“What do you want me to do? Huh? It’s my responsibility!”
His outburst was met with her scathing voice. “It’s our anniversary. It’s Valentine’s Day!”
“I know that, but they don’t care. When my father says go, I have to go.”
She knew when he took the oath that he’d vowed to be there anytime la famiglia called on him, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
Vincent slowed the car when they neared the cutoff in the desert that led to Frankie Antonelli’s property. They climbed out when they reached the house, but Maura lingered by the car. Vincent stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door at the same time a high-pitched squeal rang out. Swinging around, he saw a frail little girl running straight at Maura, knee-high and skinny as a toothpick, her hair matted in dreadlocks. She looked like a sewer rat, covered in filth.
The girl, oblivious to the presence in her path, slammed right into Maura without slowing down. Maura stumbled from the force, and the little girl flew backward onto the ground. Her dirt-smudged nose scrunched up as she eyed the human roadblock.
“You’re awfully dirty, little one,” Maura said.
The little girl looked down at herself. “Where?”
Maura laughed as she crouched down. “You’re dirty everywhere.”
It only took Vincent thirty minutes to handle business that day, but it was a half hour that changed everything. The girl had come barreling into his life, turning everything upside down.
At Maura’s insistence, Vincent inquired about her a week later, but Frankie informed him she wasn’t for sale. No matter how much money he offered, the man wouldn’t budge. Vincent hoped Maura would drop it, but the child became an obsession to her.
And he had been oblivious to it all, living in his shell of ignorance. He was a keen person, but his wife had spent her entire life wearing a mask of secrecy. He had no idea what she was up to, although he should have been aware.
He should have known she would see it as a second chance.
Vincent stood up. “When they come inside, tell her to come on up to my office.”
“Who?”
“You know who, Celia.”
Before he turned around, he saw his sister shake her head. “I still don’t understand why you never say her name.”
Vincent was typing an email when there was a timid tap on the door. It opened slowly, and she stepped inside. She was a tough girl, the type who kept secrets well. A lot like his wife that way. That thought made him feel like he had been kicked in the gut.
He motioned for her to sit down. “Are you having a good day, child?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Good. May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Before I brought you here, do you recall ever seeing me?”
Her face scrunched up, and he smiled involuntarily. It reminded him of the look she gave Maura that day. “No, sir,” she said hesitantly.
“The first time I met you, you were six years old,” he said. “Well, you told my wife you were six, but you held up four fingers.”
She looked startled. “Your wife?”
“Yes, my wife,” he said. “I suppose you wouldn’t remember her, either.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“An apology is unnecessary,” he said. “Anyway, the reason I asked you up here is because I have something to give you.”
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the photograph, sliding it across to her. “I saw your mother a few weeks ago while on business and snapped that picture.”
Haven picked up the photo with a trembling hand, her composure slipping. She traced her mother’s outline with her pointer finger. “Thank you for showing me.”
“You’re welcome. That’s all I wanted, so you can rejoin the festivities.” She stood up and glanced at the picture briefly before holding it out to him. He shook his head. “Keep it. It’s the reason Celia gave you a frame.”
Carmine climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, surprised to see Haven sitting on the edge of his bed. She clutched a picture, her focus squarely on it. “What’s that?”
She glanced at him, her eyes bloodshot. “My mama.”
Intense dread rushed through him. “Your mom? Did something happen to her?”
“No, it’s a picture of her. Your father gave it to me.”
“Well, that was awfully nice of him.” He ran a hand through his wet hair as he sat down beside her. He reached for the picture, but she automatically gripped it tighter in response. “I just wanna see, hummingbird. I’ll give it right back.”
She smiled sheepishly, handing it to him.
He surveyed the photo of the skinny woman with short hair, standing in front of a large wooden house. Beside it was a row of old horse stables, behind them a greenhouse and some storage buildings.
Haven rested her head on his shoulder. “Now you see where I came from.”
“I can’t believe they made you sleep outside.”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
“Wasn’t so bad? There’s a lot more to life than just being not so bad. How about being happy?”
“Happiness is nothing but good health and a poor memory.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Albert Schweitzer said it.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“Thank you,” she said genuinely. “No one has ever called me smart before.”
“Prego.”
She stared at him. “Prego? The spaghetti sauce?”
He chuckled. “It means you’re welcome in Italian.”
