by Elley Arden
Baby by Design
( Designing Love - 1 )
Elley Arden
Trish DeVign knows what she needs to be single, successful and satisfied. She needs a baby. With recent relationships falling short of her expectations, she’s single by choice. With a thriving interior design company, she’s got successful covered. It’s the satisfied part that eludes her, and that’s her mother’s fault—not her adopted mother, but the mother who gave her away, sentencing her to a privileged life with two good people who don’t share with her a single drop of DNA.
Tony Corcarelli has spent his adult life as the black sheep of his large Italian-American family ever since he turned his back on running the family carpentry business so he could live a more laidback life, forcing his sister to take the reins. Now, Tony’s grandmother has cancer, and he’s expected to join the family in making her wishes come true. Unfortunately, the two things Nonna wants most for Tony are two things he can’t fathom: a wife and kids or the priesthood. There has to be another way.
When Trish asks her best friend’s brother, Tony, to escort her to a wedding, a night of fun and flirtation turns serious, with Trish confessing she wants a baby. Could a calculated conception be the answer they’ve both been looking for?
Baby by Design
Designing Love - 1
by
Elley Arden
For Gigi, who would’ve been leery of Tony, too…until she saw him in a suit.
And for Gramma Reet, who taught me the greatest show of love is a good, hard cheek pinching.
How’d a girl get so lucky to have grandmothers like you?
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I have to acknowledge my editor, Barb Wilson. She makes me feel like a rock star when I know I’m anything but.
I also couldn’t have written a book like this without intimate knowledge of a big, loud, loving Italian-American family. I’m truly blessed, and I love you all.
And finally, ovarian cancer left a hole in my life and my heart when it claimed my grandmother. In an effort to do my part to make sure future generations can avoid a similar pain, I’ll be donating a portion of proceeds from this book to the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund.
CHAPTER ONE
“My God, he cleans up nice.” Trish DeVign said the words around a mouthful of anise-flavored birthday cake while she stared at a suit-and-tie clad Tony Corcarelli. His colorful tattoos were covered by the sleeves of a fitted single-breasted jacket and navy dress shirt. His pitch-black hair was combed away from his face. And he’d shaved, leaving a slight contrast of color on his cheeks and chin, drawing her eyes straight to his unblemished lips.
“Too bad he’s such a screw up.”
Trish tore her gaze from Tony to level her best friend with the stink eye. “That’s not a nice thing to say about your brother.”
“It’s true. Look at him playing paper football with the kids while he’s dressed in an $800 suit. He should try spending less on clothes, keeping more of that money in the bank, and acting like a grown-up once in a while.”
Trish sighed as the sinfully handsome man flicked a white triangle across the table to the tune of children’s cackles. “I think it’s cute.”
“You would. Shoot. Aunt Helen’s got a slice of cake big enough to prompt diabetic shock. Where’s my mother?” Angie whipped her head in all directions and growled. “I’ll be back.”
Alone in the midst of familial chaos, Trish tapped her nails on the bottom of her plate and looked around the banquet room of Cestone’s Italian Restaurant. Four generations of Corcarellis were a sight to be seen; a sight that made her smile even though it made her heart hurt. In the corner of the room, middle-aged women fussed over the food tables, directing servers, corralling cookies, and spearing meatballs, while in the center of the room, middle-aged men ate until their belt buckles popped. All around, the older generation talked…and talked…and talked, punctuating every sentence with nodding heads and waving hands. She loved them all, but it was the children that tethered her heart, tugging her toward their joyful noises.
“Tony, me next. I’ll kick your as…”
Trish surmised the kid to be about twelve, and when he noticed her approaching, he bit off his last word amid oohs and ahhs from other kids around the table.
With sheepish eyes he looked from her to his cousin. “I’ll beat you is all. That’s what I was gonna say, Tony. Honestly.”
“Sure you were,” Tony said with a grin that tightened the tether on Trish’s heart. “Just gimme ten minutes to throw some cake down my throat and I’m all yours.” He stood, smoothed a hand down the button line of his suit coat, and blinded her with the full power of his male magnetism. All it took was a crooked smile, one that created a dark dip in his left cheek, not quite a dimple—no, dimples were too cute for a man this…edgy. “Hey, Boss Lady. I’d ask you to join me for cake, but I see you beat me to it.”
Trish looked down at her empty plate and swallowed the ridiculous butterflies that escaped their netting whenever Tony came around. “What can I say? It was delicious.”
He grinned again. “In that case, you should have another.”
She’d been raised by a bone-skinny woman who espoused never eating a second serving of anything. Despite the doctrine being tattooed on Trish’s brain, Tony Corcarelli was the kind of guy who could convince a girl to splurge. A classic bad boy, he was capable of more harm than good. But the good… Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.
Trish shook her head, scattering the thoughts that had her wallowing in adolescent purgatory, and reached for a more comfortable, competent topic. “How’s the Jorgen’s sofa coming along?”
“Should be done tomorrow. I can have the wingbacks ready next week.” There wasn’t a wrinkle on or around his lips, just smooth, perfectly puffed skin that circled a mouth decorated with teeth so white they were a sin on a man that dark.
