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Lola’s eyes narrowed. One way or the other, she would find out the truth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS STRANGE, Rodrigo thought, to have one’s first Thanksgiving at the age of thirty-seven. But no stranger than the rest of it, he supposed.
He looked down the long table, surrounded by mismatched folding chairs, in this magnificent, half-empty Manhattan penthouse overlooking Central Park. It was strange to be eating a traditional Thanksgiving dinner off the caterer’s rented china, surrounded mostly by strangers.
Rodrigo knew Prince Stefano Zacco, the luxury fashion mogul, only slightly. His only acquaintance with Cristiano Moretti was that he’d often stayed in the man’s hotels.
Rodrigo had no memory whatsoever of when Stefano’s wife, Tess, had apparently worked as a waitress at one of his cocktail parties. He’d never met Hallie before, nor Cristiano’s father who’d just come from Italy, nor Tess’s two young cousins, who looked barely old enough to be out of high school, but who apparently now ran the family bakery and, he had to admit, certainly knew how to bake.
This Thanksgiving was strange, for sure.
But in some ways, it wasn’t strange at all. It was exactly how Rodrigo had imagined it might be, when he was a child left on his own in Madrid to eat arroz con pollo with the nanny and the cook, as his mother flew off to ski in Aspen with her latest lover, and his cold, distant fathe
r disappeared to quietly rage at a film set.
Now, as Rodrigo sat at the table, listening to all of the people around him laugh and joke and tease each other, he felt like he was on a film set himself. A scene for a Thanksgiving movie, or an advertisement for any holiday that brought family and friends together for a meal. He ate the butter-basted turkey and cornbread stuffing, the mashed potatoes and gravy and fresh cranberry sauce, and it was all so delicious. After eating a huge plateful of food, he’d gone back for a second—having been told it was tradition to eat until one was utterly stuffed—and afterward, he found himself relaxing into warmth and pleasure, smiling as Lola and her friends good-naturedly fought over who got the wishbone.
“It’s mine,” Lola said ferociously, holding one side of the wishbone.
“No way, mine,” Hallie retorted, gripping the other.
“Let Lola have it,” Tess whispered to Hallie. “She needs it.”
The brunette instantly released it. “You win.”
Rodrigo looked between them in confusion. “Why does Lola need it?”
His wife flashed him a look he couldn’t read. Fear? Regret? Hope? But before he could analyze it, it was gone. She shrugged. “It’s good luck, that’s all.”
“But why do you need luck more than anyone else?” he persisted.
She gave him a crooked smile. “I’m married to you, aren’t I?”
“And I’m married to you,” he pointed out, returning her grin.
“So maybe you’re the one who needs it, then.” She held out the wishbone. “We’re supposed to wait until it dries, but I’m not that patient. Grab a side, make a wish and pull.”
As ordered, he grabbed the other side of the wishbone and pulled it, hard and fast, at the same time she did. There was a loud crack.
Rodrigo lifted his bigger piece of the wishbone. “What does this mean?”
Lola looked disconsolately at her smaller piece, then sighed. “It means you win.” She gave him a strange look. “What did you wish for?”
“I didn’t wish for anything,” he said honestly. He looked around them. “I have everything any man could want.”
Applause and approval went around the table. But he again saw that flash of emotion cross his wife’s face. An emotion that he didn’t understand. Emotion that was quickly veiled as she turned away. “It’s time for dessert.”
She was hiding something.
The insidious thought went through him like a hissing snake, twisting and curling from the base of his skull down the length of his spine.
His wife had a secret. Something she didn’t want him to know.
What?
Lola, Tess and Hallie returned from the kitchen with six pies—two each of pumpkin, pecan and apple. With a flourish, Lola cut him a slice of each kind, covered them with whipped cream and slid the plate in front of him.
