by Peggy Jaeger
With Connor next to me.
“I really hate leaving you,” he said. “I wish…”
“What?”
He shook his head and rested his chin on the top of my head.
The sound of the apartment buzzer blared, followed by someone banging on the door.
“Regina Maria, I know you’re home. Open up. I ain’t got my key, and we need to talk.”
Pop.
“Santa Maria. You’ve got to be kidding me,” I wailed. “I swear he’s got some kind of nanny cam hidden in here, because his timing is too perfect for coincidence.”
Connor’s light laugh shook his shoulders.
“I feel like we’ve been here before,” he said.
I stormed across the room, unshot the bolt from the door, and slammed it open. Barring his entry, I stood squarely in the center of the doorway.
“What are you doing here, Pop?”
“Watch your tone, little girl.”
Thirty-two years old and he still calls me little girl and chastises me like I’m five.
Even though I was blocking the doorway, Pop didn’t get the hint. Or if he did, he chose to ignore it.
“Move,” he said, brushing his hand over my arm. “I need to come in ’cause I got something to say to ya.”
I tried to grab his arm to prevent him from entering, but here’s the thing: my father is built like a truck. As I’ve said, I’ve never really known what he does for an actual living, but whatever it is it’s kept him in the shape of a toned and muscular forty-year-old. My attempt at stopping him in his tracks was beyond a total attempt at frustration.
Pop barreled into my apartment and then crashed to a stop when he saw Connor standing in the middle of the living room.
“Mr. San Valentino. Nice to see you again.”
“Irish. Just the guy I came here to talk to my daughter about.”
“Oh?” I asked, coming to a halt in front of him, my arms crossed defiantly over my chest. “I don’t think you have anything to say about Connor, Pop. That’s his name, by the way. Not Irish.”
Pop shot me a glare I’d seen grown men shake and quiver from when it landed on them. Not me. Since I’d grown up with that look, it didn’t have the same intimidating effect.
His gaze traveled across my face then slid to the table. Our half-eaten food and wine glasses were still sitting there, abandoned the night before.
“Mangianno’s?” Pop asked me.
I shrugged one shoulder, never uncrossing my arms. “So?”
“Cozy,” he said, his gaze crossing to Connor. To me he added, “You sure you know what you’re doing with this guy, bellissima figlia?”
So now I was his beautiful daughter again?
“Nothing that concerns you, Pop.”
“It does if the guy is using you.”
“What?” Both Connor and I cried the word. “Pop, what are you talking about? Connor isn’t using me.”
“Mr. San Valentino, I can assure you—”
Pop raised his hand, pointed his index finger at Connor. “Save it, Irish. I know all about you.”
Connor cocked his head. “You do, huh?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“What, exactly, do you think you know?”
Pop opened his overcoat and shot his hands into the front pockets of his trousers.
Rocking back on his heels, he said, “For starters, you got a web-design company going public in a few months.”
Connor’s eyes narrowed a bit. “That’s interesting information to have since only a handful of people know about it. How did you find out?”
“I got my ways.”
Oh, merda. I knew exactly what those ways were.
“Pop.” My voice shook with anger and a subtle warning for him to stop whatever else he was planning to say.
“Second,” Pop said, still rocking, still staring down his nose at Connor and ignoring me. “I found out a few things about you that make me concerned for my daughter and her welfare.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Pop turned to face me. “What do you know about this barbone, Regina?”
Aside from the fact that I was in love with him, not an awful lot. But there was no way I was saying that out loud. What I did know was enough for me.
“Pop, what is all this about?” I asked instead, calling up the old San Valentino diversion tactic my cousins taught me.
My father slanted a glance at Connor then back to me. “He tell ya he’s got a side piece?”
“What?”
“While you’ve been here eating dinner and doing God knows what else, he’s got another girl, waiting for him to come home. Only he can’t ’cause he’s with you.” He turned to Connor. “I don’t like that you’re two-timing my little girl. I don’t stand for that kinda crap in my family.”
Connor’s eyes widened to the size of my to-die-for moon pies. “Not that it’s any of your business, sir, but I’m not involved with anyone but your daughter. I don’t have any other girlfriends, or side pieces, as you call them.”
Awww. My little Italian girl heart fluttered when he said that. All too quickly that warm fuzzy feeling was shot down by Pop.
“Oh, no?”
“No. I can assure you of that.”
Pop turned back to me. “So you can add liar to the other reasons he’s no good for you, Regina.”
“Excuse me.” Connor’s cheeks turned crimson, while his mouth pulled down in the corners.
“Pop, stop it. You’re way outta line here. I think you should leave.” I grabbed his arm, but he shook me off.
“You don’t believe me?” he asked me, then Connor, “The name Lisa DeBenedetto mean anything to you?”
For a split second, Connor’s eyes went wide, then turned to slits, rage coursing through them.
“See?” Pop pointed at him but spoke to me. “Proof.”
“How do you know her name?” Connor asked.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly the response I wanted to hear.
“I got my ways. People who know how to find things out. Things people want to keep hidden.”
The dawn broke on Connor’s face, and if it was possible the rage in his glare turned the color of his eyes black. “You had me investigated?”