“That’s fine. I’m still waiting on the completion of a couple inlaid rugs, but the sooner the better. I want to keep this project on time.” She sounded professional…and uptight, which was out of place for their surroundings but so much better than sounding like a crushing teen.
“So don’t go changing the fabric on me again.” He dropped his chin to his chest and regarded her through wide, smoky eyes. “Ya hear?” And then he winked.
Her stomach tumbled, churning the cake she’d eaten into cream.
“There you are.” Jackson wrapped a sweaty hand around her bicep. “I have to go.”
Tony lifted his full brows. “Duty calls, Doc?”
“Something like that.”
But Trish knew better. Jackson wasn’t on-call. He simply wasn’t fond of the Corcarellis, something she’d learned on the car ride to the restaurant when he called them “Jersey Shore without the booze.” The comment nagged Trish until she couldn’t dismiss it as a poor attempt at humor, so she added it to the mental column of negatives vs. positives she kept for all her dates.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, kids,” Tony said with another crooked grin and a bob of his brows as he maneuvered around them. It was the kind of look that insinuated the rest of Trish’s evening would be filled with hot, sticky, adventurous sex.
Trish would be lucky if she got a goodnight kiss. Looking up at prune-faced Jackson, she sighed. Three dates in, and already the negatives assigned to his list dipped perilously close to the kiss-off line.
“Tony, wait.” A frilly-dressed, raven-haired girl shoved between Trish and Jackson to scurry after Tony.
Trish watched Tony turn and catch his little cousin as she leapt into his arms. The heartfelt, unscripted gesture made her smile, but when she turned back to Jackson he was scowling.
“These people have no manners,” he grumbled. “An
d too many kids.”
Thirty minutes later, after enough goodbyes, arrivedercis, and double-cheek kisses, Trish tucked inside Jackson’s Porsche and listened to his continued complaints.
“That was a waste of three hours.”
“I disagree. Nonna turning eighty-five is a big deal.”
He rolled his eyes. “She’s not your grandmother. None of those people are related to you—thank God. You could’ve sent a card and some flowers. Why subject yourself to that circus?”
That circus was all Trish wanted from life—not that specific circus, but a circus of her own. Loud, brash, unconditional love, not the kind of love that was earned by good behavior and hefty bankrolls. She sighed, because this part of getting to know someone in order to ascertain compatibility was always the most uncomfortable. “I’m adopted.”
“Oh.” He glanced at her as he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “I didn’t know that.”
Considering how much Jackson adored her surgeon father and socialite mother, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was disappointed she didn’t share the sacred DeVign genes.
“It’s not really a big deal until I’m around a family like the Corcarellis,” Trish continued. “Then I start to wonder what my biological family is like.”
Road noise swirled between them as she waited patiently for his reaction.
He snorted. “If you ask me, that’s dangerous thinking. I mean obviously you’re better off now. Look how lucky you are. Hell, I’d stand in line to be adopted by the DeVigns.”
She bet he would. “Yes, well, there’s something to be said for knowing where you came from. Don’t you think?”
“If I came from a family like the Corcarellis, I’d never want to know. Somebody needs to gift them with a lifetime supply of birth control so they stop polluting the gene pool.” He laughed.
She clenched her hands in her lap and stared out the window at the shadowy shapes and lighted signs flying by. “I’ll skip the nightcap, Jackson. Just drop me off at home.”
“Oh. Hey.” He slowed at a stoplight and stretched an arm across the top of her headrest. “I was kidding. I mean, they’re accommodating enough. They’re just rough around the edges, and it takes some getting used to.” He smiled as he leaned closer, and for a second, hope bubbled in Trish’s chest. “For a guy like me who’d rather have non-anesthetized surgery than kids, it’s a real stretch to relate.”
Every one of those stupid, hope-filled bubbles popped. “The light is green,” she said, redirecting his attention to the road and her attention to the nauseous pit in her stomach.
She was tired of this; tired of getting her hopes up only to have them trashed. At thirty-two, according to her calculations, eight good baby-making years remained. She’d spent the last two years methodically dating, hoping for a ring and white dress. But when she imagined a lifetime with each prospect, and concluded it was more like a life sentence, she lowered her standards. After all, she was an independent woman who didn’t need a man to help her raise a child. But she did need a man to help her make one…and for more than his sperm. She wanted his family history, too. The impersonal, anonymity of creating a baby with a bodiless stranger from a donor clinic wouldn’t work. She wanted her baby to have a complete medical history, intergenerational stories, and at least a quarterly look at his or her dad.
“Are you sure you don’t want that nightcap?” He parked in front of her house and flashed a suggestive grin.
“I’m sure.” She’d rather have a baby. “My stomach isn’t feeling right.”
“Maybe it was the cake,” he said as she opened the car door. “Who likes anise birthday cake anyway?”
She stood up and spun around. “I like anise birthday cake.” And with that, she slammed the car door on his bewildered face.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he sputtered out his open window as she clip-clopped around the front of the car to her stone walk.
Don’t bother, she thought.
Talk about a disappointing night. She should’ve had a second piece of cake.
