A Family Affair: The Secret; Truth in Lies, Book 8 Page 14

  “Discovery?” Angie stared at them. “What discovery?”

  Tess laughed. Gina smiled. Christine gentled her voice and said, “You’ve got a thing for Roman Ventori.”

  Chapter 9

  Roman did not want to admit he was falling into a routine and actually enjoying it. He’d started to recognize the customers and their buying habits. Mrs. Cummings arrived between nine and ten every third day, bought a quarter pound of chopped ham, three slices of Swiss cheese, and a loaf of sourdough bread. Stanley Ketrowski picked up a blueberry pie once a week, said he’d been doing it for almost ten years now. And would the morning be complete if Gladys Blinten didn’t ride into the produce section on the motorized cart, dip a bony finger in the tray holding the lettuce, and remind him that bacteria collects in standing water? Nope. Wouldn’t be the same. He actually looked forward to the former English teacher-spinster and her never-ending comments.

  What did that say about him? He’d gone from wall-to-wall executive meetings, phone calls, teleconferences, and dinners in swanky restaurants with the Who’s Who of Chicago to meatloaf and mashed potatoes, sticky notes, and verbal reminders on the proper usage of who and whom. He was going to miss this bizarre town with its quirky personalities, but that’s because he knew all of it was only short-term. Hell, he might even miss one spunky Italian’s sarcasm. It was too soon to talk about heading back to Chicago, but in another week, he’d broach the subject with his mother. It’s not like he had to be in Chicago to do business, not with a partner like Adam Brandon and today’s technology, but where else would he go? Sal looked better, said he felt better, but if he’d hinged that comment on Roman getting together with Angie Sorrento, the man was in for a huge setback. He heaved a sigh, thankful the woman was nowhere near the grocery store—and therefore guaranteed him a few minutes of peace—and made his way toward the small floral section. African violets, peace lilies, orchids. As a member of The Bleeding Hearts Society, his mother prided herself on making sure the flowers at Sal’s Market were top quality. No aphids, no mealybugs, no spider mites. She’d mentioned something about the Society selling them Christmas cacti and poinsettias for the holidays, said the proceeds would go toward a scholarship fund for an upcoming high school graduate. Was the whole damn town a bunch of do-gooders? In the past three days, he’d heard about a Women’s Guild project to knit hats, scarves, and mittens for this year’s Christmas gathering, a cake bakeoff judged by four of the town’s premier bakers with the winner receiving a $500 scholarship toward culinary school, and a rummage sale at St. Gertrude’s with the proceeds donated to help an out-of-work father bring Christmas to his two children.

  Roman didn’t mean to be harsh, but did no one do anything for a profit? How the hell did they make money around here, or did they just make enough to get by? And didn’t they ever tire of just getting by? Didn’t they want more—a new car and not an old pickup truck with rust on the fender? Or a pair of designer shoes? How about a wad of cash?

  “Excuse me, do you have more spinach? Two bags won’t cut it.”

  Roman turned toward the man’s voice, took in the silver hair, the tan, the brilliant blue eyes, the slacks and shirt that said high-end, tailored, not wash and wear. The man looked like he’d stepped out of a clothing catalog and he smelled better than a cologne counter. What the hell was he doing in a place like Magdalena? “Spinach,” Roman repeated. “Sure, I’ll check in the back. How much do you need?”

  The man looked at his list, squinted, and said, “Ten bags? Wait. Make that twelve.” He glanced up, grinned, and said, “What the hell. More’s always better than not enough, right?”

  Roman nodded. “Right.”

  “Harry Blacksworth,” the man said, thrusting out a hand. “You must be Roman Ventori.”

  He had a decent handshake and a no-nonsense style. “I am. How did you know?”

  Harry Blacksworth threw back his head, laughed. “How else? Pop Benito, better than a private investigator. I hear you’re in from Chicago?” His face lit up beneath the tan, the blue eyes sparkled. “I used to live there. Great place. Great food.” The voice drifted, softened, “But not like this place, right?”

  What to say to that? “No, certainly not like this place.” Chicago had style and class and people who didn’t butt into your business.

