by Mary Campisi
He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and downed half of it. Something that sounded an awful lot like laughter filtered from the other room, swirled to the ceiling and grabbed him. Was that a woman’s laughter? Sure as hell sounded like it. His father reserved laughter for Pop Benito’s jokes and his favorite television program. But the woman’s laughter was not coming from the television. Who was with his father? He’d just begun the guessing game when the woman spoke and damn if that voice didn’t send a jolt straight to his gut. Angie Sorrento! She wasn’t supposed to be here until nine and it wasn’t even eight-thirty. What was she up to now? Roman took another swig of water, wiped his face again, and headed for the living room.
“Roman?” His father sat in his recliner, surrounded by a tray of sweet rolls and a cup of coffee, hazelnut from the smell of it. Interesting, considering the old man had been on him the other day for admitting he enjoyed flavored brews, especially hazelnut.
“Hi, Dad.” His gaze slid to the couch. And there she was, Angie Sorrento, perched on a cushion like a baby sparrow with a nest of curly black hair. He nodded, took in the pinched lips, the narrowed gaze. Yeah, she was about as happy to see him as he was to see her. “Angie.”
“Hello, Roman.” Her chin darted up. “Nice to see you.”
Right. His gaze shifted to Pop Benito and the plate of sweet rolls resting on his lap, piled two high, slathered in butter. “Hungry, Pop?”
The old man patted his paunch and flashed him a grin. “I’m always hungry and I’ve never been one to turn down the bakery’s sweet rolls.” He eyed Roman, winked. “Barbara’s not making them anymore. She convinced Ramona to take a job part time, and dang, if they aren’t better than any I’ve ever tasted.” Pop lifted one between his bony fingers, studied it. “’Course nobody will ever admit Ramona Casherdon’s sweet rolls are tastier than Barbara’s.” He bit into the sweet roll, chewed. “Keep the peace is what I say, and enjoy the spoils.”
Angie Sorrento laughed and chomped on the sweet roll, frosting coating her lips. Nothing delicate about the way she tackled that sweet roll. Most of the women Roman knew had a love-hate relationship with food, especially anything white, fried, or covered in sugar.
“Want a sweet roll, son?” Sal held up the tray with both hands, and Roman snatched a roll, tore into it as though he hadn’t eaten in three days. Agitation made him edgy and when he turned edgy, he ate. Anything. Whole pizzas. Three plates of pasta. A half dozen meatballs. He chewed the sweet roll, reached for another. Exercise helped, meditation tapes and video games proved distracting. Sex made him forget what agitation meant, but since he hadn’t had an opportunity for that recently, it wasn’t open for consideration. Roman glanced at Angie Sorrento, spotted the tip of her pink tongue licking her lips, and grew hard. No. Hell no! He jerked his gaze away and sank into the chair next to his father. Abstinence could make a man desperate, cloud his judgment, and turn logic on its head. His gaze skittered to Angie Sorrento, narrowed in the vicinity of her chin. Inched up. Caught sight of her bottom lip, glistening with frosting. Nope. Not interested. He stuffed the rest of the sweet roll into his mouth and eyed the platter.
“So what’s this I hear about you trying to wiggle your way out of the deal your dad made with this young lady?” Pop eyed him from behind glasses that swallowed a third of his face. “That don’t sound like you, boy. I never knew you to worm your way out of a responsibility.” He paused, let his next words drench the room. “Unless that responsibility wasn’t yours to own and it got hoisted on you by some no-good snail who didn’t understand the first thing about doing right.”
Sal muttered under his breath, shot Pop the evil eye. “Just say it, Angelo, and stop using those damn stories that go round and round with the meaning tucked inside like sausage and peppers in a Stromboli. Roman and I know you’re referring to the pregnancy the Morrisen girl tried to pin on him.” He nodded at Angie Sorrento who sat with her head bent, hands clasped in her lap like she was praying to be anywhere but here, and said, “And now Angela knows, too.”
