A Family Affair: The Wish: Truth in Lies, Book 9 (5 page)

Maybe she hadn’t wanted to see him again.

N
atalie Servetti wanted
a second chance so desperately she was willing to do just about anything, short of offering sexual favors, to get it. She’d done that years ago, tried to buy her way to love, commitment, and marriage. When she failed, she decided if she couldn’t have them or the men attached to them, then nobody would. That’s when she’d gone after other women’s men—boyfriends, husbands, fathers, little brothers—none of it mattered except making those men want her, even if they only wanted the sex and not her.

She could blame her screwed-up life and notions about relationships on her parents because Lydia and Ernest Servetti believed their “princess” had no other duty than to look beautiful and make men desire her. They never taught Natalie about being responsible, trustworthy, or kind. Why should she concern herself with those things when people adored her, thought her the most beautiful and desirable creature walking this earth? Imagine that! They ignored the little Italian dumpling cousin, Gina, treated her with disregard and distaste. The world belonged to their long-legged, tiny-waisted daughter and as Natalie matured, she grew more beautiful, more desirable, more spoiled and self-absorbed.

Because no one had prepared her for a life that included such traits as genuine concern and caring for and about others, her attractiveness was confined to the empty slots in between breakups where backseat sex, bar-stool gropings, and late-hour romps became her specialty. Sex turned to sleaze turned to slut. She watched as women her age headed to college, found jobs, husbands, had their first child. Natalie collected nothing but a string of empty relationships that always included sex, but not always the relationship. And then she landed Nate Desantro. Hard, fast, explosive. She’d never loved anybody like that, never loved anybody before Nate. He was
her
guy, and though she knew he didn’t think of her as long-term, she took what he offered, whenever he offered it. Until Christine Blacksworth drove into town with her sophisticated airs and blue-blood money. Natalie would like to say she hated the woman and for a long time, she did, but these past few years, she’d actually come to respect her. Any woman who could gain Nate Desantro’s love and make the man
want
to be married was a powerful person. That was real love, and that’s what Natalie wanted with Robert.

Robert Jeremiah Trimble, the man she loved and hoped to marry—just as soon as he asked her. She sighed, poured two coffees, dropped three sugar cubes and exactly two teaspoons of cream in one on the mugs, and carried them to the bedroom. This house was their getaway, a tiny Cape Cod in Renova, twenty minutes outside of Magdalena. Robert had purchased it as investment property a few years ago but when he and Natalie became serious, he rented out his condo in the city and moved here. Robert had asked her to move in with him, citing practicality as the main reason. Why drive back and forth every time they wanted to be together and why pay her parents rent when she stayed with him four or five nights a week? The accountant in him talked about wear and tear on the vehicle, gas, depreciation, and loss of time. On and on he went in that soft yet mesmerizing voice of his, with Natalie snuggled against him, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing.

She refused all offers, including the one to move in with him, waited for the one she wanted most. The marriage proposal that didn’t come. One day soon they would have to discuss their future—Robert promised her there was one—and they would have to discuss her past as well. Love conquered most obstacles, confronted others, and never gave up hope. Their love would do the same; she believed it with her whole heart because she would not let herself think otherwise. They had been together almost two years and during that entire time they’d never met his mother or her parents. They’d talked about reasons for waiting and she hadn’t missed the way his dark eyes shifted beneath his glasses when he said his mother was traveling, or not feeling well, or simply unavailable. Natalie played the avoidance game as well, but her excuses for why he hadn’t met Lydia and Ernest Servetti were a bit more colorful: they were on a bus trip to the casino, busy packing for a seven-day cruise, or motoring along Route 28 in a rented camper.

Neither she nor Robert asked the other to expand on this information and the reason was as plain as the white button-down oxfords he favored:
they didn’t want to know
. Once the parents got involved and handed out their opinions, all of which would carry a criticism, the cocoon Natalie and Robert lived in would shrivel, their privacy and happiness threatened. But they couldn’t go on like this forever, living in a make-believe world where outside interference didn’t exist. She’d finally told him that she wasn’t a physical therapist but worked in a hair salon giving facials, manicures, and pedicures and had conjured up the story to impress him. He’d been so kind, had pulled her into his arms, cupped her face with gentle hands, and vowed he would always be proud of her. No matter what. But Robert didn’t know about the men in her past or that the things they did in bed that drove him wild were repeats of ones she’d done lots of times before, with lots of different men. One day she would have to tell him, but not today.