  “Hah! I can see you don’t agree. Hell, don’t think I did at first either. When my niece told me she was moving here to ‘follow her heart’ and that damn mountain-man in flannel, I didn’t know whether to schedule her for a psych evaluation or laugh. But she was serious, damn straight about that one, so what could I do?” Those blue eyes misted. “Miserable time for me, but a great time for her, and you know what? She was happy, and I don’t mean the kind of happy you feel when the stock market jumps and your portfolio puffs out, but the real, gut-deep happy that lights you up, gives you a glow, or a halo, or—” he paused, shrugged, his face shifting to a dull red “—hell, listen to me, sounding like a simpering fool. I wouldn’t have believed it, but I saw it, and the more time I spent with these people, the more I wanted a piece of it. So, I packed up the wife and kids and headed out of town.”

  Roman didn’t picture this guy with a wife and kids. He did, however, picture him with women, lots of them. “You’re married?”

  Another laugh, this one deeper and louder than the others. “Hell, yes, and proud of it. Never thought I’d say that. I got a young kid, too. Jackson’s still a baby, and I’ve got two stepkids, but I love ’em like they were my own flesh and blood.” He studied Roman, said, “You got kids?”

  “No.”

  “Wife?”

  “Nope.”

  “Huh.” He leaned in, lowered his voice, and said, “Pop told me you got a thing for that new girl in town, the one with all the crazy hair and sass.”

  Angie Sorrento. It was Roman’s turn to say, “Hell, no. That woman’s got a mouth as big as the Chicago River and an attitude to match.”

  “Those are the best kind. Take some advice from a confirmed bachelor-turned-husband. Marry her. You’ll never be bored.” He nodded, gave him another once-over and said, “You’ll have great-looking kids.”

  “I’m not in the market and definitely not with her.” What was it with everybody and their insistence that he and Angie Sorrento get together? The thought pinged his temple, started the beginnings of a headache.

  “That’s what I said, and now here I am, buying bags of spinach for my wife.” He checked his watch, frowned. “I’m already ten minutes late. Greta’s not going be happy. How about you get me that spinach so I can get out of here? I’ll just run over to the flowers and see what I can find.” He winked. “If you screw up, bring home flowers and a big apology.”

  Harry Blacksworth left a few minutes later with his spinach and a bouquet of Gerbera daisies. Interesting guy with some strange ideas about happiness and people in general—especially Angie Sorrento and her future as Roman’s wife. Right. As if that would happen in ten million years.

  “Roman?”

  Charlotte stood a grocery cart away, a hesitant smile on her face. He’d seen her twice in the past few days, and it still shocked him when he looked at her. Fourteen years apart was a lifetime ago. They’d had such plans, such dreams for a future that included marriage, kids, a dog…

  “This is Steven Junior,” she said, yanking him from the past. “He’s nine. And this is Emily. She’s seven.”

  “Hello.” Roman found his voice, managed a smile, and somehow shook the boy’s hand. Steven Junior was tall and lanky for a nine-year-old, a younger version of his father with solemn eyes and a quiet smile. Would the boy grow up to be a lawyer like his father? The girl could have been Charlotte at that age: blond, blue-eyed, delicate as a flower. “Nice to meet you.” The child hid behind her mother and peeked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. The boy studied him as if he knew something wasn’t quite right.

  Charlotte let out a small, nervous laugh and said, “Well, we’ve got to get going. Emi
ly has gymnastics.” She moved toward him in a rush, leaned on tiptoe, and whispered in his ear. “Meet me tonight at our old spot. Eight o’clock.”

  ***

  Sasha Rishkov rattled into Magdalena in a burgundy minivan with a dented front fender and a bumper covered in stickers that read things like Peace. Love. Happiness. By the time she checked into the Heart Sent and had her first bowl of Mimi’s chili and cornbread, the town had started gathering data on her: small-built woman in her early fifties, heavy eyeliner, hoop earrings, bandanna, necklaces and bangles, bright-colored top, and flowing skirt. Slight accent? Eastern European? The comments and calculations followed.

  She looks like a bohemian.

  Could she be one of those?

  No idea. I’ve never seen one.

  And more. What’s she doing here?

  I heard she’s a painter.

  I heard a dancer.

  Maybe she’s a painter and a dancer.

  Nobody could conjure up stories and possibilities faster than the residents of Magdalena. They loved a good tale, stretched out like warm taffy, sweet on the tongue, tasty when chewed, and oh so tempting to share. By the time the story swirled around town and made its way back to the owner of the tale, there was a lot more spice, pizzazz, and fiction in it than when it started.

