Page 15 of Wishes on Wildflowers
“Marietta.”
Nathan dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Marietta. I’ve apologized to your granddaughter, and she has forgiven me.”
Nonna pulled her hand away from Nathan as her gaze swung to Jasmine’s. “Forgiven him? But you cried so many tears.”
Why, oh why, had she indulged in that torrent in her nonna’s arms that night eight years back? Some people might be able to put the past behind them, but Nonna wasn’t one of them. She remembered everything, and she was nothing if not loyal to her grandchildren. In fact, Jasmine might be Nonna’s very favorite. A girl after her grandmother’s own heart.
All of which wasn’t particularly helpful just now, though. Not with Basil snickering behind his hand, and Nathan looking serious and apologetic all over again as he glanced between her and her grandmother.
Mom reached for Nonna again. “You are coming, yes, Mamma? I have made ravioli from the recipe you shared with me many years ago. I know it is one of your favorites.”
It was one of Jasmine’s favorites, too. Even if she really didn’t feel like facing Nathan, she couldn’t very well turn away the famous Santoro ravioli.
“Not today. Today I go to Dino’s house for lunch. Bettahas already persuaded me.” Nonna’s finger stabbed toward Nathan. “Did I hear you invite that boy?”
Nathan might have been little more than a boy when he’d escaped from her life eight years back, but the word didn’t really fit him anymore. No, the Nathan that stood before her was definitely not an unsure adolescent. He’d grown up. He exuded masculinity from the soles of his black shoes to the gelled lift of his short blond hair. All man.
“Yes, of course Nathan is coming, too.” Mom had the grace to shoot a look of apology at Jasmine. “He’s living in Alex’s house, after all. I can’t just exclude him.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Santoro. I don’t live with Alex and Basil and Peter. Not exactly. I have the basement all to myself, and it has a kitchen.” He glanced at Jasmine. “I’m happy to fix my own lunch.”
Mom swept her hand as though getting rid of all those words. “Nonsense. I have invited you, and you will come. You are a friend of Basil and welcome in our home. You should know by now that our door is always open to our children’s friends.”
And that part was true. How many times had the whole youth group hung out in the Santoro family room when Jasmine and her brothers had been teenagers? Constantly. That’s when she’d met her own roommate, Linnea, who had been in Alex’s class back then. Everything would be fine. Her mom wouldn’t let anything get out of hand over a simple Sunday lunch. Everything would be fine. She’d soon get used to seeing Nathan around Bridgeview, and then it wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Right? She could only hope.
Nathan layon the floor of the Santoros’ living room, marveling once again at what a large close family could look like. Did Marco and Daria always come to Sunday dinner at his parents’ house, even though they’d been married for probably ten years and had three kids? And Basil, Alex, and Evan… although Evan still lived here, as he was attending university. And Jasmine.
Why had he thought he was completely over Jasmine? Probably only because he wanted to be. Because he’d dated constantly since he left Spokane with her in the rearview mirror. Hadn’t that been proof?
He’d wager a bet that the scene at Peter’s parents’ house looked different, even though his friend always went home for Sunday lunch. Nathan still couldn’t believe his kid brother had knocked up Peter’s little sister. And abandoned her. What a scummy brat.
Something stilled inside Nathan. He hadn’t left any girl pregnant, had he? Surely not. He’d been careful, as far as he remembered, and besides, they would’ve told him if protection failed. He would’ve done the right thing by the mother of his child, wouldn’t he? Mind you, Connor was only seventeen himself.
“Oomph.” All the breath left Nathan’s lungs as three-year-old Arie bounced on his back. The little boy had already taken a tumble that required a steri-strip bandage.
“Git up, horsey!” Arie bounced one more time on Nathan’s back.
Nathan rolled over, taking the child with him. “Hey, partner. Watch where you’re kicking those spurs.” He tickled the little boy until Arie begged for mercy.
“You’re a glutton for punishment.” Alex laughed from the easy chair near the kitchen doorway.
Yeah, he was, and it wasn’t because of young Arie.
Beyond Alex, he could hear women’s voices. Jasmine, her mom, and Daria had stayed in the kitchen. Grace Santoro had booted Nathan out of the room when he’d offered to help clean up. Hey, he’d been sincere. He’d been on his own long enough to know that dishes did not magically get washed and put themselves away just because he wished for it to happen. Now he strained to hear what they were talking about. Was it his imagination, or had he heard Daria mention his name?
“It’s not like that.” Jasmine’s voice.
Nathan tried to hear more, but only a faint murmur reached his ears.
“Then why haven’t you—?”
Whatever Daria had been about to say was cut off in the clatter of dishes. Were they talking about him? Had he made a big mistake returning to Bridgeview? He’d already been contemplating leaving Los Angeles before he and Basil got chatting on Facebook that evening a couple of months back. He’d been tired of the big city, of the fallout from the biggest mistake of his life, and, yes, of all the women in his life. It had seemed time for a fresh start.
Now he wanted to cuff himself up the side of the head. A fresh start did not mean returning to his roots, having coffee with his father and wife number four, and opening up old wounds with Jasmine. She’d agreed they could get along for the sake of the business, but before he’d driven all the way back from California, that question had not even entered his mind.
Yeah, he’d looked her up on Facebook, but he hadn’t really expected there to be any feelings — positive or negative — flailing about. He hadn’t expected his mere presence to agitate her so much. And he certainly hadn’texpected seeing her again to spark anything inside of himself. Whatever they’d had was water under the Maple Street bridge eight years ago. Those feelings should be so far downstream by now that they’d circled with the North Pacific current at least twice. And, yet, that’s not what had happened.
The voices from the kitchen rose higher, but just as they did, Ray Santoro spoke up. “It’s good to see you back in Bridgeview, son.”
