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

by Mary Campisi

  Hell, he supposed he’d have to set his mother straight in regard to Angie Sorrento as in the woman had no interest in him, none she’d admit anyway. And he was fine with that, better than fine. He wasn’t chasing after her, no way, not when women fell all over him when he smiled. Yeah, damn straight they did. Who needed a spicy Italian with attitude when he could have his pick of females? Any one of them. His for the choosing. Roman sighed, turned to the computer and clicked on the file that read Inventory. That would take his mind off women, relationships, and small-town interferences. It worked for forty-two minutes, right up until the second his office door banged open and Angie Sorrento stormed in looking pissed and ready to take a swing. At him.

  “Just because my name ends in a vowel does not mean I’m gonna hook up with you.” She planted her hands on her almost nonexistent hips and spat out, “You got that?”

  Roman stared at her, tried to gauge the level of her agitation. He’d guess an eleven out of ten. What had his old man and Pop done now? “Yeah. I got it.”

  “I’m sorry your father’s sick, but your inability to find a woman who wants to have your baby is not my problem.”

  His what? Oh, hell no. He stood, made his way around the desk to tower over her. “Trust me, there’s never been a question about my ability with women and I could find ten who’d want to have my baby.”

  She thrust out her chin as if she seriously doubted his words and made a sound that came out like disgust and disbelief wrapped into one. “If you say so.”

  Roman crossed his arms over his chest, stared at her. “My father’s got it in his head that he wants me settled and he wants a grandchild before he dies. He’s become obsessed with the idea, and it doesn’t help that he’s got a partner in Pop Benito.” He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “Those two are working their way down a list of eligible females ages twenty-five to forty, and you’re at the top of it.”

  She scowled, her dark eyes narrowing. “Lucky me.” The scowl deepened. “How the heck did I get on the list? I don’t even live here.”

  His lips flattened and he thought of holding onto the answer but decided to let it slip out. “But you do have a name that ends in a vowel.”

  “I wasn’t serious about that.” She moved toward his desk, plopped down in a chair, and dragged both hands in that mess she called hair. “This has to stop. I’m here to do a job, not find a mate so I can spit out a baby.”

  “Wow, now that is an appealing visual.”

  “Shut up.” She toyed with her hair, wound it around her fingers, and let the curls spring back. “Can’t you get them to stop? I don’t want to hurt your dad’s feelings and Pop Benito’s very cool, but this is way past embarrassing.” She leaned forward, gripped the edge of his desk with both hands, and said, “Do you know some lady stopped me in front of Lina’s Café and told me to call her if I needed help picking out a wedding gown?”

  “Really?” That sounded like Mrs. Nethers. People said she loved weddings and that’s why she’d had six of her own. Yup, he’d lay his money on Rowena Nethers being the one.

  She nodded. “Yes, and the waitress at Lina’s asked how you were, and then she winked at me.” That comment gave way to a huff. “Why would she wink?”

  Roman shrugged. “No idea, but it’s a good thing they don’t know about the other night.” The glare said she dared him to mention it. He should keep quiet, but that wasn’t in his nature, so he opened his mouth and said, “How long are we really going to dance around what happened the other night? I don’t want to talk about it any more than you do, but it’s not going away.” She bit her lip, remained silent, and that annoyed the hell out of him. “Oh, so you don’t remember?” He took a step toward her. “You know, I’m talking about what happened outside the hospital building.” Pause. Next came a blush of pink across her cheeks. “The kissing. The touching. I still remember how you—”

  “Stop,” she said, fists clenched, gaze narrowed on him. “Just stop.” Those tiny nostrils flared seconds before she opened her mouth and bit out, “Abstinence.”

  “What?”

  She flung her hair over her shoulder, advanced on him like a she-cat. “Abstinence,” she repeated. “What happened was a physical response associated with my body’s desire to be touched.”

  “What? Your body’s desire?” What kind of bull was that? “You’re acting like you can separate the two—brain and body.”

