He walked farther into the center of the room. De Luca's had changed little over the years. It was still a first-class dining room with quality linens and crystal. The luxurious, intimate booths around the periphery of the room were lit by hand-painted lamps that graced the center of each table. The thick carpet, the photographs on the wall, the carefully placed vases, and the fresh flowers made one think of home, of romance, of tradition, of family.
That's what De Luca's was all about. The dining room was filled every night with extended family, neighbors, and friends who dined regularly at the restaurant, rarely looking at the menu but simply asking Louis or Vincent to make one of their special dishes for them.
The restaurant still drew celebrities, not the types who wanted to be seen, but those who wanted good food, privacy, respect, and a sense of home. He had grown up working at the restaurant, bussing tables, helping in the kitchen, serving, hosting, tending bar; anything and everything that needed to be done, he had done it. Not willingly, not with his heart, but out of duty and lack of funds.
His father had instilled in him the idea that one day he would run De Luca's with Frank. Tony had let the idea float for years. After all, who was he to turn his back on a ready-made job? He even majored in restaurant management because it was easier to go along with the plan than fight it, especially when he didn't have any better ideas.
He'd spent years sailing all day and bartending all night. Damn, he'd wasted a lot of time. A decade of his life had slipped by before he'd even noticed. It had taken Angela's death to shake him out of his aimlessness, although he doubted anyone else in the family would realize that. They thought he'd simply run away.
Okay, so he had run away. But he had also worked hard the past year, running charters, bartending, even dealing blackjack on a floating casino. He'd banked his money instead of spending it, working two and three jobs so he could afford freedom. Finally, with a lot of hard work and a little luck at the poker table, he'd managed to buy his own boat. He didn't know quite what he was going to do with it, but it was a start.
Now he just had to convince his father that his self-imposed hiatus was going to continue forever, that he wasn't ever coming back.
Stepping behind the gold marble-topped bar, he studied the myriad of bottles on the shelf. He needed a drink to get through the next few minutes. A little buzz to dull the shouting when it began, and he knew it would begin. His father had never been one to discuss things calmly and quietly.
He picked up a bottle of tequila and poured himself a shot. The liquid burned his throat in a deliciously familiar way. He poured himself another shot.
"Are you planning to pay for those?" a woman asked sharply.
He turned in surprise. De Luca's had always been a family-owned and operated business. Most of the waitresses were related to him in some form or fashion, but not this woman, with her red hair, snapping blue eyes, and pale, lightly freckled skin. Her voice had a lilt to it. Irish, he guessed.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I might be asking you the same question. We're not open yet."
"This place is always open for me. I'm the owner."
"Are you now? And I suppose you'll be saying your name is Frank or Vincent next."
"Tony," he said with a grin. "Anthony Enrico De Luca, to be exact."
"Ah, the black sheep younger brother. I've heard about you." She set her tray on the bar.
"What have you heard?"
"That when the going gets tough, you get going."
Tony felt the words puncture his heart like steel-tipped darts sinking into a board. He raised the shot glass to his lips and drained it. "You must have been talking to my big brother."
"Is it true what he says?"
"Would you believe me if I said it wasn't?"
"Judging by the tequila you're swigging, probably not."
"And what might your name be?"
"Kathleen Shannon."
"And what possessed my father to let a little Irish breeze blow through this place?" he asked, allowing his gaze to travel down her body. She was dressed in a short black skirt with a white blouse and a black bow tie, the typical De Luca's uniform. But her body was far too curvy and her legs far too slender and sexy to fit the supposedly demure nature of her uniform.
"I suppose he thought I'd please the customers."
"And do you please the customers?" he asked, enjoying her sharp wit more than was prudent.
"Depends on how big a tip they'll be leaving."
"Ah, but you don't know that until it's too late."
"Oh, I can tell right away. Believe me, I know when to suck up." She tossed him a saucy smile.
"Then you should be sucking up to me. I'm the owner's son. I could be your boss one day."
She gave a full, generous laugh that lit up her entire face. "All the saints will be in hell before that happens."
"Why do you say that?"
"Some men are born to rule, some to follow, some to ponder, some to wander."
"What the hell does that mean?"
Kathleen laughed again and disappeared into the kitchen. What an irritatingly smug, arrogant woman. Gorgeous, too, not that it mattered. She was right about one thing; he was definitely not going to be her boss. Not that he could picture anyone being that woman's boss, least of all his brother Frank.
His father walked over to the bar, and Tony hastily slid the bottle of tequila back in its place.
"Tony, my son," Vincent said. "What do you think of the place?"
"It looks the same."
"We've been waiting for you to come back."
His stomach knotted. He'd hoped the issue wouldn't come up right away, but his father wasted no time. He shouldn't have been surprised. De Luca's was always at the front of Vincent's mind.
"I came home to visit, not to work. I've bought a boat. I'm planning to open my own charter business."
Vincent shook his head. "No. You want to sail on the weekends, fine, but this is your business. This is where you belong. I'm not getting any younger. I want you and Frank to run the restaurant when I retire."
