Michael's Father. Melinda Curtis
driver honked just as Jennifer was halfway down the steps. Jen’s feet planted themselves so quickly that Shelly bumped into her from behind, sending Jen’s notebook flying from suddenly limp arms. Papers scattered everywhere.
It was their old truck. What was her brother doing driving that piece of junk?
Shelly and Jen scrambled to pick up the papers. Jen needed to leave quickly before anybody spotted her in that pickup. Blake was such a geek. Why was he doing this to her?
Jen chased her math homework as it danced up the steps on a breeze. She had almost reached it when Devon Hamlisch bent in front of her and picked it up. He handed it to Jen with a casual toss of his beautiful head and a smooth “Hey.”
“Thanks,” Jennifer managed to choke out. Devon Hamlisch had picked up her math homework. She’d tuck it under her pillow and never turn it in.
Blake revved the truck. Jen knew he had to keep the idle running fast or the engine would die.
“Is that your ride?” Ronnie asked, her voice rich with derision.
Jen cringed in horror. She hadn’t noticed the others come outside. She’d only had eyes for Devon. Jen’s face flamed with heat and she was grateful for the darkness. With her light coloring, she couldn’t hide even the barest blush.
Jen managed a weak excuse. “It’s our work truck.”
“Farm workers.” Kitty sniffed scornfully, looking away.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard one that loud.” Ronnie wrinkled her nose.
“It sounds cool,” Skyler offered, as Blake gunned the engine again.
Jen thought she’d pass out. Skyler Wight was sticking up for her against the most popular girl in school?
“Definitely not. God, can you smell the fumes from that thing?” Ronnie cocked her hip and rested her fist on it. The pose threw out her A-cup cleavage, making Jen feel even more like a loser. Jen wanted to melt into a puddle so that Ronnie could more easily stomp all over her.
“I gotta go,” Jen said, escaping down the steps. She tried to walk normally, but too much adrenaline coursed through her legs, making her hips sway almost uncontrollably.
Shelly waited for her at the bottom of the steps. “Skyler Wight talked to you.”
Jen dragged her friend toward the truck, opened the door and pushed Shelly in next to Blake.
Jen hopped in and slammed the old metal door.
Blake shifted the truck into gear. Predictably, it died.
“Satisfied?” Jen sniped at her lame brother, willing her eyes away from the snickering group in front of the library. If there was such a thing as dorkdom, Jen was in it.
BLAKE TOOK A SWIG OF BEER and put the cold bottle to his forehead. He’d needed something stronger than chocolate tonight. Things weren’t getting any better. Jennifer had cried silently in the truck after they’d dropped Shelly off. He realized now that driving the old truck into town was a mistake. Given that he and Cori used to sit in it and talk for hours when it got too cold to sit outside by the river, and had almost made love on the bench seat of that old pickup, he’d wanted to flaunt it in Cori’s face. Kind of like saying “I don’t think of you every time I slide behind the wheel.” What a lie that was. Look where that smart move got him. Cori had never even seen him driving the truck. Instead of making sure Cori realized he was over her, he’d crushed his teenage sister’s fragile ego.
Muted sports scores buzzed irritatingly on the television. Blake switched to the weather channel and turned down the sound. Upstairs, one of Jen’s favorite songs about being misunderstood ended. There was a brief respite before, predictably, the same song started again.
Blake stared down at the book filled with parental advice on his lap, unable to concentrate on the words. His own teenage years had been relatively happy ones. Blake was sure he hadn’t given Kevin Austin, his adopted father, as many headaches or near-ulcer episodes as Jennifer was giving him. What was he doing wrong?
The music started again. The haunting melody tugged at Blake’s floundering spirits and jolted him out of his seat.
SALVATORE STARED BLINDLY at the figures in front of him, while he tried to gather the strength to go upstairs. The trip was a double agony at the end of the day now. His hips ached all the time. It hurt to walk, much less climb, the tall, sweeping staircase he’d been so proud of when he’d approved the architectural plans years ago. Once on the second floor, Salvatore could barely bring himself to look at the wan face of his dying daughter. How could God be so cruel as to take his two most precious gems early—his beloved Anna and now their precious Sophia? Both victims of breast cancer.
With hands on each chair arm, Salvatore pushed himself painfully to his feet. It was becoming harder to keep his torment hidden. Yet, how could he complain when his daughter suffered with such grace? If only the doctors had been able to save her. Salvatore’s own doctor wanted him to undergo double hip replacement surgery. Salvatore couldn’t afford the two-month recovery period. He was risking quite a bit on the international introduction of his wines and needed to stay sharply focused.
He moved with deliberate steps toward the office door and the dreaded staircase, toward the light of his life, Sophia. And his pills. He’d spend fifteen minutes with Sophia. Then, he’d swallow one of those chalky pills and fifteen minutes later he’d feel relief. He told himself he only needed to endure the pain for another half hour. He could take it. He was a Messina.
It had cost him all his energy to hold things together when Anna died nearly twenty years ago. Salvatore would have lost his sanity and his business many times over if not for Sophia. With her brilliant smile, endless energy and quiet dignity, Sophia stepped into the social role created by her mother. A man couldn’t ask for a better daughter. What was he to do now? Lucas held other priorities and Corinne was not an option. It was unfortunate that she’d been unable to break the chain of illegitimacy that seemed to plague the Messinas. At least she was making a name for herself in the public relations world. Salvatore tried to discreetly keep track of her career, in case she needed his help.
He reached the staircase and had started grimly up when he recalled Corinne’s lack of respect at dinner last night. Clearly, she was raising that boy all wrong. Salvatore should have stepped in before this and provided the firm guidance the child so obviously needed. Refusing to eat dinner and asking, right there in the dining room, for fast food! It was inconceivable that the boy shared the same blood as Salvatore.
Halfway to the top. Sixteen more steps to go. The pain in his hips radiated up his backbone. Salvatore clenched his teeth and concentrated on his frustrating thoughts.
It wasn’t like the old days when children didn’t dare talk back to their elders. No. The old days were different. Children and grandchildren obeyed their patriarch, were silent when receiving their comeuppance and then did what the patriarch thought was best for the family. And heaven help the person that wronged the family.
The caustic words of Francesca Camilletti, his wife’s sister, echoed as sharply as if she were beside him today rather than fifty-some-odd years ago. “The Messinas are cursed with wine-making talent in America, a land that doesn’t appreciate wine. They’ll work their fingers to the bone and still be poor and unhappy. Don’t go, Anna. He’s a failure. He’ll ruin your life.” She’d spit out those words of bitter advice to Anna on the New Jersey train platform, as she, Salvatore and Sophia, just a baby with wisps of silky black hair and sparkling brown eyes, were about to board the train to California. Francesca already believed Salvatore Messina had ruined her sister’s life by getting her pregnant before they were married. Taking her away from the family was almost a worse sin.
Salvatore had known that if he and Anna stayed in New Jersey, Francesca would have made Salvatore’s life a living hell. As luck would have it, Anna wanted to break free of her family’s influence and her sister’s suffocating love.
Anna had kissed her sister’s cheek, told her