Pop shrugged, his overcoat swaying with movement. “If that’s the word you want to call it.”
That’s exactly what he’d done. Pop’s connections in the information-gathering community were the stuff of legends. He always knew someone who knew a guy who could get him anything he wanted, be it tickets to a sold-out show or a brand new car at rock-bottom prices. Or information.
“You pay this DeBenedetto’s monthly rent on a condo in Canarsie,” Pop continued. “She drives a town car that has your name on the lease. Want me to go on?”
“You’ve got some nerve,” Connor said, his fists balling at his sides.
“I prefer to call it protecting my interests, and Regina is my primary interest.”
It didn’t slip by me that Connor hadn’t denied my father’s allegations. A flash of the conversation I’d had with his mother at the fundraiser shot to the front of my brain. She’d told me Connor was her only child, but he’d told me he’d lost his younger brother to cancer.
Was that a lie?
“Connor.” I moved next to him and laid a hand on his arm. Anger vibrated under my touch. “Please. Do you know this girl that Pop’s talking about?”
“Your father had me investigated like I was a thug, and that’s the question you ask? I can’t believe you’d condone this kind of behavior from him. From anyone. Who does that?”
“I don’t hear you denying it,” Pop said.
I didn’t either, and that was…troubling. Ten minutes ago, I’d had mind-blowing sex with him in the shower, trusting him with my body and my love. Right now I was doubting everything I did know about him, and again, it was little more than his name.
My hesitation at his question didn’t go over well. Connor’s nostrils flared, and
he shook his head. With a glance at my father, he stalked to where I’d hung up his coat the night before.
“Connor, please.” I followed him, unease clutching my insides.
“You know, Regina—” He turned toward me while he shrugged into his suit jacket. “I thought we had something, the two of us. I thought you were feeling the same things I was—”
“I was. I am.”
“I find that hard to believe, since I see doubt running all over your face. I’m sorry, but I think I should go.”
“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” Pop said.
While he buttoned his coat, he faced my father. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he said in a voice that could cut glass, “but Lisa DeBenedetto is my mother.”
“No, she isn’t,” I said before I could stop myself. “I met your mother the other night at the fundraiser. You introduced us. Her name’s…Molly.”
Connor slid his gloves on and leveled a heated glare at me. “Lisa is my biological mother. She gave me up for adoption when I was three days old. Molly and Angus Gilhooly adopted me and raised me as theirs. I pay the rent on her condo and the lease on her car because she’s divorced and has been going through some financial hard times because of it.” He shot his coat sleeves and, to my father, asked, “How’d your investigator miss that?”
Then he was out the door, leaving me open-mouthed and staring after him. The silence in my apartment was broken only by the sound of the downstairs door slamming shut.
I turned around to face my father and did something I hadn’t done in six years. I collapsed into his arms.
Chapter 9
Regina’s tips for surviving in a big Italian family: 9. Holidays are for family, no matter what.
After Angelina died, I wasn’t able to function for months. Johnny was no help since he spent his days drinking at the local bar and then passing out in the car in front of our apartment. My parents moved me back into my old bedroom so they could take care of me. When I was finally able to join the living again, Ma told me I needed to do something with my life that would get my mind off my loss. I needed to snap out of my sorrow and move forward. The British royal family’s stiff upper lip’s got nothing on an old-world Italian family’s suck it up and move on mentality.
Nothing.
Even though women wear head-to-toe black for decades as a way of remembrance of husbands who have died, they still soldier on.
So suck it up, I did. I’d enrolled in baking school and then worked endlessly to occupy my mind.
The morning after Connor walked out my door and out of my life, I cried until I had no tears left, and then Pop put me to bed for the day. I slept without moving and was up at my usual three a.m., the next morning, dressed and downstairs at the bakery. My hands rolled endless batches of dough on autopilot so my mind could simply shut down and not think about what had happened. Without a thought to what I was doing, I decorated six custom cakes, instinctively and mechanically moving through the process. Not surprising, I made no mistakes. My hands knew what do without my brain instructing them through the process.
My mother had finally gotten over her self-imposed sick leave and showed up bright and early at six a.m., ready to work as usual. Nothing was said about my outburst at dinner nor what had happened the day before, even though I knew without a doubt Pop had given her a full report. She came into the bakery, hung her coat up on the rack, and then walked over to me. Without a word, she pulled me into her meaty arms and squeezed. I’ll admit this freely: I clung to her like I had as a child when I needed to be comforted. This little powerhouse of a woman drove me crazy sometimes, but she was my rock. I don’t know how I would have survived after Angelina’s death if it hadn’t been for her unceasing love and comfort.
She pulled back, stared at my face, then, pursing her lips, gave me a perfunctory nod and went to work.
I skipped lunch and dinner, taking only a bathroom break the entire day. I fell into bed at nine and was up again at three. I did the same thing every day until Christmas Eve. There had been no word from Connor, no texts, no emails. Niente. Nothing. I really hadn’t expected him to get in touch with me. Why would he? My father had done the unthinkable and had him investigated. His reasons may have seemed sound and righteous to him, but I could understand how Connor didn’t see it that way. Privacy is a big issue in industry, and as the owner of a tech company, I imagine Connor felt a little, well, violated would be the best word, about how Pop came into his information. I was still upset with how my father had handled the situation, but I was more disgusted with myself.
