Mama Conte nodded, then wiped her hands on her apron. “Si, you should know. When Michael’s papa had the heart attack, Michael came right home. Stayed at the hospital day and night and refused to leave his side. I think we all believed he would be all right, but the second one struck hard and we lost him. When Michael came out of the room, he informed me he had quit racing and was taking over the business.”
Maggie remained silent as the older woman pondered the event with the flicker of demons in her eyes.
“I lost something in my son that day, the same day I lost my husband. A piece of wildness, of freedom from restrictions that always burned bright. He became the perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect businessman. Everything we needed from him. But he left something of himself behind.”
Her throat clogged with emotion. Maggie gripped the spoon so tightly she was amazed it didn’t shatter. No wonder he seemed so faultless. He gave up his own dreams and became everything his family needed. With no thought of himself and no whining. Not once had he even hinted this was not where he wanted to be.
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.”