Natalie tiptoed into the bedroom, set the coffee mugs on the nightstand, and flipped on the bedside lamp. The room-darkening shades kept the light out, further enhanced the coziness of their love nest. Saturday was the one day Robert didn’t hop out of bed and take his 5:45 a.m. run before work. He did, however, use the early morning for another type of exercise, one that involved flesh to flesh, luscious moans, and a long nap afterward.

“Honey?” Natalie leaned over, placed a kiss on the back of his neck. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

He mumbled and rolled over, his eyes blinking open. “Hi, Nat.”

Nat
. She’d hated the nickname her brothers had used on her since she was a little girl, but when Robert said it, her insides grew warm and her chest ached. She reached for his glasses, handed them to him. “Would you like French toast and eggs?”

He smiled, pulled her closer. “I want everything you’re offering.”

Forty minutes later, Natalie dipped the bread in the egg mixture and thought about what had happened in bed this morning. These past several weeks, Robert had become almost obsessed with sex. He’d always been a gentle, caring lover but lately, it was as though he were in competition with an acrobatics team…or the other men she’d slept with. More staying power, harder, faster, longer, better…than what, she’d wanted to ask? What was happening and why? Wasn’t he satisfied with their sex life? Had he read something that recommended whatever he was doing? It wasn’t as though Robert would ask any of his buddies because she’d only met a few of them and they did not look the type to dole out advice on intimacy and sex. So, what was it then? He’d turned thirty-eight last month. Was he feeling old? Growing anxious about feeling old? Or had she done something that made him wonder about the other men she’d been with and how many there’d been? They’d never discussed this, and she didn’t intend to tell him yet, even though Roman Ventori had told her she should. But Roman had probably never done anything in his entire life that made him as ashamed as she was about her past, and she couldn’t risk losing Robert. Was it really necessary to tell everything when she’d learned from her mistakes and become a better person? Hadn’t Robert been the one to say he felt his life started the day he met her at the ballroom dance class and anything that had transpired before was not important? Yes, he’d said that, because she remembered he used the word
transpired
and she’d liked the way it rolled off his tongue. Smooth and deliberate. She’d been given a second chance and she was not going to mess it up by divulging her murky past any sooner than necessary.

“Smells great.”

Natalie glanced up and smiled. She loved the way Robert looked at her, his brown eyes warming like a chocolate lava cake behind his tortoiseshell glasses. He was not more than two inches taller than she was and when she wore heels, they stood eye to eye, matching up just right: eye to eye, chest to chest, hip to hip. So what if his brown hair was a bit thin on top and he’d started parting it on the side to hide the thinness? Or if his body was lean and toned, not heaped with muscles? She liked lean and toned, especially on Robert. There was an awful lot she liked about Robert; actually, there was an awful lot she
loved
about Robert. He might not look like the men in Magdalena who got a second and third look, but Natalie thought him quite handsome and besides, there was a lot more to him than his physical appearance.

The man was brilliant. And his voice? She could listen to him talk for hours, about anything. There were times when he’d explain compounding interest or dollar cost averaging and she’d get lost in the tone of his voice and forget the words behind the sound. One day, she hoped they’d have a little boy just like Robert. One day…some day…she hoped it would be soon.

“
H
ow do
you like the marinara sauce?” Natalie stood next to her mother, hands clasped as Lydia Servetti chewed. “I think it tastes like Grandma’s.” She’d started cooking nine months ago when Robert mentioned how much he loved spaghetti sauce and meatballs, and only got it when he visited Harry’s Folly. That seemed a shame and he’d looked almost forlorn when he said his mother never had the knack for cooking and he’d never graduated past scrambled eggs and toast.

