by Mary Campisi
“Maybe we can take my emotional insight and your analytical skills and blend them into some very exceptional work.” The pseudo-bohemian’s voice softened, stretched over the front porch, tried to persuade her. “I’d very much like to work with you.”
Angie cut her a look. “You don’t even know me. I could be really bad at my job. Why take a chance and ruin your reputation?” She paused, studied the woman’s peasant top and layers of necklaces. “That’s not a sound business decision.”
The woman’s red lips spread into a smile as she laid a hand over her chest. “Call it intuition, insight, a feeling, but I sense your talent, and I don’t think the person who selected us did so without a reason.” She leaned forward, the silver eyes bright. “Do you?”
“I haven’t thought about it.” Lie. She’d thought of nothing else since she ran into the bohemian woman in the café, but she couldn’t process the meaning of her presence so she’d pushed it from her brain and suffocated the possibilities. Now, questions spurted in random disarray, like half-clogged sprinkler heads. Why this woman? Why Angie? Who else? Why Magdalena? Why Nate Desantro’s house? Sal’s Market?
“You’re wondering, too,” Sasha said. “Maybe our benefactor brought us together for a reason, and we just don’t know it yet. But we will, of that I’m sure.”
Okay, so the woman believed in karma and all of that. “Do you think we’re it?” Angie asked. “Or do you think maybe somebody else is going to show up who does, say, pencil sketches, chalk drawings, needlepoint?”
Sasha laughed. “I certainly hope not, but art takes many forms, so you never know.” She paused, brushed a dark strand of hair from her shoulder, and said, “Tell me about yourself, Angela. Where are you from? Do you have brothers and sisters? A boyfriend?” Another smile. “Husband? Dog?”
The woman had a way of making her feel at ease and so different from the busybodies who drilled her because she was over thirty and not married. According to them, that could only mean two things; she was gay or she couldn’t get a guy. Really? Wrong on both accounts. What was wrong with an independent woman? “I grew up in a small town in New York called Montpelier. It’s about the size of Magdalena; actually, it’s a lot like this place. No husband, no boyfriend. My dog died a few years ago, but I’m considering another one.” She slid Sasha a look and shrugged. “They don’t give you grief and they’re always happy to see you, even when you look like crap.”
“Good point.”
“It’s just me and my dad.”
“I’m sorry.” The woman’s voice dipped, filled with what sounded an awful lot like pain. “What happened to your mother?”
It had been years since anyone asked about her mother. Elizabeth Sorrento had died too soon and nothing could change that, not tears, or curses, or prayers, though Angie had tried all of them, especially the curses. “She died when I was a baby. It was just my dad and I.” That wasn’t exactly true. “And a houseful of relatives living a few blocks away.” Loud, rambunctious, emotional, that was the Sorrento side of her family. Sunday dinners of homemade pasta and meatballs, vigils for the sick and dead, stories carried from generation to generation.
“A houseful of relatives. That sounds interesting.” Pause. “And challenging. Was it?”
Angie shrugged. “It was interesting and challenging. In our family, everybody knew our business, and they all made comments on whatever situation we were in. Opinions in the Sorrento family are given, whether solicited or not.” Wasn’t that the truth? When she’d been dumped, Uncle Benny had insisted he’d hunt down her ex-fiancé and teach him a lesson or two, though how he was going to do that with a bad leg and an extra forty pounds was uncertain.
“You were lucky.”
Something in the woman’s words clung to Angie, pulled her in. Sorrow? Regret? Pain? It could be all three, but it was none of her business. None. Of. Her. Business.
“You probably think I’m crazy to say such a thing, but being immersed in a family like that never makes you wonder if they care. It’s obvious they do.”
“Easy to say when you don’t have that type of family.” Her father had been the only one to give her space when that jerk ex-fiancé skipped out on her. The rest had wanted details—all of them—not what a jilted bride wants to talk about. But the Sorrento clan believed in purging the hurt with confessions, tears, and food. Rigatoni, lasagna, pasta fagioli, fried zucchini, and her very favorite, cassata cake. She hadn’t tasted that cake since the marriage that didn’t happen and who could blame her, when that was supposed to be her wedding cake?
