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He blew out a long breath.
“Yes?” Vesta prompted, likely already drawing the conclusion he was so loathe to admit.
“What if she just needed more time? And I didn’t wait long enough for her to come around? I wanted a traditional wife. Yet I knew from the moment I met her that she never would be. And the most contradictory and conflicting thing about that is…I really don’t want a traditional wife. I want Jenna.”
“Well now.” Vesta patted his hand. “I think you’ve finally learned your lesson, tesoro mio.”
* * *
“You’ve been staring at that wall for forty-five minutes,” Tad told Jenna. “You’re starting to freak me out.”
She sighed. “It’s really a pretty, quaint shade of yellow. Makes me think of a Nantucket cottage with lots of crisp-white wainscoting surrounding it and wide molding. Maple floors. Ceiling fans. The sound of water lapping along the shoreline, beyond opened windows.”
“Nice visual, sugar plum, but this is an Italian restaurant in San Francisco.”
Jenna snapped out of her reverie and glanced at Tad over her shoulder. “Do you realize I’ve never used a term of endearment once? Not ever?”
His eyes narrowed on her. “What made you think of that?”
“Everyone uses them on me. You, Rafe, Vesta. Even Mags.” Jenna cringed. “Jesus. I haven’t been to see her. Rafe’s right. And she’s probably sore about it.”
Rafe’s younger cousin had been a fan of Jenna’s do-it-yourself remodeling section of her website long before she’d met Rafe and married him. Long before she’d been offered her own show.
Mags had been in awe of Jenna from the beginning, and perhaps that was why they’d hit it off—not because Mags had been star-struck, per se, but because Jenna’s notoriety and Mags’ shock over meeting her idol had brought on a bout of timidity on Mags’ part.
She hadn’t overwhelmed Jenna at all. Rather, Mags had been very tentative about approaching her and had been less invasive than the rest of the family, not wanting Jenna to think she was an annoying fan.
Jenna laughed suddenly. She didn’t have annoying fans. She had followers who felt as though they knew her well enough to send her emails or post comments on her blogs, asking for a DIY solution to this problem or that one.
Jenna’s legion of specialists contributed as well, offering advice on electrical, plumbing, architectural topics and the like that exceeded Jenna’s expertise. She’d built a community that transcended the Internet. And had been thrilled when she’d learned Mags, a regular and familiar follower from the time Jenna’s web presence was in its infancy, was a part of Rafe’s family. A very happy coincidence.
Consulting his watch, Tad said, “The lunch crowd doesn’t start for another hour—that should give you a decent break for a visit. I can take over being front-of-house manager if you need longer than that.”
“Thanks,” she said as she stood. “But the bakery is on the Wharf, just blocks from here, so I’ll be back before we open the doors.”
She grabbed the keys to the rental and headed out. Beach Street wasn’t far away and she parked in a public lot by Ghirardelli Square. It was a beautiful day, bright and sunny. High sixties. Jenna had dressed in a black sweater minidress and leather pumps for the autumn weather and found the temperature to be just right. She’d always enjoyed the sultry ambience and seductive personality of the city. Particularly this time of year, when it took a bit longer for the fog to burn off in the morning, and it ribboned through the buildings and hovered over the bay earlier in the evenings.
Walking into the small bakery owned by Vesta’s and Zelda’s families, Jenna inhaled the delicious scent of fresh bread and marveled over the numerous varieties of scones, muffins and Italian pastries displayed in pristine glass-and-wood cases. Biscotti, bocconotto, pasticiotto… Oh, my! Rum cakes and her personal favorite, taralli. The hot, peppery type made her mouth water as much as the crème puffs and the chocolate chip-filled cannolis.
One would not guess she’d had breakfast this morning. And she certainly wouldn’t be leaving without a boxful of treats.
She moved farther into the shop and caught the eye of the cashier. Bethany Sampogna, Vesta’s daughter and Mags’ younger sister—falling in between Mags and Marco—let out a squeal of delight. She called, “Mags, come quick!”
Jenna beamed at Bethany’s exuberance. She was a beautiful girl—woman, Jenna mentally corrected, reminding herself Bethany had turned twenty-one this year.
“I can only come so quickly,” Mags said as she rounded the corner. “’Course my stomach will reach you ten minutes before the rest of me catches up to—Oh!”
A very pregnant Margaret Sampogna drew up short and pressed her hands to her mouth. Tears instantly sprang to her light-blue eyes. Taking her hands away, she said, “You came to see me.”
Jenna felt a hot flash of tears as well. “Of course I came to see you. Both of you. I’m just so sorry it took a few days.”
Mags fanned her suddenly flushed face as fat drops tumbled down her rosy cheeks. “You’re busy helping Rafe. That’s so sweet of you, J.” That was how Jenna always signed off on her blog posts.
Jenna let Bethany hug her before rushing off to help customers, then Jenna crossed to where Mags still stood, looking stunned Jenna had made the effort to seek her out. That thought did not sit well with Jenna.
She took Mags small hands in hers and gingerly kissed her on both cheeks. Then she spread Mags’ arms wide and eyed her belly. “My, oh, my. You’re about to pop.”
Mags laughed. “Any day now.”