  “Why not? Men do it all the time; why can’t women?”

  “You’re not making any sense.” Roman stared at her. “All I got out of that mumbo-jumbo bull was abstinence and body’s desire. So, how long’s it been since you…” He let the meaning hang in the air, curious to see how she would respond.

  “None of your damn business.”

  He hid a smile. The woman did not disappoint. “That long, huh?”

  “Go to hell, and call off the matchmakers or you’re gonna see really pissed, and trust me, you do not want that.” She flashed him one more look that said she’d just as soon punch him in the gut as talk to him, and left.

  He was still contemplating Angie Sorrento and her comments about her “body’s desire” when Natalie Servetti click-clacked into his office smelling like a coconut. “Roman, I need to talk to you, right away.”

  Why did everyone think he had the answers to their problems? Natalie needed his help, his mother, Charlotte. Not Angie, though, other than to demand he call off his father and Pop’s matchmaking schemes and he’d lay odds if he weren’t successful, she’d tackle them on her own. As annoyed as she made him, he had to admire her guts, wished Natalie and Charlotte were more like that. But they weren’t and that’s why he hadn’t confronted Natalie with Charlotte’s accusations about having an affair with her husband. But now here she was and he might as well get it over with and filed away. He tossed his pen on the desk, folded his arms over his head, and said, “What’s going on?”

  She click-clacked to his desk, her full lips pinched. “Someone sent panties to Jeffery Hardin.”

  “Ah.” More panties. “So?”

  Natalie placed both hands on her curvy hips and said, “So, Jeffery is fifteen years old.”

  “Oh.” Not good.

  “His parents contacted me, threatened to call the police. I begged them to reconsider, told them someone was impersonating me, but I know they think I was lying.” She sniffed, swiped at her eyes, careful to avoid the liner and mascara. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

  “Funny you should ask.” Roman tapped a finger against his chin, studied her. “I heard an interesting story today.” Where did she want him to start? From the stories flitting about town tying her to young, old, single, married, and engaged, she really shouldn’t be asking what she’d done to deserve payback. But the Natalie he remembered hadn’t learned about accountability and maybe the “mature” version didn’t know about it either.

  “What kind of story? Did you find out who’s been doing this?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  She hesitated, asked, “Nothing from Nate or Ben either?”

  Natalie knew better than to add Cash to that mix. “Nope.”

  “Oh. What then? Tell me.”

  “Are you having an affair with Charlotte’s husband?”

  “Steven Simmons?” She sniffed and lifted a shoulder. “Of course not.”

  Roman held up a hand. “Just asking the question.”

  “But why are you asking?” She placed her hands on his desk, leaned toward him. “Why, Roman?”

  If Natalie were rethinking her path in life, she really had to switch out her wardrobe. No more low-cut dresses that squeezed her breasts like a welcome treat. Did the guy she supposedly had a thing for really want other men fantasizing about her? As if they didn’t already. Worse, a lot of them knew what those breasts looked like minus clothing. Yeah, Natalie had a lot of work to do, starting with the wardrobe.

  “Roman? Stop looking at my boobs and answer the question.”


  The comment annoyed him because while he had been looking at her breasts—kind of hard to ignore that presentation—he preferred the smaller breasts that belonged to a woman who drove him crazy. That was ridiculous and he knew it, but what else was new? “What? Oh, Charlotte told me.”

  She huffed, her tanned face bursting with red. “That is not true. Why would she say that?” Her blue eyes narrowed on him. “Unless…”

  Natalie had always been one for dramatics. Okay, she wanted him to ask, he’d ask. “Unless, what?”

  “Don’t you see? She wants you to think I’m having an affair with her husband. That way, you’ll feel sorry for her and whisk her away to happily-ever-after.”

  Roman stared at her. “What the hell are you talking about?” He and Charlotte weren’t getting together, he’d told her that this afternoon. Besides, she didn’t really want him; she wanted to go back to the past, when life was easier and they didn’t have to worry about being grown-ups with grown-up responsibilities.