“I think we always want what we don’t have, and we take what we do have for granted.” Sasha fingered a bangle on her left wrist. “Until we lose it. Then we’ve got some serious thinking to do.”
The woman sounded more like a plain-speaking philosopher right now than the bohemian type. Interesting, and she made sense. “I guess you might be right.”
The silver in the woman’s eyes glistened. “Thank you,” she said in a soft voice, and this time the pain and regret were undeniable. But when she cleared her voice and spoke again, she was all business and determination. “Let’s compare notes and decide how to tackle this project together. I don’t know about you, but I could use this commission, and if we do a spectacular job, we’ll make some eccentric very happy.” Sasha laid a hand on Angie’s forearm. “And maybe this person will invite us to create miniatures and renderings of the family animals: dogs, cats, birds, who knows? Maybe even a rat or a snake.”
Angie made a face. “That’s a bit too eccentric for my blood. There better be a very steep commission tied into that deal or I’m saying ‘no thank you.’”
“I must say I agree.” She turned to Angie. “Now about those notes…”
Chapter 10
Angie knelt in the front flowerbed of the Heart Sent, patted soil into place. She’d offered to transplant the petunias so Mimi wouldn’t have to worry about them going another day in their plastic containers. Mimi said the poor things could only survive so long without a good home, no different from a person. She had a point there. Mimi Pendergrass had a lot of opinions on why the world spun the way it did and most had to do with people and forgiveness. No sense asking if a heartache made her say that because it was obvious that heartache was at the front and center of the woman’s thoughts. What Angie didn’t know and didn’t know if she wanted to know, was how many heartaches had she lived through.
“I see Mimi’s trying to convert you.” Angie squinted, looked up, and shielded her gaze against the sun. A very pregnant Gina Reed stared down at her, and if it were possible, she looked bigger than she had the other day.
“Hey, Gina.” Angie stood, gloved hands at her side. “I actually offered to transplant these for her. Kind of gives Mimi a break and it relaxes me.”
Gina’s expression turned curious, her voice lighter. “You’re a flower junkie?”
“Heck yeah. You should see my flowers at home. I’m a little obsessive about the whole process: the planting, dividing, harvesting seeds, all of it. My dad says my mother was a big perennial flower lover.”
“No kidding?” Gina rested both hands on her belly, shifted from one foot to the other. “Do you press your flowers?”
Angie shook her head. “Never got around to it, but I should.” It would be too late this year because by the time she got home, fall would be long gone, taking with it the last of the flowers and leaves. “Do you want to sit? I can get you a chair from the porch.”
“That would be great.” Gina sighed, tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m ready to have this baby.”
“I can’t imagine.” Angie took in the woman’s belly, her swollen ankles, the puffiness around her face. “Hold on.” She hurried up the porch steps, lifted the rocking chair, and carried it down the steps. “Here. Sit down. Do you want to put your feet up? I can get you a stool. I think Mimi has—”
“I’m fine.” Gina laughed and eased into the rocker. “Don’t fuss over me. I�
��m not used to it and my husband already does enough fussing for twenty.”
Mimi Pendergrass said Ben Reed rubbed his wife’s feet at night, read to their baby, brought her fresh fruit from ten miles away, and had a jewelry designer friend in Philadelphia create a special necklace that he planned to give Gina when the baby was born. That was a lot of emotion, and it made Angie queasy. She pushed the thoughts aside and said, “Mimi should be back soon.”
“I didn’t come to see Mimi; I’m here to see you.”
“Oh.” Angie cleared her throat, waited. “Okay.”