Had his father just said “tried to pin on him” as in he didn’t think Roman was the father? When had that happened? Ten seconds ago? Last year? Five years ago? It would have been nice to know. Hearing the old man admit that was worth having his past dragged out and spotlighted in big, bold, center-stage exposure. He bet Angie Sorrento would catalog this information, process it, and pull it out at some point—like when he least expected it. Yeah, that’s exactly what she’d do. He slid a glance her way, caught her watching him, those full lips flattened, the eyes narrowed. The cataloging and processing had already begun.
“All’s I’m saying, Sal, is Roman isn’t a duty shirker, and he knows the right thing to do. Don’t matter if he don’t want to do it; that’s not the point. I’d be awful disappointed if he flat out refused to help this little lady because he got his nose out of joint about one thing or another.”
“What would he have his nose out of joint about?” Sal leaned forward, his voice rising as his gaze moved from Angie to Roman, landed on Pop. “Who wouldn’t want to work side by side with a beautiful young woman?” The voice inched up another two decibels. “One with spunk and Italian heritage in her blood?”
Pop nodded. “I hear you.”
They were talking about him and Angie as if they weren’t sitting in the same room, listening distance away. This was crazy and he wasn’t having it. Roman opened his mouth to speak when Pop swung his skinny frame toward Roman and said, “Well, boy, what you got to say about that? If you want to go against your father’s wishes on the replication of the grocery store, at least tell him why.” He paused. “And I mean the real reason, not the one filled with hot air and bluster.”
Talk about feeling sixteen again. This was worse than the time his father caught him trying to cheap out on cleaning the meat displays at the store so he could make his date with Charlotte. The old man’s expression had gone from disbelief to ticked and settled into disappointment. The lecture had come next, filled with words like duty and giving your word and ending with doing the right thing even if nobody was watching you. Right now, he had Pop and his father homed in on him, waiting for his response. Fine. They wanted the truth? Well, he’d give it to them and to hell with Angie Sorrento’s feelings. He slid a gaze her way, took in the rigid shoulders, the unsmiling lips. Why wasn’t she gloating? Hadn’t she wanted to force him into supporting her silly houses? The pinched lips and clasped hands said maybe she’d reconsidered her position, or maybe she hadn’t considered that his father and Pop had their own agenda, one that was about a whole lot more than a replication of Sal’s Market.
Welcome to small-town living, where life was one part mystery, one part soap opera, and a whole lot of headache, all rolled into one and coated with sugar and a teaspoon of spice. He hadn’t missed the old behind-the-scenes drama and plotting of relatives and neighbors who swore they only “wanted to help make things right.” Really? How did they plan on doing that? Ask a person to complete a questionnaire, share a cup of coffee and a few secrets, maybe draw a diagram or three of the issues bogging him down? Not happening. Ever.
“Boy? You gonna answer or you gonna make Pop draw his own conclusions?”
Sal spoke with a hint of annoyance, his words smothered in expectation. Roman blew out a breath, avoided Angie Sorrento’s hard stare, and said, “You had a heart attack; you have to take it easy.”
“So?” His father shot a look at Pop, shrugged. “Pop and I are like old war horses. A little rust and a dent or two isn’t going to bring us down. Right, Angelo?”
Pop grinned and shrugged his bony shoulders. “We’ll be inching along until our bones creak to a stop and our hearts stop ticking, like a T.rex…that’s when we’ll call it a day.”
Roman ignored both men and said, “It’s not just the heart attack that’s got me concerned.” He zeroed in on the woman seated a few feet away, stared at her nest of wild hair. “Am I the only one concerned about an eccentric who’s
handpicked locations in our town for replication, but refuses to reveal his or her identity?”
“It’s a mite curious,” Pop said, scratching his head. “But it’ll all wash out in the end.”
“Yup.” Sal grabbed another sweet roll. “That’s what I’m thinking. This person will fall in love with the replications and won’t be able to stay away from Magdalena.” He nodded, grinned. “And then you watch out. The town might make it on a calendar.”