  But that’s what made a good story, and that’s what got people talking in small towns. That’s also what gave newcomers the opportunity to spin their own tale, which inevitably was a lot tamer and less scintillating than anything the town created.

  And that was the case with Sasha Rishkov as she sat in Lina’s Café, sipping hibiscus tea and nibbling on a lemon cookie. A small crowd gathered to say hello, ask if she were indeed traveling from Louisiana to Maine, if she painted, and why she’d chosen their town for a rest. Will you be here a few days? A few weeks? And then, What do you paint?

  Angie stepped into Lina’s Café thinking about the burger and fries when she noticed the group of four women and two men clustered around a table, voices low, excitement thrumming through their words. She moved toward the table, curious to see what had them so entranced. An exotic-looking woman with heavy eyeliner, high cheekbones, and red lips spoke to the group in a soft accent, her voice spilling over them like a spell. When she flung her hands in the air to enunciate her story, the bracelets jangled with emotion and emphasis.

  Who was she? Angie hadn’t been in this town very long, but this woman didn’t look as if she belonged in Magdalena. But then, neither did Roman Ventori. She pushed the pest of a man from her thoughts and concentrated on the woman’s accent. Italian was about the only accent Angie recognized, the bonus of being raised by a father who still spoke Italian with his sisters at Sunday dinner.

  “Sasha, would you like to try a piece of apple pie?” A middle-aged woman with curly hair and cat’s-eye glasses offered a smile and a nod. “Fresh-baked apples, picked from our local orchard. Nice and tart with a side of ice cream.” The woman licked her lips, the smile spread. “Top it off with a drizzle of caramel sauce and you are in pure heaven.”

  “I like the sound of that,” the woman named Sasha said. “Extra caramel sauce for me, please.” Her silver eyes glittered with humor as she slid her gaze around the room, connected with the small group of admirers. When her gaze landed on Angie, it narrowed. “Hello.”

  “Hi.” Angie stepped forward, thrust out a hand, and said, “Angie Sorrento. I take it you’re new in town, too?”

  The woman’s lips hovered in a half smile seconds before she clasped Angie’s hand in both of hers and said, “You’re the designer who’s building miniature replications of people’s homes. It’s a delight to meet you.” She paused, her voice dipping with emotion. “A true delight.”

  “Thank you.” Angie didn’t like anyone having an advantage over her, certainly not a stranger. “How do you know about me?”

  The woman rested her hands on the table, bracelets jangling with each movement, and lifted a slender shoulder. “Mimi Pendergrass. I’m staying there, too. Just got in a few hours ago.”

  Small towns really were gossip mills, and that’s why Angie kept her mouth shut unless the information leaking out had to do with people she cared about. She knew how small towns lived and breathed for the details of other people’s lives—good and bad—but in the past, the small town had been her small town, with residents she knew about, tales she’d heard before, suspicions and complications she could ignore or not. But Magdalena was an outlier, and Angie was unfamiliar with the residents and their stories. She’d wanted to remain impartial, do her job so she could get out of here with a minimal of fanfare and complication. But that was proving a true challenge. There was Sal Ventori butting into her personal life with attempts to arrange a match and a baby with his son, Mimi Pendergrass all but handing her a personal questionnaire, and now a bohemian-looking woman named Sasha acting as if she knew her. Angie had no choice but to gather her own information. The better prepared, the better to protect, and protecting her privacy was goal number one. Angie pasted a smile in place and said in the most casual of voices, “Ah. So, what brings you to Magdalena?”

  The woman returned the smile. “I’ve been commissioned to create watercolor renderings of the same projects as you. You’ll provide the miniature house and I’ll add the watercolor.” She lifted her glass, sipped her tea. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  Not really. Angie thought it a large waste of money to satisfy an eccentric’s interests. It would be different if the person had a vested interest in the locations or the town, but how likely was that? She’d bet this was more about the ability to throw cash at a project than a love for the project itself. And while she enjoyed building miniatures, part of her resented the fact that she needed the money so much. The commission she’d earn would pay for her father’s surgery and go a long way to fulfill his dream to see the country. Still, Angie hated to be beholden to anyone and she was definitely beholden to the eccentric New Yorker. “I’m not sure I’d call it fascinating.”