Gina let out a quiet laugh. “Relax, I promise I won’t interrogate you like the rest of the town. I know what that’s like and I’m not a fan of it. I just came to tell you to try and be patient with these people. They mean well, but they don’t always understand what personal space is or ‘not your business.’ The more you try to hold back, the deeper they dig.”
Angie removed her gloves, tossed them on the ground near the pots of petunias. “I’m not used to sharing, especially with people I don’t know.”
“Tell me about it. I grew up here, but I wasn’t exactly a town favorite. I had a difficult time adjusting to the limelight, but once my husband walked into town, I got dragged into it, though not without a lot of kicking and fighting. Point is,” she said, massaging her belly, “they all mean well, and they want to see everybody happy, in love, together. I didn’t believe in that.” Her voice shifted, spilled gobs of emotion into her next words. “But I do now, and it’s because of this town and what they taught me. And Ben, he was always at the center of it, even when I fought him.”
There was a lesson tucked in there somewhere, Angie was sure of it, just as she was pretty certain the lesson had to do with her and he who shall remain nameless—initials R. V.
“So, of course, you’re wondering why I’m telling you all of this when it has nothing to do with you, right?”
Angie stuffed her hands in her back pockets, shrugged. “Pretty much.”
“They all mean well, but don’t let them get to you.” Pause, a dip in her voice, followed by, “And Roman’s a good guy who got a raw deal. All he did was help a girl with her calculus so she wouldn’t flunk the class and get kicked off the cheerleading squad. And do you know how she thanked him? By setting him up to take the blame for a kid that wasn’t his. The whole family up and disappeared shortly after the accusation, like one had nothing to do with the other. His girlfriend dumped him, too, and everybody knew they planned to get married once he finished college. Like I said, it was a bad deal, and so wrong. I don’t blame him for staying away. This town owes him big time, starting with his father.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Roman would not want her to know this, she was sure of it.
“Because I thought you should know.” When Angie started to protest, Gina held up a hand to stop her. “I don’t mean so you can date him, though we all know Pop and Roman’s father already have you two hitched and talking about your first kid. Roman was always decent to me when most other kids in school didn’t know I existed. That says something about a person, and I wish I had told him I didn’t believe the rumors, but I was too chicken to open my mouth. I’m not afraid anymore, and I owe him my support. That’s the real reason I told you about him.” She clutched the arms of the rocker, leaned forward. “My cousin Natalie came to him for help, something ridiculous about finding out who was sending panties to random men with her name signed on the card. Who knows what the truth is? I don’t trust her any more than I can skip rope right now. I want you to keep an eye out and see if she starts stalking him, and if she does, you let me know.”
“Okay. I can do that.” That wasn’t too invasive, was it? “But how will I know who she is?”
Gina’s laugh smothered the question. “Oh, you will absolutely know Natalie Servetti when you see her.”
Angie wished she could say she and Gina enjoyed the rest of the afternoon with Angie digging holes in the rich dirt and planting Mimi’s petunias while Gina supervised as she sipped hibiscus tea. That would have been a pleasurable recounting of the day: flowers, dirt, and the company of a woman who preferred facts and words without embellishments. No excess emotions either—had to control those—and Gina Reed would probably agree. But the day didn’t end that way as the late afternoon sun faded and the gentle breeze blew in.
Seconds before Angie asked Gina if she’d like a snack and more hibiscus tea, the woman pressed her fingers to her temples, squeezed her eyes shut, and leaned forward. “Argh,” she groaned through clenched teeth.
“Gina!” Angie scrambled to her feet, tore off her gloves. “What’s wrong?” Good Lord, what was happening? The woman’s face had turned red, and sweat beaded her forehead. “Are you in pain?” Oh, but she looked like she was in pain. Horrible pain. Angie clutched her hand, tried to stay calm. “What can I do?”
Gina sipped in breaths of air, eyes still shut, and managed to moan, “I’m so dizzy, and my head… I don’t feel well.”
“I’m calling 9-1-1.” Angie pulled out her cell phone, dialed. “Just relax. We’ll get you help, okay?”
