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

  “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.

  Sal frowned. “You telling me if I see him driving on the wrong side of the road, I’m supposed to sit back and let him get hit head-on?”

  Pop blew out a sigh. Salvatore Ventori was more stubborn than ten mules. “I thought the dang heart attack would simmer you down a bit, but it’s gotten you more riled than before.”

  Sal tossed back the shot of whisky he favored every morning, the very one his wife removed from his regime since the heart attack. But Sal confessed to Pop that he wasn’t giving up the cigars and the whisky, so he told his wife Pop needed a buddy to keep him sane, what with the granddaughter’s new baby wailing at all hours. Then he smacked her with a confession she couldn’t refuse, one that got him a ride to Pop’s. It’s kinda nice being around a baby. Looks like it’s the closest I’m gonna get. Dang, but Lorraine was not going to say no to that one.

  “Bah.” Sal eyed him from behind his black-rimmed glasses. “The attack made me see there’s a lot to get done and not a lot of time to do it. We got to kick things in gear or I’ll go to my grave not knowing if the Ventori bloodline ends with Roman.”

  Made sense, but marriage and babies shouldn’t be pushed. Look at Lucy; she had a baby without a wedding ring. Who would have thought a Benito would enter this world without the Church’s blessing? But Teresina had and Pop wouldn’t trade that little rosebud for three hundred blessings from St. Gertrude’s. Still, it would have been nice… But Jeremy Ross Dean better not think he was the fill-in Daddy for her, and there weren’t going to be any sleepovers or playing house, not with Pop and a baby under their roof. Lucy said they were just friends, but Pop knew the look of a hunter when he saw it, and Jeremy Ross Dean had the look, and Lucy was the prey.

  “Where’s the baby?” Sal situated himself in the chair and said, “If she’s sleeping, I want to hold her.”

  “Hah. One of these days you gotta take diaper detail.” Pop had changed his own son’s diapers a total of six times. The number stuck in his head because his wife had loved to rant about it. Times were different back then, and disposable diapers were a lot easier than cloth ones that required rinsing, soaking, and a pail for their own stinky business. Could he help it if he had a weak stomach that couldn’t tolerate the sight or the smell? But he’d changed little Teresina’s diaper every day since she came home, the stinky ones, too. Miracle of miracles, his stomach didn’t churn and heave like it had fifty some years ago. There was something to be said for getting old. “Sal? You hear me?” Pop leaned forward, met his friend’s gaze. “You gotta learn how to change a diaper. Lorraine will blubber all over you when she hears that.” He nodded, let the truth slip out. “Forgives a lot of misdeeds, no doubt about it.”

  Sal scratched his head, heaved a sigh. “According to Lorraine, I got a lot of forgiveness to ask.”

  That meant the business about his son. No use pretending it wasn’t sitting there like a ball of dough rising between them. Best to call it what it was, so it could get dealt with once and for all. “The boy did not get that girl pregnant.”

  “Says you.” Sal folded his hands over his belly, stared at the mantel.

  Pop glanced at the portrait of his wife, swung his gaze back to his friend. They’d argued about salami and pepperoni, cavatelle and rigatoni, marinara sauce and Bolognese. The arguments weren’t more than “loud discussions” based on an accumulation of tradition and experience. Pop favored escarole in his wedding soup; Sal thought endive was the key. While Pop spent most of his time in jogging suits, his buddy insisted they were for “young” people and jeans had no place in anyone’s closet, especially a senior citizen’s. Bah on that one. Had the man ever worn anything other than the short-sleeved white shirts he favored, or the blue pants and suspenders? And what about those dark shoes? Salvatore Ventori did not know what comfort felt like and Pop swore that before his friend closed his eyes for good, he was going to learn the feel of sweat pants and tennis shoes. That’s what they “discussed” most days. Or whose homemade wine tasted better, who was more Italian, who grew better basil.

  But the real problem was the one they avoided, the one they hadn’t argued about in almost fourteen years, since the day the news hit town. It was time, because Roman Ventori had finally come home and he might not stay more than a week or two, and the next time he visited Magdalena could be for his father’s funeral.