"You're not going to retire for a long time," Tony argued.
"This will be my last Christmas at the restaurant."
"Is something wrong?" he asked in surprise.
"I'm tired." Vincent waved his hands. "The customers are getting younger. They want new dishes. They don't recognize the people in the photographs on the wall. They don't talk about us in the Chronicle anymore. We're losing business. You and Frank can bring it back. Frank, he has the smart head. But you, you have the smile. The ladies, they will come to see you. Louis' son, Rico, will keep them here with his cooking, and Frank will make sure they pay the bill. It is the perfect solution."
Yeah, if he wanted to run a restaurant -- which he didn't. "I'm sorry. Papa, but I can't do this. I'm not cut out to be inside all day long. I hate that it's so dark in here. I like windows and wide, open spaces and the sound of the ocean and the birds as they dive into the water to search for dinner. I belong on the sea, not here in this restaurant."
Vincent's eyes filled with disappointment. "Those are the words of a young boy. You are a man now. I provided for you. I gave you a roof over your head, food in your stomach, clothes on your back, and you cannot do this for me? For your mother? For your brother? For the loving memory of your sister? We are a family. This is what the De Lucas do."
"Not this De Luca."
"You would turn your back on your family?"
Anger ripped through him. He damned his father for making him feel guilty and damned himself for letting it happen.
Fortunately their conversation was interrupted when Vincent's brother, Louis, stalked out of the kitchen screaming about the scrawny chicken in his hands. Suddenly Vincent and Louis were arguing about the cost of meat as they had done every day of their lives. Frank came into the middle of it, then his cousin Rico. They all shouted at the same time, each one determined to make his point.
Tony slowly ba
cked away. He couldn't do this. He couldn't work in this restaurant and argue about chicken wings for the rest of his life. He couldn't spend his days in a room with no windows. He couldn't cook worth a damn, and he hated to budget. The only remotely good thing about the restaurant was the free booze.
He shouldn't have come home. They didn't understand him. They never had. Not even Michael really knew how restless he was.
He moved toward the kitchen door, sensing freedom. The door opened behind him, and a voice spoke in his ear. "The back alley is clear if you're looking for a way out," Kathleen Shannon said.
He scowled at her knowing grin. "Who says I'm planning to leave?"
"Your eyes. You have the look of a desperate man who's seeing the prison doors slamming shut one by one, until there's no possible chance for escape. I've seen that look before."
He wanted to question her cryptic answer, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Frank turn in his direction. Like a coward he fled through the back door into the alley, past the trash cans, and down the sidewalk until he hit the street, until he saw the bay in the distance, the marina, the flags on the boats, the Golden Gate Bridge -- freedom. He'd escaped. And damn that Kathleen Shannon for reading him so right. Nobody knew his private thoughts, and that's the way he liked it.
* * *
Caroline Wingate took a deep breath and opened the door to the den, her husband's private sanctuary. She could still see him sitting in the leather chair behind the desk, chatting on the phone as he smoked one of his favorite Cuban cigars, or asleep on the couch with a fishing magazine resting against his chest, gently snoring.
"Oh, Edward," she whispered, placing a hand to her heart. "Why did you have to die first?"
Because Edward had done everything first. He had taken the lead in every decision they'd made. A warm, spontaneous man who loved life with every breath, he had overwhelmed her at their first meeting. She had been working as a secretary at a law firm. Her boss and Edward were partners in a land deal. Edward had begun to stop by once or twice a week to drop off papers.
Quiet and shy by nature, she had never imagined that a man so full of vim and vigor could be interested in her. She didn't have much confidence in herself or in her looks. She'd barely dated in high school. In college she'd buried herself in books rather than face lonely Saturday nights.
After graduation her friends had spent time planning their upcoming weddings. She, on the other hand, had looked for a job. When she met Edward at age twenty-six, she had yet to receive even one declaration of love, much less a proposal.
But somehow, mysteriously, Edward Wingate saw something in her that he liked. He proposed to her one month after they met, and she accepted, thrilled beyond belief to finally be moving into the next stage of her life.
Although the marriage started off right, the babies she longed for didn't come. Six years of trying elicited nothing. When she turned thirty-two, she began to panic. The doctors told her to relax. She read what few books there were on infertility, but no one seemed to have any answers. She researched the best possible time of the month to conceive, and insisted that she and Edward have sex at just that time, regardless of whether she felt like it or not. Having a baby became her quest.
The world outside ceased to exist. All she'd cared about was the baby that she didn't yet have. She felt like a failure and withdrew from all her friends, refusing invitations to parties so she wouldn't have to explain why she and Edward didn't have children. Sometimes she'd blamed herself for their problem. Sometimes she'd blamed Edward. The silences grew longer, the space in the middle of the bed colder.
It was the worst time of their marriage. But finally a miracle happened, and Joanna came along. Joanna had pulled them back together with the force of her smile and the power of her love. Their family was finally complete. After that, she and Edward never talked about the early days, both content to enjoy the daughter they finally had.