“Oh.” She turned her attention back to the photo. “Why don’t you have a picture of your mama?”
“I do, but they’re hard to look at.”
Haven smiled softly. “I bet she’s beautiful.”
“Of course she is,” he said playfully. “She made me.”
Vincent sat in the silent office for a moment before opening his top desk drawer again. He pushed a few things around and grabbed the small photograph from the bottom. It had been there for years, the edges worn and image faded although it rarely saw the light of day.
He gazed at the picture of his wife, his chest aching. He desperately wished she were there because, out of everyone, she’d be able to tell him what to do. She would know what to say, how to make it right again. Maura always had the answers, even if they were ones Vincent hadn’t liked to hear.
Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out the chain that hung around his neck and absentmindedly fiddled with the small gold band. It matched the one he still wore on his finger. He never had the nerve to take it off.
Carmine pulled out a chair for Haven in the dining room and sat across from her. Tess and Dia stayed for dinner, sitting on the side with Haven, while Dominic and Celia sat near Carmine. Vincent took the chair at the head of the table and bowed his head, saying his usual prayer.
They told stories about past holidays, and Haven listened intently, absorbing every word. Her eyes twinkled, a smile on her lips. It was an odd moment, but as Carmine glanced around the table, it felt right, like they were supposed to be there. That she belonged with him, with all of them, and some twist of fate had led her there.
He didn’t care what she said—happiness was more than good health and a poor memory. Happiness was this. It was her, and him, and that moment. Fuck Albert Schweitzer. He could kiss his ass. Happiness was real.
After dinner, Haven and Carmine headed upstairs to his room. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers lacing through his hair as she pulled him to her, kissing him passionately. He resisted at first, caught off guard, but caved and walked her back to the bed. Pulling off his shirt, he tossed it to the floor before lying down on top of her. She rocked her hips, pressing into him. Carmine hissed as the unexpected friction sent shivers through him.
He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything. He wanted to consume her, to taste her flesh and explore her body. And he wanted to fuck her, but he couldn’t. She wasn’t a girl to be fucked. She was a girl to be made love to, and as much as he wished he could, he didn’t know how.
He pulled from her lips, his strong voice contradicting the yearn in his body. “We need to stop.”
“Stop?”
“Yes, stop.” He hesitated—when the hell had he become the voice of abstinence? “We just, you know . . .”
He didn’t know, but she nodded. “Okay, Romeo.”
“Romeo?”
“Like in Romeo and Juliet. They come from different sides but meet in the middle. We have the forbidden love part, right?”
“Yeah, but we’re not killing ourselves, Haven, so that’s about as similar as it gets. Besides, Romeo’s an idiot. Pick someone else.”
“How about Shrek?”
His brow furrowed. “Shrek? Really? He’s an ogre.”
“Shrek and Fiona thought they were different when they weren’t.”
He contemplated that until he realized he was comparing his life to a cartoon. “Pick another.”
“Titanic? Rose and Jack weren’t supposed to be together.”
“Seriously? He dies. I’m not gonna jinx myself here.”
She was quiet, running her fingers across his abs and tracing his scar with her fingertips. “How about we just be Haven and Carmine? We don’t know the ending, but we can always hope for the best.”
“I like that,” he said. “Besides, there’s a reason we don’t know how the story ends.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t.”
25
Haven opened the dryer door and flung the wet clothes into it, listening as everyone chatted in the foyer. Celia had a flight to Chicago in a few hours, and Dr. DeMarco was going with her for a few days. They were saying good-bye, so she’d slipped away and secluded herself in the laundry room, feeling like she was unfairly imposing on family time.
There was a light tap from the doorway after a moment, and she turned to see Celia. Haven stiffened when she wrapped her arms around her in a hug. “It’s been great getting to know you.”
“You too, ma’am.”
“Call me Celia, dear,” she said. “I have to go before Vincent complains, but I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to you.”
Haven was touched she cared so much. “Good-bye, Celia.”
Celia smoothed Haven’s hair before walking away. Haven turned back to the dryer, and Carmine strolled in after they left. “Dia wants to know what time we’re going tonight.”
“Do you think I should go?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Well, your friends will be there. I’ll probably just be a complication.”
Truth was, it was New Year’s Eve, and she didn’t want to watch Carmine from afar all night.
“Don’t ever call yourself a complication,” he said. “And yeah, I want you to come.”