  “Really?” Sasha lifted a dark brow, a wash of curiosity spreading over her face. “What would you call it?”

  Angie shrugged, glanced at the rest of the group. She recognized Wanda Cummings, Dolly Finnegan, and Pop Benito, the man they called the Godfather of Magdalena. “I’d call it fulfilling a whim.” When Wanda Cummings gasped, Angie rushed on before they thought she was not only arrogant but an idiot, too. “Don’t get me wrong. I won’t turn down a commission like this, and I’m really interested in the houses and whatnot, but why am I doing this? And why won’t this ‘eccentric’ New Yorker come forth and identify herself?”

  “Or himself.” The bohemian woman eyed her. “Would you call this a foolish endeavor?”

  Angie met her gaze straight on. “That depends on the person’s motive, and since I don’t know that, I can’t formulate an opinion.”

  Wanda Cummings piped in. “No, you cannot. I agree, honey. Hard to know what’s in another person’s brain, or heart.”

  “Sometimes a body doesn’t know what’s in his own brain or heart.” This from Pop Benito, who winked at Angie. The man had a soft spot for Roman Ventori and said the guy just needed the right woman to “make him open up like a hibiscus in the sun.” Yeah, right. Roman Ventori was going to open like a flower, and if Pop and his sidekick, Sal Ventori, thought Angie wanted to be the woman to bring the guy into the sun, they could think again. Not happening.

  “You have a point.” Sasha picked up a lemon cookie, bit into it.

  Pop grinned. “Dang right I do.” He crossed his skinny arms over his chest, nodded. “Been many a time I listened to a person wail about how they didn’t like this or that about a ‘supposed’ annoying person, and guess what? Next thing I knew, the two were getting hitched!” He laughed and said, “When the heart opens up, the brain sees the truth.”

  “Exactly.” Sasha’s lips pulled into a wide smile. “That is exactly right.”

  Angie wasn’t interested in listening to this mat
chmaking bunk. Pop Benito seemed like a decent guy, but she wasn’t buying his hocus-pocus theories on feelings and relationships. What she did care about was the backstory on Sasha Rishkov, with her exotic beauty, bangles, and accent. Who contacted her? When, where, and why? Were there other artists heading to Magdalena to create specific art forms? The benefactor behind the commission hadn’t mattered, but the appearance of this unconventional woman made Angie wonder… “I won’t keep you, but do you think we could talk when you get a chance?”

  The woman’s silver eyes widened, then narrowed the tiniest bit. “Of course, my dear. Of course.”

  Two hours later, Sasha found Angie on the front porch of the Heart Sent, sketching Tess and Daniel Casherdon’s log cabin. The older woman lifted a drawing pad and pencils from her bag and sat next to Angie on one of Mimi’s rocking chairs.

  “Nothing quite as peaceful as an idea and a blank piece of paper, is there?”

  Angie nodded. “It is relaxing.”

  Sasha removed a photograph from the inside of her bag and laid it on the bottom corner of the pad. “An artist sees things others don’t. Feels things, too, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m more of an engineer-based designer who deals with angles and square corners. My partner was the one who dreamed about the people who lived in the houses we duplicated. She knew all about them, kid and dog names, what kind of car they drove.” Angie paused, thought of the ridiculous heart-shaped tub Kate had created for one of their model designs. She’d been so darn obsessed with it, and no wonder. Turned out the tub was part of the “ever after” place she and Rourke Flannigan had designed when they were teenagers, before tragedy and heartache tore them apart. Yada, yada, yada… Angie was too practical to let a tiny thing like emotion or happily-ever-after make her do something foolish. Once, that’s all she’d allowed herself to open up, and look what happened? She forced the thought of her ex-fiancé ditching her three days before the wedding from her brain. Trusting a man, getting emotionally involved, believing his stupid words…loving him? That was all such bull and she was having no part of it. It had worked for her mother and father and it looked like it was working for Kate and Rourke, maybe even Rourke’s stick-in-the-mud secretary, Maxine and her guy, Miles, had a chance at the happiness gig, but not Angie. It just wasn’t worth the effort or the risk. Self-reliance, that was Angie’s motto and she’d take down anybody who got in her way.