The three of them had been inseparable over the years. Until two months ago. Until Edward had died.
Now she only had Joanna.
Joanna, who wanted to go through her father's papers.
Caroline couldn't allow her daughter to do that. She took another deep breath as she looked at the papers in front of her, not sure where to begin. Edward had done everything for her, paid the bills, invested their money, repaired the cars, repainted the house, and remodeled the kitchen. He'd made all the decisions, and she'd never questioned his wisdom.
When something didn't look quite right, she had simply turned away. Now she was afraid to look away, afraid that if she didn't face this particular task head-on, Joanna would, and God only knew what she'd find out.
Caroline had loved Edward with all her heart, and he had loved her; she was sure of that. But there were secrets between them. She was sure of that, too.
Chapter Seven
Can I tell you a secret, Joanna?" Rose asked in a hushed voice as the rest of the class worked on an art project.
Joanna sat back in her desk chair, a little wary, but too intrigued to say no. "Okay," she said.
"It's about Daddy."
Warning bells rang in her mind, but she couldn't make herself end it now. Instead she said, "What about him?"
"One day I almost broke my promise to you. I almost talked to him. He was saying good night and giving me a hug, and ..." Rose's eyes filled with anguish. "And he said he just wanted to hear me say 'I love you' out loud. And I wanted to say 'I love you.' I started to, but then I remembered my promise. Is that why it took you so long to come back? Did you hear me say I? Did you think I'd forgotten?"
"Oh, Rose." Joanna didn't know where to begin to untangle the story she had just heard. "I'm not sure I understand everything you just said, but let's try to remember one thing. I'm not your mother, and you didn't make me a promise. Okay?"
Rose nodded, but she didn't look convinced.
"Now, why can't you talk to your dad?"
"Because she can't," Lily said, interrupting them. She shot Rose a dark look. "You weren't supposed to tell."
"But if she's Mama, she already knows."
"She wants to make sure you can keep the secret," Lily insisted. "It's a test, like when we went to the store and Mama said if we were good she'd buy us ice cream."
"Lily, I'm not testing you." Joanna looked from one to the other, wishing she could somehow make them understand she was not their mother. "Why don't you tell me what you promised your mother and why? Maybe then I can help you."
"If you're not our mother, we can't tell you," Rose said with a sigh.
"Just like we couldn't tell the doctors who gave us jelly beans," Lily added.
"Or Grandma Sophia or Uncle Tony."
"Or Uncle Frank or Aunt Linda," Lily continued.
"Mama told us we couldn't talk to Daddy until she came back, that we had to keep this secret, and if you're not her, then she's not back yet," Rose finished.
She sighed. In just two days of teaching at the elementary school level, she had already learned that six-year-olds were incredibly literal. "Girls, I know it's difficult to accept, but your mother isn't coming back. She's in heaven now. She'll always be with you, but only in your hearts."
"That's what the doctors told us," Lily said matter-of-factly.
"And Daddy and Grandma Sophia -- "
"Grandpa Vincent and Aunt Linda."
"Then don't you think you should believe them?" Joanna said, interrupting the litany of family names.
Rose looked at Lily. "Can I tell her?"
Lily shook her head.
"Mama said people might think she wasn't coming back," Rose said defiantly.
"Rose, you promised," Lily said angrily.
"Not that. I didn't promise that."
While the girls argued, Joanna stood up and began to put away the art supplies. She couldn't help wondering exactly how their mother had died. Was there some possibility that Angela wasn't dead? But how could that be? None of it made sense, not their cryptic promise
or their mother's strange words. Of course, the fact that she resembled this woman didn't make sense either. She'd never looked like anyone in her life, not even her own parents. To think that her own face was so similar to this woman's that her children were confused was mind-boggling.
* * *
Forty minutes later Michael arrived, with a sexy, weary look about him. His tie hung loose around his collar, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his forearms, and a smudge of dirt streaked across one cheek. Joanna reminded herself to stay cool. Michael Ashton was a parent. She was a teacher. There was no other relationship between them, and there never would be. In the fall she'd go back to Stanford, and Happy Hollow School would be just a memory.
"Good afternoon," she said.
"Joanna." His warm, husky voice and inviting smile took away her calm.
"The girls had a good day," she said hurriedly, feeling a desperate need to launch into conversation, anything to distract him from looking at her the way he was looking at her, with intensity, with curiosity, with ... "Lily, Rose, why don't you show your father your artwork? They painted animals today," she added as the girls retrieved their pictures.
"Great. I trust the paint went only on the paper," he said with a knowing smile.
She reluctantly smiled back. "Actually Rose's white tennis shoes are now pink. I'm sorry. I didn't catch it until it was too late. I scrubbed them with water, and we got most of the paint off, but not all of it. But it could have been worse. They started off bright red."
"It could have been a lot worse. Your shoes could be bright red."
"The girls aren't that bad. They're just exuberant and creative."
He laughed. "Really? I don't think we're talking about the same children."
"They've been very well behaved."
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