Teresina, the most beautiful baby Pop had ever seen.
Lucy made her way to them, her smile spreading warmth and light. “She’s asleep. Would you like to hold her now, Mr. Ventori?”
The crusty bugger melted like butter in a saucepan, his face brighter than a firefly. “I’d love to hold that little angel,” he whispered.
She smiled at him and placed the baby in his arms. “You’ll make a good grandpa,” she murmured, stroking her daughter’s soft hair. “You’re very gentle with her.”
Sal’s smile spread, landed on Teresina’s dark head. “There’s nothing like a baby to put zest in a household. Makes an old codger like me feel almost young again.”
“You’re not that old, Mr. Ventori.” Lucy’s sweet words flitted around Sal’s head like honeybees. “Neither is Grandpa.” She nodded at Pop and said, “My grandma always said people are only as old as they feel.”
Pop glanced at the portrait of his wife. Yep, that sounded like his Lucy, always searching for the part of the rotten apple that didn’t have the worm in it. “Your grandma could never see the downside of anything.” His voice softened, his gaze settling on his wife’s peaches-and-cream complexion. “She was a good woman and God took her way too soon.”
“At least she got to see her granddaughter, rock her to sleep,” Sal said, a fierceness tugging at his words. “At least she had that before she closed her eyes for the last time.”
Pop knew where this was headed and he knew if he didn’t get involved, Sal would still be yakking about it a year from now. Roman would be long gone back to Chicago, and the old man would be no closer to getting his own grandchild. Who really knew how long Salvatore Ventori had left on this earth? The good Lord could call him tomorrow, and then what? Sal would close his eyes one last time and there’d be no vision of Baby Ventori at all.
But Pop had a notion on how to fix that. It just required a bit of fast thinking and fancy footwork, and those were his specialty. Yes, indeed they were.
***
Roman wished he were anywhere but Magdalena, the town that had destroyed his dreams and killed his future. But here he was, stuck in the middle of a promise to his mother, and no way out. He’d gotten used to throwing piles of money at requests, anything that didn’t actually require his time or his efforts. Nobody turned down money. Ever. But it wasn’t like he could offer to send a stand-in for Sal and Lorraine Ventori’s only son. He was it, unfortunately, and that meant, no substitutes, not even the kid sister who’d gotten used to playing the responsible child.
Damn . Roman poured a whisky and tossed it back. His father was in the other room, propped up on the couch with an afghan and the remote control, looking tired and frail. But that wouldn’t stop the old man from barreling right into all the issues he had with his son’s way of life as though there hadn’t been almost nine hundred miles and fourteen years of separation between them.
You should have married an Italian.
You should have had a baby .
And then, as if his father hadn’t shot enough crap at him, he’d finished with, You should have stayed in Magdalena .
Sal had been using these lines for years, but the part about marrying an Italian and having a baby were more recent, since he learned of the divorce. Roman didn’t doubt it would all start up again the second he left this kitchen. And once the neighbors started pouring in with soups and breads and well wishes, the real interrogations would begin. They’d nose around, ready to pounce on him with questions of where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and why he hadn’t come home sooner. As if they’d forgotten he’d told them hell would freeze over twice before he’d ever come back. They’d ask anyway because that’s how small towns were. They set you up to spill answers they already knew and then watched the person wallow in his own misfortune. Lucky him; he
Lucy made her way to them, her smile spreading warmth and light. “She’s asleep. Would you like to hold her now, Mr. Ventori?”
The crusty bugger melted like butter in a saucepan, his face brighter than a firefly. “I’d love to hold that little angel,” he whispered.
She smiled at him and placed the baby in his arms. “You’ll make a good grandpa,” she murmured, stroking her daughter’s soft hair. “You’re very gentle with her.”
Sal’s smile spread, landed on Teresina’s dark head. “There’s nothing like a baby to put zest in a household. Makes an old codger like me feel almost young again.”
“You’re not that old, Mr. Ventori.” Lucy’s sweet words flitted around Sal’s head like honeybees. “Neither is Grandpa.” She nodded at Pop and said, “My grandma always said people are only as old as they feel.”
Pop glanced at the portrait of his wife. Yep, that sounded like his Lucy, always searching for the part of the rotten apple that didn’t have the worm in it. “Your grandma could never see the downside of anything.” His voice softened, his gaze settling on his wife’s peaches-and-cream complexion. “She was a good woman and God took her way too soon.”
“At least she got to see her granddaughter, rock her to sleep,” Sal said, a fierceness tugging at his words. “At least she had that before she closed her eyes for the last time.”
Pop knew where this was headed and he knew if he didn’t get involved, Sal would still be yakking about it a year from now. Roman would be long gone back to Chicago, and the old man would be no closer to getting his own grandchild. Who really knew how long Salvatore Ventori had left on this earth? The good Lord could call him tomorrow, and then what? Sal would close his eyes one last time and there’d be no vision of Baby Ventori at all.
But Pop had a notion on how to fix that. It just required a bit of fast thinking and fancy footwork, and those were his specialty. Yes, indeed they were.
***
Roman wished he were anywhere but Magdalena, the town that had destroyed his dreams and killed his future. But here he was, stuck in the middle of a promise to his mother, and no way out. He’d gotten used to throwing piles of money at requests, anything that didn’t actually require his time or his efforts. Nobody turned down money. Ever. But it wasn’t like he could offer to send a stand-in for Sal and Lorraine Ventori’s only son. He was it, unfortunately, and that meant, no substitutes, not even the kid sister who’d gotten used to playing the responsible child.
Damn . Roman poured a whisky and tossed it back. His father was in the other room, propped up on the couch with an afghan and the remote control, looking tired and frail. But that wouldn’t stop the old man from barreling right into all the issues he had with his son’s way of life as though there hadn’t been almost nine hundred miles and fourteen years of separation between them.
You should have married an Italian.
You should have had a baby .
And then, as if his father hadn’t shot enough crap at him, he’d finished with, You should have stayed in Magdalena .
Sal had been using these lines for years, but the part about marrying an Italian and having a baby were more recent, since he learned of the divorce. Roman didn’t doubt it would all start up again the second he left this kitchen. And once the neighbors started pouring in with soups and breads and well wishes, the real interrogations would begin. They’d nose around, ready to pounce on him with questions of where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and why he hadn’t come home sooner. As if they’d forgotten he’d told them hell would freeze over twice before he’d ever come back. They’d ask anyway because that’s how small towns were. They set you up to spill answers they already knew and then watched the person wallow in his own misfortune. Lucky him; he
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