Lydia pursed her thin lips and made a face. “I think it needs more basil.”

“You do? I used seven leaves, just like you said.”

Her mother lifted a shoulder. “Seven or nine, who knows. It’s a starting point, not a definite.” She forked more pasta. “One of these days you’ll find something you’re really good at, but this isn’t it.”

Natalie turned away so her mother wouldn’t see how much those words hurt. Nothing was ever good enough for the woman, not the house she lived in, the husband she’d married, or the children she’d had. Natalie realized years ago that her mother was an unhappy woman who believed her family existed to care for and about her and to follow her wishes. Like the one that would surface any minute now.

“Any new men in your life?”

And there it was, tossed in the center of the table with the bowl of pasta. “Nope.”

“Come here and sit with me. I hate eating alone. Get yourself a plate and have a taste.”

Natalie slid into the chair next to her mother, the one that had been designated for her oldest brother, Gino, when they were growing up. “I had a big breakfast; I’m not hungry.”

“Humph.” She scowled. “It’s not polite to deliver food and then refuse to accept an invitation to share it.”

Where had she come up with that? “I’m not hungry, Mom.” What would Robert think about Lydia Servetti and her seventy-two comments, of which seventy were negative? He’d probably eat the pasta even if he’d finished breakfast three minutes ago. And that was why Robert was not going to meet Natalie’s mother anytime soon.

“Suit yourself. Just remember, if you bring food to someone who isn’t a relative and they ask you to eat with them, you eat. Good manners are important, and I don’t want your lack of them coming back on me.”

Natalie gripped the edges of her chair, counted her breaths. “Got it.”

“Now about a man.” She adjusted her glasses, reached for a notebook resting on the floral table setting. “Let’s see.” She flipped open the notebook, scanned the page. “Okay…yes. Hmm. I made a list of potential candidates. See what you think.” She tapped a pen against her chin, squinted at the page, and read. “Doctor, teacher, store owner, pharmacist, dance instructor, bank manager, policeman.” Her mother paused, glanced up. “Any of those interest you?”

Was she serious? The no-nonsense expression on her plump face said she was. “Those aren’t people; those are professions.”

A tiny smile inched over her mother’s thin lips. “Of course they are, child, but there are people behind the professions. I’ve organized them by pluses and minuses. Annual income is a huge plus, but you can’t ignore schedules either, or side benefits. If you marry a dance instructor, you won’t be rich, but you’ll never be out of shape.” She patted her round middle, laughed. “And neither will he.”

“Magdalena doesn’t have a dance instructor.” The only one within an hour’s car ride was Mr. Fleming, the instructor who’d given ballroom dance lessons to Robert and Natalie. His studio was where they met and somewhere between introductions and partnering for their first dance, they fell in love. She couldn’t let her mother nose around that far from home where she might find out about Robert. It was too soon; Natalie needed an engagement ring on her finger before she brought him home.

Lydia Servetti
tsk
-
tsked
. “Of course this place doesn’t have a dance instructor, unless you count Pop Benito’s waltz lessons at wedding receptions.” She made a face. “And I do not. Just because people call him the Godfather of Magdalena does not mean he can do a jig whenever and wherever he wants. It’s not right and it’s not normal. The man needs to act his age.” Her lips pulled into a tight line. “I called and inquired about dance lessons for you from a place that’s opening up in Renova next month. While I was on the line, I asked about the instructor. Your father found the man’s information on the Internet; you know that darn computer is his new best friend. He likes it more than he likes me.”

The kids had chipped in and bought their father a computer for Christmas. Her brother Gino had set it up and taught their father computer basics. Now Ernest spent hours online, mostly researching his ancestry and trying to connect with possible relatives. Their mother called it a waste of time and more energy than he had left in his skinny body—which only made the man hibernate more. “Maybe you should think about learning a few computer basics,” Natalie said. “I could teach you.”

“Heavens, no. I’ve got better things to do than sit around and ruin my eyesight.” She turned back to her list. “There’s a dance instructor from a place called Swirl and Twirl Dance Studio. He’s a possibility.”