Authors: Jennifer Probst
His mother shook her head and refocused. “So that is the story. You may do with it what you wish, but as his wife, I wanted you to know.”
Maggie tried to speak but only managed a nod. As they peeled apples the image of the man she imagined she knew exploded into tiny pieces. His easy, carefree existence hid a man strong enough to make decisions for others. For the people he loved.
“Tell me about your parents, Margherita.” The sudden command cut through her aha moment. “Why did your mother not teach you to cook?”
She concentrated on skinning. “My mother is not the domestic sort. She worked in movies and believed her children would be better raised by nannies and cooks. That being said, I never wanted for anything, and enjoyed a wide variety of foods at meals.”
Pleased with her cool, calm reaction, Michael’s mother glanced up.
She carefully lay down the apple and squinted as if to study every hidden nuance of her expression. “Are you close with your parents now?”
Maggie tilted her chin up and let her stare. “No. My father is remarried and my mother prefers we do lunch only occasionally.”
“Grandparents? Aunts or uncles? Cousins?”
“No one. Just me and my brother. It really wasn’t a big deal; we had all our needs taken care of, and life was quite easy for us.”
“Bullshit.”
Maggie’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“You heard me, Margherita. You did not have it easy. You had no one to guide you, teach you, care for you. A home is not only about things or needs being met. But this is not your fault. They are fools, your parents, for missing out on such a beautiful, special woman.” She scoffed in disgust. “No matter. You learned strength and stand on your own two feet. This is why you are good for my son.”
Maggie laughed. “Hardly. We’re completely different.” She choked at the blunt admission. Damn, she’d screwed up again. “Um, I mean, well, we thought it wouldn’t work but then we fell in love.”
“Hm, I see.” Maggie fumbled and the batter flew up toward the ceiling. “When did you get married, Margherita?”
She dug deep and remembered all the times she needed to lie and be good at it.
Please, Devil, don’t fail me now.
“Two weeks ago.”
“The date?”
She stumbled but forged on. “Um, Tuesday. May twentieth.”
The older woman remained silent and still. “A good day for a wedding, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love my son?”
She dropped the spoon and stared. “What?”
“Do you love my son?”
“Well, of course, of course, I love him. I wouldn’t marry anyone I didn’t love.” She forced a laugh and prayed it didn’t sound fake. Damn Michael Conte. Damn him, damn him, damn him. . . .
Suddenly, strong hands enclosed hers and squeezed. Maggie winced as his mother’s gaze shredded past the surface and sought the truth. She held her breath. She so did not want to blow up their ruse when they only had a few more days left. A dozen responses flitted past her mind to try to convince his mother they were truly married, but as if a sudden thunderstorm had passed, his mother’s face cleared and softened with a knowledge Maggie didn’t understand.
“
Si,
you are perfect together. You give him back his freedom. Before this visit is over, you will believe it, too.”
Before Maggie could respond, the large mixer was dragged over. Mama Conte pointed. “Now, I will show you how to use this. Pay attention or you can lose a finger.”
Maggie gulped. The insistent demon that lived within her and always whispered she would never be good enough took hold. “Why are you doing this? I still don’t like to cook. I won’t be baking Michael yummy desserts and catering to his whims when we get back to the States.” She almost wished his mother would say something cutting and cold. “I work late and order take-out and tell him to get his own beer. I’ll never be the perfect wife.”
A ghost of a smile settled on Mama Conte’s lips. “He’s tried many times to love a woman who would be a proper wife. Or, at least, what he thinks a proper wife is.”
A deep longing took root and grew. Maggie swallowed past the urge and tried desperately to ignore the emotion. After all, she’d fought it back before, many times. Like Rocky, she kept going round after round, knowing if she fell she’d be hurt beyond measure.
As if his mother knew her thoughts, she touched her cheek with a gentle caress that reminded her of Michael. “And as for cooking, I am doing this for one reason. Every woman should know how to make one signature dessert. Not for anyone else but herself. Now, mix.”