  “Listen to me, Sal. The boy did not get Paula Morrisen pregnant.”

  Sal closed his eyes, clutched his heart with one hand, and made the sign of the cross with the other. “I don’t feel so well.”

  “Don’t pull that baloney with me,” Pop said. “If you got chest pains, tell me now and I’ll have Lorraine get you to the emergency room.”

  Sal’s eyes snapped open and he jerked toward Pop. “Don’t you dare say one word to Lorraine.”

  “So.” Now he had him. Let the old geezer try to weasel out of this one. “Why not? You can’t keep this from her, you know that.”

  “I don’t have any chest pains.”

  A whisper would come out louder than those words. “Huh? Didn’t hear you.” Pop leaned closer, said, “Speak up.”

  “I don’t have any chest pains.” Pause, and then, “But I don’t want to talk about my grandson.”

  “’Cause you don’t have a grandson.” Pop ignored the look his friend gave him and went on. “I saw the boy, too, don’t forget that.” Mimi Pendergrass heard the Morrisens were in Renova and drove Pop and Sal to the boy’s school, where they camped out in Mimi’s truck eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drinking hibiscus tea, while they waited for Sal’s supposed “grandson” to emerge. “Even if that boy had hair and eyes the color of an espresso, the shape of the nose was off, the chin was too wide, and wouldn’t he have at least one cowlick? The kid was fair-skinned. Not a Ventori, that’s for sure.”

  Sal shrugged. “His name’s Zachary.” Pause, a frown. “Maybe the genes got all mixed up.”

  Pop let out a snort. “Or maybe the daddy’s names did.” He slid Sal a knowing look. “Admit it or not, but you knew the second you saw that boy that he was not Roman’s son. Why on earth you kept up the tale is beyond me. It did no good but to spread ill will between you and your son. And for what? To save face?”

  Sal’s complexion paled beneath his weather-beaten skin. “Why would Paula’s father lie to me? He said it was Roman.”

  “The question you ought to be asking is why would my son lie to me. And the other question you should ask is why did the whole family up and move out of town, resurface eight months ago in a three-story brick house in Renova. Got a pool, too.”

  Sal shrugged. “Guess I held on because that would mean I had a grandchild somewhere, even if the child didn’t know my name.” When he pushed out the next words, his voice cracked and split open like an overripe watermelon. “Ventori blood would run through him, and maybe one day we’d meet.”

  Pop shook his head, kept his words gentle. “I’ll bet a year’s worth of pizzelles that boy doesn’t have a drop of Ventori blood in his veins, and I’ll bet another year’s worth the whole Morrisen clan knows it, and somebody’s been paying them to keep quiet.” Who in blazes would do that? Had to be somebody with a nice-sized bank account and a big reason to keep quiet. Hmm. He’d have to think on that. Pop knew there was something fishy about the whole deal when the family up and disappeared, but he didn’t think he’d ever find out why or where they went. And then eight months ago, they just reappeared with their fancy house and a thirteen-year-old boy that looked nothing like Roman Ventori, the supposed father.

  “Who would pay them to lie?”

  “People who don’t want a secret to come out.”

  Sal removed his glasses, ran a hand over his f
ace. “I just want a grandchild before I draw my last breath. Is that too much to ask?”

  “’Course not. But you’re going about it all wrong. You got to set things right with Roman first, and then you got to nudge him in the right direction.” Oh, yes, the right direction was key and Pop knew all about directions and relationships.

  Before Sal could respond, Lucy’s sweet voice filled the room with a lullaby. Pop and Sal turned toward the sound, and there she stood, a vision dressed in white, red hair tied back, her pale skin glowing. In her arms, she held Teresina, the most beautiful baby Pop had ever seen.

  Lucy made her way to them, her smile spreading warmth and light. “She’s asleep. Would you like to hold her now, Mr. Ventori?”

  The crusty bugger melted like butter in a saucepan, his face brighter than a firefly. “I’d love to hold that little angel,” he whispered.

  She smiled at him and placed the baby in his arms. “You’ll make a good grandpa,” she murmured, stroking her daughter’s soft hair. “You’re very gentle with her.”