“Or a Christmas card,” Pop chimed in. “I do like the sound of that.” His voice shifted, turned soft like he was pulling back memories. “Snow on the trees, giant-sized candy canes on the front porch. Twinkle lights covering the potted bushes outside the stores. What a sight. And the children; imagine their expressions when they hear the carolers.”
Sal whistled, leaned back in his recliner, and said, “That would make some kind of Christmas card.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t count on learning the name of the benefactor.”
Angie Sorrento’s words slipped out, made them all turn toward her. Was she on his side? Roman hadn’t counted on that. “See, she agrees,” he said before she could add something that would change what she’d just said. He didn’t know the woman well, but she was as mercurial as hell and he wasn’t taking any chances.
Pop darted a look from Roman to the woman in question, winked. “So she does,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “So she does.”
Chapter 6
Miriam knew her son only possessed so much patience, and right now it was close to exploding like a burst water pipe under high pressure. It wasn’t that Angie meant to aggravate him; it appeared the self-assured, take-control, do-it-my-way was just her personality. Maybe she’d learned not to depend on anyone but herself and that lesson had made her stronger in some respects and weaker in others. Like the areas of interacting with people and knowing how to accept help. Developing relationships, too, that was a big one, and the poor girl was about as soft as sandpaper.
“I don’t see any 20 TPI blades. They work best when I’m cutting the trim.” Angie stuffed her hands in her back pockets, studied the collection of saw blades lined up and numbered in drawers on a shelf, custom-built for the purpose.
Nate shot a how-could-you-do-this-to me look at Miriam and said, “I keep the smaller blades in a section by themselves.” He pointed to the last piece of particleboard at the back of the workshop. “No sense letting seldom-used pieces take up high-end real estate.”
“I agree.” Angie made her way to the blades, inspected them. “But I’ll need a few of these for the next several weeks, so I guess that makes them high-end real estate.” She turned toward him. “Mind helping me move those up a bit?”
At least the girl offered to help with the move. Miriam supposed Angie could have “ordered” Nate to do it without her assistance. That should count for something, shouldn’t it? But when she caught her son’s eye, the twitching jaw and unsmiling face said he didn’t think so. Not one bit. Miriam waited until he’d turned and stalked toward the smaller blades, out of earshot before she said, “I’m sure Nate doesn’t mind moving the tools you’ll need to a more convenient space, but why don’t we let him decide where that will be?” She smiled at Angie, softened her voice. “He’s not used to sharing his space. He had a difficult time adjusting to his partner, and he’s known Cash since he was a boy. Nate doesn’t trust easily and he’s wary of strangers. I’d like you to show him he doesn’t need to worry about you, that you’ll respect his workshop and not give him reason to distrust you.”
Angie’s lips pulled into a scowl. “I’m not dishonest and I’m sure as heck not somebody who takes advantage of another person.” She blew out a breath, crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll respect his property, count on that.” She nodded and her wild curls bounced around her shoulders.
“Thank you, dear.” Maybe this venture wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to help him get my stuff situated.” She pointed to the area of particleboard that held Nate’s most-used tools. “I’m going to have him set the blades right there.”
Miriam sighed. On second thought, maybe this venture would be worse than she could have imagined. Nate had been short-tempered these past few weeks, not around Christine, of course, but everyone else. They all suspected the reason for his moodiness, but none of them would say a word about it, except for Jack Finnegan. He didn’t cower under Nate’s glares or his comments about not wanting to discuss it. “Not discussing it” was not in Jack’s vocabulary and he’d called Nate on his grouchiness, made him own up to his issue—which, as they all suspected, had to do with worry that, with baby number two due soon, the Desantros were running out of living space.