When dozens of apples were peeled and the cake was safely in the oven, Maggie grabbed her camera, relieved she still possessed all ten fingers, and turned to thank Mama Conte for the lesson. Her fingers flexed around her camera as the image before her swallowed her whole. Trembling, Maggie brought the lens up and pressed the shutter release. Again. And again.
Mama Conte gazed out the kitchen window, seeing something not really there. Her hands held the mixing bowl to her chest, wrapped almost in a hug. Head tilted slightly, a small smile on her lips, her gaze held the dreamy, rapt expression of one caught in the past. Stray strands of hair lay against her milky cheek, the lines in her face emphasizing her strength and beauty as the sunlight trickled through the window and warmed her. It was a photo of such emotional depth, Maggie’s heart expanded in her chest. It was a moment caught in time that defied the past, the present, and the future. It was purely human.
And for a little while, in Mama Conte’s kitchen, Maggie felt like she finally belonged. A glimmer of what a real home might feel like taunted her, but she firmly pushed it back in the box and shoved the lid closed.
Maggie remained silent and left the kitchen. Left the woman to her memories. And wondered why she suddenly wanted to cry.
• • •
“Absolutely not!”
Michael smothered a groan and faced his two angry sisters from across the conference room. Irritation prickled his nerve endings but he reached for the usual control and authority he used when dealing with family drama. The two advertising executives glanced back and forth between them, as if trying to decide whom to side with.
With a smooth smile, he focused his attention on the ad team. “How fast can you get us a new campaign?”
The men shared a look. Their eyes glittered with the mad lust for money. “Give us a week. It will blow you away and make waves.”
“Very good. I will discuss this further with my sisters and call you back in.”
“
Si
.
Grazie,
Signore
Conte.”
The door shut and Michael faced the twin firing squad. “Always remember to keep conflict within the family, Julietta.”
Bitterness tinged Julietta’s voice. “You didn’t even hear me out. Again. Michael, I spent months helping with this campaign, and I think you’re going in the wrong direction.”
He waved his hand at the photos on the cherrywood conference table. “I’ve seen the reports, and consumers want edge. A homey, plain-style bakery ad is not going to cut it in New York, and we need to freshen up things at home. I want to launch a whole new look. Hire a sexy model, maybe one eating a pastry, and come up with a catchy line playing off the whole comparison of sex and food.”
Julietta gasped. “Excuse me? Are you nuts? This is Mama’s business and I refuse to see you exploit it for money!” She threw the thick portfolio onto the table with a crash. “I’m in charge here, and I like our new ads. Profit is steady, and there’s no reason to throw something away that’s working.”
“I disagree.” Michael stared at his sister, his voice stone-cold. “You may be the CEO, Julietta, but I still own the bulk of this company. I believe we need to take a risk with the new opening in New York. I’ll need new print ads, a television spot, and billboards, and we
will
go in this new direction.”
The weight of responsibility deadened his shoulders, but he straightened and took it like he always had.
Dios,
he wished he didn’t always have to make the hard decisions. “I know you are angry with my choice, but I feel it is best for the family. For La Dolce Famiglia.”
There was a total of twenty bakeries spread throughout the Milan and Bergamo area, all a tightly run operation boasting fresh and creative pastries for both the casual pedestrian and four-star party catering. The headquarters stood proudly in the middle of Milan and took up the whole upper floor, and they’d finally added their own factory so they could consistently ship fresh ingredients and have total quality control. Running a massive empire required making hard decisions, even if he needed to overstep Julietta’s boundaries. Though his sister impressed him with her business decisions, if the new campaign failed it would be his fault. He opened his mouth to explain, but his sister interrupted.
“I cannot believe you would disrespect me like this.” Julietta clenched her fists, her normally reserved features set with fury. Her voice shook. Dressed in an impeccable navy suit with matching pumps, her hair twisted in a neat chignon, she came across as the perfect businesswoman. Unfortunately, tears shimmered in her eyes. “I’m not doing this anymore. Hire someone you trust, because obviously you don’t trust me.”