* * *
Tony pulled the burlap tight around the wingchair’s retied springs and fired staples from his gun into the wooden frame. He could tell a lot about a person by the condition of their furniture. This particular piece belonged to a newly minted chief of radiology and his wife, a friend of Trish. Before Tony could repair the split and crumbling frame, he’d had to remove three layers of dollar-table, outdated fabric, foul-smelling Dacron, and way too much foam rubber. The haphazard upholsteries told a rags-to-riches tale. When Tony was done, these once sad and neglected chairs would flank the finest fireplace in a Trish DeVign-decorated home. Something that didn’t come cheap.
“Why don’t you ever answer your freaking phone? Ma’s been trying to get ahold of us all day.” Angie barged into the garage like she owned the place… Well, technically she did. It was attached to her house, but Tony paid rent to use the space as his sometimes-upholstery shop. He couldn’t very well upholster sofa-sized items in his downtown efficiency.
He kept his eyes on the staple line. “What’s wrong with your phone?”
“My phone? I was onsite all day. You expect me to hear a phone ringing over a floor sander? You weren’t here, were you? You were out on your bike.”
“Maybe. What’s it matter to you?”
“It matters, Tony. It matters.”
That’s what the women in his life—and there were a lot of them—were always telling him. Nonna, Ma, Angie, and his aunts were forever pressing him to sell the bike, cover the tattoos, and quit playing with furniture so he could take his place at the helm of Pop’s carpentry company.
No, thank you.
Becoming a carpenter and taking over the business hadn’t done Angie any good. The responsibility robbed her of free time and fun. Besides, Tony already owned his own business, contracting out his upholstery services. The business was small and nondescript, which left his freedom intact.
“What’d Ma want?” he asked, rather than stoke his sister’s perennially pissy mood by defending his life’s direction.
“I don’t know. I can’t reach her now. The line’s busy. How hard is it to get call waiting and caller ID?”
For a woman who still couldn’t figure out the TV remote? Hard.
Strains of “Born to Be Wild” echoed above the air compressor.
“That’s her,” Angie yelled, pointing in the direction of his phone.
“You answer it,” Tony said, preferring to spare himself the gory details of which cousin said what, more than a week ago at Nonna’s birthday party, and why aunts X, Y, and Z were no longer speaking.
Angie kicked his thigh with her steel-toed boot as she walked by on her way to answer his phone. “Why is nothing ever important to you?”
As he listened to his sister answer their mother’s call, he winced at his stinging thigh and traded the staple gun for an old-fashioned hammer and tacks. Wailing on the metal wedges would help. He had news for his too-serious-for-her-own-good sister, lots of things were important to him. Fun topped the list, with happiness running a close second, followed by friends who fed the fun and happiness.
“Oh God, no,” Angie sobbed, and then wailed. “Tony, Nonna has ovarian cancer.”
The mallet slipped from his hand.
As much as they drove him crazy, family was important, too.
An hour later, Tony was packed like a sardine into Nonna’s galley kitchen with a collection of aunts and uncles who watched the stricken woman stir sauce despite the horrible news.
“I give it to God,” she announced, raising one palm to the ceiling. “I no take it back.”
There were a few amens, but as Tony looked around the room, he was struck by the paleness of the usually olive faces. And there were tears, but only when Nonna wasn’t looking. And there were whispers of sentences he couldn’t quite catch.
Stage IV. Too late for surgery. Chemo. Radiation. Prayers.
He felt sick, like he swall
owed a jar of lug nuts and couldn’t cough them up, let alone crap them out. And when the bowls of food started around the table, he couldn’t eat.
He pushed away his chair, knowing the bathroom was the only rational escape. If he left the house, someone was bound to snitch, and once again he’d be a disappointment; the Corcarelli son not man enough to face the truth. Away from the heavy emotions, he flipped the lid down on the toilet and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Rather than dwell on the turmoil twisting his guts in knots, he’d dwell on his fantasy football team’s lousy performance. His wide receivers tanked, and there were never any good ones available after the draft.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tony looked at the door. “Occupied.” And yet he couldn’t stay much longer, knowing someone waited, unless he wanted to look like an inconsiderate pig. So he hurried up and dropped a running back, picked up a defense, and took a deep breath before he opened the bathroom door.
Nonna stood on the other side. “Antonio.” She smooshed his cheeks in her scratchy, onion-scented hands and smiled the saddest smile he’d ever seen.
All he could do was hug her, squish her weathered body against him and wish he were strong enough to expunge the cancer with one good squeeze. “Love you, Nonna.”
She pushed out of the hug and patted his cheek. “Why you want to be alone?”
Of all things…she was bringing up his marital status today. “I’m not alone, Nonna. I have all of you.”
Both of her hands patted his face. “Life should be shared.”
“And I am sharing my life.” He slid his hands around her wrists and held them in his.
“No wife. No bebe.” She nodded. “You make a good priest.”
He bit back a laugh. A tattooed, Harley-riding priest. Come to think of it, he’d like to see that. But not him. No way. He was pretty sure celibacy was bad for his health.
“I’m fine, Nonna.”
