she used to get the words out because the whole town knew Sal Ventori did whatever Sal Ventori wanted, including the sausage subs, the handfuls of pepperoni and salami, the red wine, the cheeses, the temper that was hotter than a chili pepper. The man could carry a grudge and those grudges caused a lot of problems, particularly one big problem that started and ended with his son. Pop knew about being at odds with your own child, living with the pain that ate at you like a toothache and never went away. He and Anthony had been like that until last Christmas, but now the ache was gone, replaced with hope and weekly phone conversations.
If Sal could bury his pride and tame his stubbornness, he and Roman could work past their hurts and move on like Pop and Anthony had. He’d promised Lorraine he’d talk to Sal about it. Couldn’t hurt.
“You got to leave the boy alone, Sal.” Pop sipped the homemade wine Sal had given him, considered the fallout of pushing your child too much. He’d done it with Anthony and lost touch with his son for too many years before he realized that thinking right and doing right were not the same.