I hadn’t trusted Connor, and he’d known it. I should have. Despite my father’s information, Connor had never shown me anything but kindness, had never lied to me like Pop suggested.
Suggested, Hell. He’d come right out and accused him of it. That was unforgivable, especially since Pop had been proven wrong.
Adopted. The thought had never crossed my mind. With hindsight, I should have suspected something along those lines. From the first time I’d met him, his coloring was in opposition to his surname. Add in the fact he casually threw out phrases and expressions someone of Irish American descent wouldn’t necessarily use, and that added to the truth of his birth.
I’d been worried my family would never accept him as someone I wanted in my life simply because of his heritage. In fact, if our relationship hadn’t gone ass-over-head due to Pop’s interference, Connor would be the perfect guy for me, since he was, after all, of Italian descent, a fact so important to my parents.
With a huge sigh, I shut the lights to the workroom and removed my apron.
Oh, well. None of that mattered now. Connor may be the perfect guy for me, but I imagined he didn’t think the same of me or my family.
I always close the bakery by three p.m. on Christmas Eve so everyone can get home and get an early start on dinners, get-togethers, and in my family’s case, get ready for the food fest called la Festa dei Sette Pesci, the feast of the seven fishes. It’s an old tradition dating back forever where families gather, cook, and eat seven differing fish courses before midnight on Christmas Eve. I used to know the folklore about the feast, or la Vigilia—the Vigil, as it’s also called—but I’d forgotten it all somewhere along the way. I simply knew that every Christmas Eve, we gathered as a family at my parents’ home and ate until we all went to midnight mass at St. Rita’s.
Ma had left work at noon to get a jump on the first course, a slow-cooked octopus dish that was Pop’s favorite. Me? I couldn’t stand it and neither could my sisters-in-law. Routinely, they’d serve the dish but abstain from eating it, something that never failed to escape Ma’s hawk-like eyesight.
This year I knew my uncle Joey and aunt Frankie were joining us for the feast since their kids were all celebrating with their own families and in-laws. Aunt Frankie liked a Christmas Day celebration more, anyway, and this way she got a break in the cooking department for once. Not that she wouldn’t help Ma out, because of course she would. These women were raised in a kitchen at their own matriarch’s knees. It was genetically impossible for them not to cook.
And thank you, Baby Jesus, for that, because it meant we always had great food.
This year, though, I wasn’t in the mood for celebrating and being around my family. To know that I’d been so close to actually finding love again and then losing it in a heartbeat was too much for me, as I’d known it would be going in. Once I’d opened myself to the possibility that something could blossom and grow between Connor and I, I’d known something could also creep in and destroy it. What’s that old saw? Plan for the worst and hope for the best? Yeah. Been there, done that, bought the souvenir T-shirt.
Because I was such a coward and couldn’t face my mother’s disapproval over the phone, I took the easy way out and sent a text.
Feeling a little under the weather from a long work week. I’m gonna stay home tonight. See you in the morning. Buon Natale. Te amo.
I hit send. Ma prob
ably wouldn’t get the message for a while since she was busy cooking, and by the time she realized I wasn’t around, I’d already be in bed. I sighed and went into my kitchen. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I needed to eat something. The first thing my eyes lit on when I opened the refrigerator was the bottle of wine Connor had brought with him.
After Connor’d stormed out, my father had sat with me on the couch while I cried on his shoulder. When I had no tears left, he put me to bed and cleaned up my kitchen, putting away the leftover food and wine.
Right now, polishing off the bottle seemed like a good way to indulge my pity party. I changed into my pajamas even though it was still afternoon, grabbed the bottle and a glass, and sat down in front of the television I rarely had time to watch. A marathon session of Housewives was playing, and I figured it would pull me out of my own doldrums if I watched the lifestyles of the ridiculously rich and inevitably miserable for a few hours.
The first episode was almost over and my wine glass was empty when the doorbell sounded.
I glanced out the window to see ’Carlo and Trixie standing on my doorstep. They looked up, and ’Carlo motioned for me to come down.
Merda. I really didn’t want to see anyone right now, but ’Carlo gave me that annoying impatient face that reminded me so much of my father it’s scary, so I gave in.
“What are you doing in your pajamas?” was the first thing my brother said when I opened the door to them.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” I said back. Trixie bussed my cheek.
“Yeah, yeah. Merry, merry.” ’Carlo waved his hand in an impatient twist. “Why ain’t you dressed? We need to be at Ma’s in twenty minutes, and we’re already late because someone took forever getting ready.” He pursed his thick lips and pointed an irritated glare at his wife. She ignored him.
“I’m not going,” I told them. “And why are you here?”
“Wha’da’ya mean, you’re not going? We’re here to drive you. Ma told me to pick you up on the way. She said she didn’t want you taking a cab or the subway on Christmas Eve.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and rolled my eyes. “When did she tell you that?”