Michael jerked back in surprise at her sudden emotion. He softened his voice and took a step closer. “Ah,
cara,
I didn’t mean—”
“No!” She jumped up from the table. “I’m sick of the way you treat me. I’m good enough to run La Dolce Famiglia when you’re not here, but as soon as you step back onto my turf, you disrespect everything I’ve worked so hard to build: respect, mutual admiration, work ethic.”
“You’re being ridiculous. I’m only doing what’s best for the company.”
Julietta nodded. “I see. Well, then I don’t think you need me anymore. I’m resigning as CEO. Effective immediately. Go find someone else to boss around.”
Ah, merda.
Venezia jumped in front of Michael and wagged her finger madly through the air. “Why do you always have to order everyone around?” she demanded. “You’re our brother, not Papa.”
His jaw clenched and unclenched. “No, perhaps if I was Papa, I wouldn’t have let you flounce off to dress a bunch of Barbie dolls and call it a career. Perhaps if I was Papa, I would’ve made you take your rightful place in this company and not put all the weight on Julietta.”
Venezia practically snarled like Dante and teetered on her three-inch red heels. “I knew it! I always knew you never respected my career. Fashion is a huge industry, Michael, and I’ve made a name for myself in a competitive business. But no, just because I chose to do what I loved, that’s not good enough for you. You don’t respect any of us.”
“
Zitto!
Enough of your childish tantrums, both of you. I do what is best for this family, always.”
Venezia sneered and grabbed her sister’s hand. “Who do you think you are? You order us around like children, refuse to respect the decisions and choices we make, and pretend you actually care. We’re making a life for ourselves here and have been doing fine without you.”
Pain shot through his chest and he struggled for breath. “How could you say this to me? After everything I’ve done?”
Venezia tossed her hair and led Julietta toward the door. “We don’t need you anymore, Michael. Maybe it’s time you return to America, where you belong now.”
They shut the door behind them.
Michael stood in the shattering silence as the pieces of his life exploded around him.
His head pounded as he paced the empty conference room, searching for answers. The careful control he’d built to protect his family slipped under the weight of raw emotions. Julietta had always been the rational one, yet the hurt in her eyes when he’d overruled her cut him to the bone. Had he been mistaken? Should he have stepped out of the way, even when he knew the campaign wasn’t the best, and let her fail?
The door opened.
Maggie peeked her head in. “Okay, I’m bored and I want to go home. I visited the cafeteria twice, hung out with Julietta’s secretary, and was sufficiently impressed with your organization. I’ve done my wifely duty so I’m heading out.”
He forced a nod, but she blinked and nudged the door wider. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” He waved her out. “I shall meet you at home.”
The blasted woman ignored him and stepped into the room. “Did you have a fight with your sister?”
He should kick her out and keep business in the family. Yet, the words rushed out of his mouth. “Make that
sisters
. I disagreed with Julietta’s advertising campaign and they—what do you Americans term it?—blew up.”
“Ah, I see.” She looked uneasy as she shot a look at the exit. He waited for her to go but she shifted from foot to foot, her hands cradling her camera, which Michael now thought of as another appendage. “Is that the ad campaign?” she asked. She walked over to the table, and her legs flashed in her short skirt and high heels. Memories of those limbs wrapped snug around his hips and open to every thrust shuddered through him.
“Yes. It’s outdated. I told them we need a sexy commercial equating food and sex. Americans like shock. It sells.”
“Hm.” She flipped through the photo ad, then closed the folder. “Okay, I’ll meet you at home.”
Damn her. He almost choked on the words when he realized how much he respected her opinion. “What do you think?”
“Of the campaign?”
“Yes. Am I right?”
She turned on her heel and stared at him. Her bangs slid over one eye. The sexy peek only made him fight harder to concentrate on business and not the low moans she made last night. “I agree.”
The breath rushed out of his lips. He straightened, glad he made the right decision. “I thought so.”
“But I hate your idea, too.”
He frowned. “
Scusi
?”
She threw one hand up in the air as if dismissing him and wrinkled her nose. “Some shock sells but not for a family bakery. Your mama would hate it.”
Coldness rushed through him. “I see. Well, thanks for your opinion, but you really have nothing to do with this. I’ll meet you at home.”