And each day as the arrival of Baby Desantro grew closer, Nate’s worry over what to do about housing increased. He cussed and fumed and made those around him miserable. He’d even lost his temper around Lily a time or two, which did not sit well with her. Adding Angie Sorrento to the mix was not a good idea and yet, Candace had left her no choice. The only way to control the situation and see the work finished without an explosion was for Miriam to supervise and assist. Not every day, or even every other, because that would make her son suspicious, but a few times a week to gauge the dynamics between Nate and Angie, which, at the moment, needed work. The sooner Angie completed her projects, the sooner she’d leave the shop, pack up her bags, and head out of Magdalena. That could not happen fast enough.
If she thought her son’s minimal conversation with Angie Sorrento was an indication of his displeasure, she was right. He did have the common courtesy to wait until dinner that evening when he’d finished his first helping of beef stroganoff and had started on his second to say, “Ma, don’t ever do that to me again.”
Lily looked up from her plate, scrunched her nose. “Mom? What did you do to Nate?”
Miriam dabbed her mouth with her napkin, glanced at Nate, who pinned her with a dark stare. “I told someone she could share your brother’s workshop.” Lily gasped and clasped a hand over her mouth, shot a look from her mother to Nate. “And I told her she could use his tools, too.”
Another gasp and then, “A she? You let a girl use his stuff?”
Christine spoke up. “Girls can operate machines and use tools, too.” She gave Lily a wink and a smile. “Some are better than guys.”
Nate covered his wife’s hand, met her gaze. “So, she knows what she’s doing; she’s still a pain. Critiques and questions everything and you know how I hate that.”
“We sure do.” Christine cleared her throat and met Miriam’s gaze.
“Indeed.” Miriam forked a piece of beef and chewed. The whole town knew Nate didn’t much like hearing everyone’s opinions, preferred to figure out things on his own, and he certainly wasn’t about to listen to a stranger. Goodness, Nate Desantro did not trust strangers; everybody knew that.
Nate wasn’t finished complaining about his new annoyance. “This Angie gets on a roll and starts yakking about the way to achieve the perfect finish with 600-grit sandpaper and paste wax. Cash loved that one, since he’s had woodworkers beg him for his secret to a good finish. But Miss I-know-what-I’m-talking-about-and-let-me-tell-you acted like we were in class.” He scowled and bit into a roll.
“Like you were the students and she was the teacher?” Lily’s blue eyes turned bright as she studied her brother.
“No, “Nate said, giving his sister a stern look. “Definitely not like that.”
“Oh.” She leaned forward, whispered, “Like you were partners?”
“No,” he whispered back, “Like she was a showoff who didn’t know her audience.”
“Hmm.” Lily considered this. “Maybe she wanted you to think she was cool so you wouldn’t give her the frowny face you make when you don’t like something.”
“A frowny face?” The lips pulled down, the brows pinched together. “Really, Lily?”
She giggled, pointed at him. “S
ee. There it is. Mr. Frowny Face. Uncle Harry says it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile. And Pop says you need practice.” She nodded her dark head, grinned. “Cash says Christine’s the only one who knows how to make you smile because she has secret weapons.” Lily darted a glance between Christine and Nate. “What kind of weapons?”
Nate coughed and Christine sputtered, but from the pink spreading up their necks and the way they looked at one another, they knew exactly what Lily meant. Miriam interrupted before Lily had a chance to dig deeper. “Husbands and wives always have secret weapons. They know the kind of candy the other likes, and their favorite pie, what music they listen to, the shampoo they prefer…”
Lily scratched her chin, pulled her brows together to match her brother’s. “Nate likes a special shampoo?”
“That’s just an example,” Christine said, the words spilling out in a rush. “What your mom means is that husbands and wives know what makes the other happy, what makes them smile, laugh, even what makes them sad.” She squeezed her husband’s hand and said in a soft voice, “It’s really important to know what makes them sad so you can avoid that.”
“But why is it secret?” Pause, and then, “Are you sure it doesn’t have to do with kissy-kissy stuff?”
“No!” Christine’s face flushed bright pink, then red. Marriage, a child, and another on the way hadn’t changed her. The poor thing was not comfortable with questions about intimacy, especially from Lily.