  “She wants you, Roman. How could you not see that? I heard her talking to her sister about you, gushing all over the place like she’d sprung a leak. It was nauseating, especially since she dumped you for that walking book of rules and regulations.” She flipped her hair behind her shoulder, rolled her eyes. “She’s ridiculous and I do not appreciate her starting rumors. I’ve got enough floating around that are actually true. So, do you want me to talk to her, set her straight about me and her husband?” Pause, a slow smile. “And while I’m at it, make sure she knows you and she are never going to happen?”

  Chapter 12

  Miriam hadn’t heard from Candace in four days. After the second day of no communication, she’d tried to email her but had gotten no response. In a moment of grave desperation, she’d phoned the home number but hung up when the maid announced Mrs. Prescott was unavailable. Mrs. Prescott. The name carried weight in boardrooms across the country and maybe that’s why Candace hadn’t taken her husband’s name. Or maybe she simply wanted to maintain her own identity. Miriam had no idea because she didn’t know her sister, and all the supposing wouldn’t change that.

  She placed a loaf of sliced banana nut bread in a bag, grabbed her purse and keys, and headed out the door. Angie had asked her to stop at the Towne Hall so she could meet Sasha Rishkov, the artist who’d been commissioned to paint Sal’s Market, Nate’s, Cash’s, and the Heart Sent. According to the stories floating around town, the woman was “colorful,” to say the least, with a sultry laugh and stories of love, heartache, and the best way to make lamb stew. Where had Candace found her and why was she here? Miriam knew there was a reason and it had nothing to do with painting. Had Sasha been blackmailed into coming here, forced to comply with Candace’s demands or risk exposure of a dark secret? Who could say? It didn’t matter; nothing did except giving her sister what she wanted so she’d go away and take the Prescott affiliation with her.

  The Towne Hall wasn’t a place she visited often, but it had old charm and a sense of Magdalena. Christine had been after her to attend a Bleeding Hearts Society meeting, said the group did a lot of good and she thought Miriam would be a great addition. But her daughter-in-law didn’t know how many of the people at that table had judged her father, called him a kind but weak man who had no business giving Miriam hope for a future with more than four days a month.

  Oh, Charlie, you were a weak man, but that only made me love you more. I miss you so.

  She climbed the steps, took in the photographs Mimi had taken. The woman had known the loss of a son and husband, the estrangement of a daughter, and still, she did not give up hope on humanity.

  Laughter spilled into the hallway from the second meeting room, snaked its way to Miriam, wrapped itself around her. She followed the sound, smiled. Angie didn’t laugh often, at least not when Nate was in the room, but then he had that effect on people who didn’t know him. When she reached the doorway, she hesitated, preferring to watch Angie and Sasha from a distance. The “colorful” comment had been correct. Though Sasha Rishkov sat with her back to the doorway, Miriam had a clear view of the woman’s yellow peasant top, the magenta skirt, the stacks of bangles covering both wrists, the gold sandals. Next to Angie’s jeans and Yankees T-shirt, the woman looked like a perennial flower explosion—zinnias or maybe cosmos. Miriam advanced into the room, her smile spreading as she caught the feather earrings dangling from Sasha’s ears.

  “Hello.”

  The laughter stopped and Angie swung around, her expression lighting up when she spotted Miriam. “Hey, glad you made it.” She pushed back her chair, pointed to the woman next to her, and said, “This is Sasha.”

  Sasha turned. “Hello, Miriam.” The silver gaze glittered, matched the smile on the woman’s face as she spoke with a heavy accent. “Angie’s told me so much about you.”