  Sal’s smile spread, landed on Teresina’s dark head. “There’s nothing like a baby to put zest in a household. Makes an old codger like me feel almost young again.”

  “You’re not that old, Mr. Ventori.” Lucy’s sweet words flitted around Sal’s head like honeybees. “Neither is Grandpa.” She nodded at Pop and said, “My grandma always said people are only as old as they feel.”

  Pop glanced at the portrait of his wife. Yep, that sounded like his Lucy, always searching for the part of the rotten apple that didn’t have the worm in it. “Your grandma could never see the downside of anything.” His voice softened, his gaze settling on his wife’s peaches-and-cream complexion. “She was a good woman and God took her way too soon.”

  “At least she got to see her granddaughter, rock her to sleep,” Sal said, a fierceness tugging at his words. “At least she had that before she closed her eyes for the last time.”

  Pop knew where this was headed and he knew if he didn’t get involved, Sal would still be yakking about it a year from now. Roman would be long gone back to Chicago, and the old man would be no closer to getting his own grandchild. Who really knew how long Salvatore Ventori had left on this earth? The good Lord could call him tomorrow, and then what? Sal would close his eyes one last time and there’d be no vision of Baby Ventori at all.

  But Pop had a notion on how to fix that. It just required a bit of fast thinking and fancy footwork, and those were his specialty. Yes, indeed they were.

  ***

  Roman wished he were anywhere but Magdalena, the town that had destroyed his dreams and killed his future. But here he was, stuck in the middle of a promise to his mother, and no way out. He’d gotten used to throwing piles of money at requests, anything that didn’t actually require his time or his efforts. Nobody turned down money. Ever. But it wasn’t like he could offer to send a stand-in for Sal and Lorraine Ventori’s only son. He was it, unfortunately, and that meant, no substitutes, not even the kid sister who’d gotten used to playing the responsible child.

  Damn. Roman poured a whisky and tossed it back. His father was in the other room, propped up on the couch with an afghan and the remote control, looking tired and frail. But that wouldn’t stop the old man from barreling right into all the issues he had with his son’s way of life as though there hadn’t been almost nine hundred miles and fourteen years of separation between them.

  You should have married an Italian.

  You should have had a baby.

  And then, as if his father hadn’t shot enough crap at him, he’d finished with, You should have stayed in Magdalena.

  Sal had been using these lines for years, but the part about marrying an Italian and having a baby were more recent, since he learned of the divorce. Roman didn’t doubt it would all start up again the second he left this kitchen. And once the neighbors started pouring in with soups and breads and well wishes, the real interrogations would begin. They’d nose around, ready to pounce on him with questions of where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and why he hadn’t come home sooner. As if they’d forgotten he’d told them hell would freeze over twice before he’d ever come back. They’d ask anyway because that’s how small towns were. They set you up to spill answers they already knew and then watched the person wallow in his own misfortune. Lucky him; he had to keep his mouth shut because his father had just gotten out of the hospital. But damn, how much was a man supposed to take?

  He glanced out the kitchen window at the backyard that had been his safe haven these last few days. Gone were the dead shrubs, the scraggly limbs, the piles of leaves banked against the fence. Tomorrow, he promised his mother he’d venture to Sal’s Market with her, check things out, say hello, though he’d rather croak than make nice with the very people who’d turned on him.

  Still, he was a big boy, all grown up and in charge of large tracts of real estate, property that could turn into anything from luxury condominiums to strip malls and retail outlets. If a person knew what he was doing, he could buy and build in Chicago, Pittsburgh, even a place on the outskirts of a nowhere town like Magdalena, New York. Anything could be bought with wads of money and a solid plan. He narrowed his gaze on the whisky, poured another shot.

  “Roman?”

  Salvatore Ventori might have had a heart attack and he might be recovering in the living room of the tiny house on Melburn with a new heart-healthy diet that did not include cigars, but he was not a man to be intimidated by doctors or a diagnosis. Roman sighed, set the shot glass on the counter, and made his way to the living room.

  “Do you need something, Dad?” Roman stood next to the couch, waited.