Other than the time Kate cut her hand while sawing a piece of trim, Angie had never been in an emergency situation. The next forty minutes were a blur of vehicles, slamming doors, and people’s voices talking fast, asking questions, getting Gina on a stretcher. At some point, her husband showed up, handsome and wild-eyed as he tried to get to his wife. Another police officer pulled him aside, spoke to him in a quiet voice, and when Ben Reed climbed into the ambulance to join Gina and their unborn child, he appeared calm and in control. Angie wanted to turn away from the scene of worry and devastation she’d just witnessed, but she couldn’t. She had to know Gina and the baby were going to be okay. She left a note for Mimi, grabbed her car keys, and headed to the hospital.
Happy events like having a baby were not supposed to take a bad turn, threaten to steal the joy and replace it with tragedy. Angie pushed those thoughts away and moved toward the Emergency Room. The baby would be okay. So would Gina. Life did not always turn out bad. Please, dear God, let Gina and the baby be okay. Please. She prayed for them, something she hadn’t done since Johnny walked out on her, but she prayed now for strength, for guidance, for the mother, father, and unborn child.
Angie sat in the waiting area, eyes glued on the automatic door leading to the emergency room. She didn’t notice her hands were clasped in prayer, didn’t notice she’d been crying until someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“Angie? You okay?”
Tess Casherdon’s eyes were bloodshot, her makeup smeared from tears.
Angie swiped at her eyes, sniffed. “I’m so scared for them.”
“I know.” Tess nodded, sat next to Angie, and laid a hand on her arm. “I know,” she said again, her voice cracking.
“She was fine. We were sitting outside talking, and she was absolutely fine. And then she squeezed her eyes shut and her face turned red, and she said she was dizzy…and I could hardly breathe, I was so scared.” Angie sucked in a breath. “They have to be okay, they just have to be.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” This from Cash Casherdon who stood next to his wife, looking strained yet in control. “She’s with the doctor; let’s try to remain calm.”
Where had he come from? Angie squinted at him through her tears, nodded. He was right. They had to remain calm. And pray. Lots of prayers.
He leaned toward his wife, touched her cheek, and said, “Listen, baby, I’m going to see if I can find out anything, okay?” She nodded and he kissed her forehead. “Be back in a minute.”
Angie stared after him. “How’s he going to find out anything if they’re behind those doors?”
“You don’t know my husband,” Tess said on a sigh. “He’ll find a way.”
Cash Casherdon sauntered toward the registration desk, placed his elbows on the counter, and slid a slow smile at the young receptionist. He did most of the talking, the woman did most
of the blushing and eyelash batting, followed by a phone call, A few more smiles, one low laugh from Cash, and he turned, nodded at them, and made his way back to the waiting area.
Tess clasped her husband’s hand. “What did you find out?”
“Not much, they’re still checking her out, but they’re calling it preclamp or preclampish, or something like that.” He sighed, rubbed his neck, and finished with, “The one where your blood pressure goes up.”
“Preeclampsia,” Tess murmured.
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“But they’ll be okay, right?” The words slipped from Tess’s lips, coated with worry and fear.
Her husband hesitated an extra second, caught Angie’s eye before he said, “Sure. They’ll be okay.”
Angie looked away, clasped her hands, and prayed Cash was right. He’d given Tess the assurance she needed right now, though it might not be the truth. Some people dealt better with fear and worry if someone else offered an escape route coated with different possibilities, some true, some not. That’s not how Angie worked. Give her the worst scenario and she’d battle her way back to acceptance from there. Do not give her the best case and strip it away, a truth at a time. That, she couldn’t handle.
“What the hell is she doing here?”
Cash’s anger sliced through her thoughts and she looked up, spotted the brunette hesitating a few feet inside the doorway. This woman belonged in a magazine: the curves, the breasts, the face, lips, eyes, hair. Drop-dead gorgeous is what she was. She moved toward them, stopped when Cash took a step in her direction.