  Candace? There were no words to speak, or think, nothing but the warning in her sister’s eyes as they targeted Miriam, a silent threat that would unleash itself if necessary. Miriam opened her mouth to speak, closed it. Why was Candace here, in Magdalena? This was worse than the day Gloria Blacksworth arrived on her doorstep. Miriam hadn’t been surprised by that, had half expected it given the woman’s obsessive need to control her daughter and destroy Magdalena. But this? Candace had drawn Miriam into her plot, threatened exposure if she didn’t comply, and though she despised what she’d been forced to do, Miriam had done it. Was continuing to do it. And still, it wasn’t enough? No, it was enough. The games stopped now. Miriam forced a smile, advanced on her sister. “How nice to meet you, Sasha.” She extended a hand, clasped her sister’s in a firm grip. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

  “Miriam’s an artist, too,” Angie said, the admiration in her voice spreading from one woman to the other. “I told Sasha you’ve been helping me with the project and she said you might be able to help her, too.”

  “Really?” Oh, but Candace was a crafty one. It appeared the make-believe stories she created as a child had come in handy for the ones she fabricated now. “What do you paint?” Her sister had never mastered a coloring book and crayons, at least not when Miriam knew her. Was she really an artist, or was this simply one more lie piled on a stack of others?

  A shrug, a slow smile, and a soft, “Watercolors. Very telling, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” The woman was lying, and somewhere buried between the words was a threat. Miriam turned to Angie, held out the loaf of banana nut bread wrapped in foil. “I’ve brought a snack, but it needs a good cup of tea to go with it.” She reached in her purse, pulled out three tea bags. “It’s a special cinnamon-cardamom mix my friend Harry sent me.”

  “Sure. I’ll heat up the water; be right back.”

  The second Angie stepped out of the room, Miriam turned on her sister, leaned close, and spoke in as fierce a manner as a whisper would permit. “How dare you come here? I’m doing everything you asked and still, it’s not enough.”

  “A temper does not become you.”

  The accent was gone, replaced with culture and a lifestyle that spoke of good breeding and money. Lots of both. “What are you up to now? And don’t tell me it’s not my business because I’m making it my business.” Miriam placed both hands on the table, leaned toward her sister, and said in a low voice, “You seemed awfully cozy with Angie a few minutes ago. That tells me you like her, want to get to know her, even if you have to create a whole other persona. Why would you do that?” Why would she do that? “It makes no sense. People don’t just go around dressing up, tossing around accents and stories that aren’t true unless there’s a darn good reason, like she’s really your daughter, or—” The gasp cut off the rest of Miriam’s words. Her sister clamped a hand over her mouth, stared at Miriam, her eyes a mix of sadness and pain…the eyes of a person sinking in regret…maybe the regret over giving up a child?

  Candace swallowed twice. “She’s... she’s...”

  The woman who must have conducted hundreds of board meetings, held dinner partie
s for the rich and influential, and shared conversations with business people all over the world, could not say the words. Miriam laid a hand on hers and said, “She’s yours, isn’t she?”

  A nod, accompanied by a whispered “Yes.” And then, “Please don’t tell her.”

  Miriam had no intention of telling Angie anything, but she wouldn’t let her sister know that. “I want the demands to stop.”

  “All right.” Pause. “She’s special. Full of energy and so much talent.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Candace cleared her throat, blinked several times. “I can’t paint. I need you to help me. Please.”

  Apparently her sister hadn’t thought this situation through, or maybe she was so used to getting everything she wanted, she hadn’t anticipated the need to do so. “I’ll help you,” Miriam let the next words spill out, trickle to her sister’s brain. “But no more demands or threats from you. Period. Or there will be repercussions.”

  ***

  Angie eased a comb through a section of wet hair, careful not to yank on the knot. She’d been tempted to chop off this mess more than once but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Not because she had any great love for the wild curls that swirled and swayed with the weather and her temper. She didn’t cut her hair because her father said it was beautiful, just like her mother’s. He used to stare at her curls as if pulled back to another time and place, another person. She separated the next section, worked the comb through it. Her father never asked for anything but her happiness; she could gift him this one small memory.