  His father motioned to the rocker. “Sit.” And then, “Nothing’s ever on.” He pointed the remote control at the flat-screen television Roman sent them for Christmas and clicked it off. “Or it’s showing food you can’t eat, shouldn’t eat, or don’t want to eat. What kind of life is that? Why can’t a person cook with butter and use lard for pie crusts? Huh? You tell me, why not?”

  Salvatore Ventori would never be a spokesperson for a heart-healthy group. Roman slid into the rocker and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know why, Dad. You can’t eat that stuff anymore.”

  “Not even a taste?”

  His father’s “taste” was never just a taste. Roman shrugged. “What did the doctor say?”

  “Bah, doctors.” He made a face and thrust an arm in the air. “They just want your money. What do they know?”

  The man sure loved his misery. There was no solution to any of Salvatore Ventori’s problems, not ones he wanted to hear anyway. That’s how he’d been fourteen years ago, and that’s how he’d be until the day he closed his eyes for the last time. Too bad Lorraine Ventori still believed her husband could change. Or maybe that was hope tangled up in those prayers she counted on to pull them all through tough times.

  “Can you check on the menu over there and see if I can have a candy bar?”

  Roman glanced at the paper lying on the coffee table. He’d lay one hundred bucks candy bars were not on the menu. “Sure.” He reached for the paper and scanned the list. “Pears, peaches, green beans, lentils. No candy bars.”

  The sound that fell out of his father’s mouth was a mix of frustration and self-pity. “Don’t get old, boy. It’s a real pain in the hind end.”

  “Do you like the alternative?” Sometimes you had to state the obvious with the man. The glare that followed said he didn’t appreciate it. “Mom said you got a good report. Change up your food, reduce your stress level, take your meds—”

  “Stop! That’s all I been hearing since the damn heart attack.” His dark eyes misted behind his glasses and his voice cracked. “I don’t want to talk about me and my condition right now. Your mother’s been yakking at me and praying over me like I’m already in the casket.” He ran a hand over his crew cut, scratched his neck like he did when he was trying to work his way out of a predicament. “Let’s talk about somet
hing that isn’t going to give me heartburn, okay?”

  Roman nodded. He got it; nothing worse than people drilling home the shoulds and shouldn’ts of your messed-up situation. “Got it.” They could talk about something else, anything…he scratched his neck and realized he did that when he was working his way out of a predicament, too. Like father, like son? Hell, no. He snatched his hand back and folded it across his chest. “So, what do you want to talk about?” They hadn’t had a decent conversation since Roman was eighteen.

  Sal worked up a smile and said, “Babies.”

  “Huh?”

  “Babies.” He nodded, his face lighting up like it did when he spotted a beefsteak tomato. “Pop Benito’s granddaughter had a baby girl a few weeks ago; named her Teresina Lucinda Benito. Kinda has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “Sure.” Why did his father want to talk about babies—with him? There was only one reason, big and glaring, and Roman wasn’t having anything to do with it. He grabbed onto what he hoped would sidetrack his conservative, old-school father. “Pop’s granddaughter has a kid named Benito?”

  “Don’t think Pop took too kindly to seeing his only grandchild show up in Magdalena with a baby in her belly and no husband. But Lucy’s a good girl, and Teresina is an angel sent straight from heaven.”

  Roman was still stuck on his father not making judgment calls on the Benito girl. When had that happened? He poked around with a few casual inquiries. “Sounds like you’re expanding your opinions.”

  His father developed a sudden interest in a snag in the afghan and mumbled, “Opinions don’t do no good if they push everybody away.”

  Now that was a comment he’d never expected to fall out of his father’s mouth. Was he talking about them and how their relationship split apart fourteen years ago when Salvatore Ventori accused his son of dishonoring the family name by getting a girl in trouble and refusing to admit it? He wanted to ask the old man to elaborate but chose a different tactic. “How is Pop Benito?” He’d always liked the guy, had appreciated the talk Pop gave him about doing right and standing by your word. Roman hadn’t needed that speech and Pop seemed to know it, but he gave it anyway, and then he’d told him to forgive his father for his bullheaded short-sightedness.