Rooted

By Susan Fanetti

When her mother died, Carmen stepped into her shoes and became the woman of the family, shouldering much of the responsibility for raising her two youngest siblings and keeping the family running. Even though Joey and Rosa are now grown, she’s found it difficult to let that role go.

When Rosa graduates from college, Carmen takes her to Europe for the summer. She means the trip as not simply a gift, but a way to strengthen their bond as sisters and to help Rosa, the youngest sibling and the pampered family princess, become a more fully-realized adult. She has no intention of spending time with anyone but her sister.

Writer and widower Theo Wilde is living in Paris for several months, with the mission to write his next book. His grown sons, worried that he is too much alone, push him into the city to meet someone new. He’s not enthusiastic, but he makes a promise to try. It’s Carmen he meets.

What begins as a summer fling against the beautiful, romantic backdrop of Paris becomes something that neither of them expected, something Carmen is not prepared for. She has always placed her family first, but to be with Theo, she’ll need to stretch beyond her roots and grow.

NOTE: explicit sex, some violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Fanetti
• Release date: Nov 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310429286

Susan Fanetti

Susan Fanetti was born and raised in the Midwest--Missouri, to be precise. A few years ago, she was transplanted into the dusty soil of Northern California and has apparently taken root there. An inveterate geek and gamer, she is a fan of many things considered pop culture and maybe even lowbrow. The Signal Bend Series is complete at Smashwords, with eight books released: Move the Sun, Behold the Stars, Into the Storm, Alone on Earth, In Dark Woods (a novella), All the Sky, Show the Fire, and Leave a Trail. The Night Horde SoCal series, a spinoff to the Signal Bend Series, is complete, with eight books released: Strength & Courage, Shadow & Soul, Today & Tomorrow (a "Side Trip" in the series), Fire & Dark, Dream & Dare (another "Side Trip), Knife & Flesh, Rest & Trust, and Calm & Storm. Nolan: Return to Signal Bend is a semi-standalone novel that follows the Signal Bend and Night Horde SoCal series and completes the Night Horde saga. The Pagano Family Series is complete, with six books released: Footsteps, Touch, Rooted, Deep, Prayer, and Miracle. Find updates and musing from Susan and her muse here: http://susanfanetti.com/ Susan's Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/authorsusanfanetti The Freak Circle Press is an independent collective of friends and fellow writers. Find more information at their blog: tfcpress.wordpress.com and on Facebook: www.facebook.com/freakcirclepress

Book preview

ROOTED

The Pagano Family Series

Book THREE

Susan Fanetti

Published by Susan Fanetti at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Susan Fanetti

THE FREAK CIRCLE PRESS

Rooted © 2014 Susan Fanetti

All rights reserved

Susan Fanetti has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ALSO BY SUSAN FANETTI

The Pagano Family Series:

(Family Saga)

Footsteps, Book 1

Touch, Book 2

The Signal Bend Series:

(MC Romance)

Move the Sun, Book 1

Behold the Stars, Book 2

Into the Storm, Book 3

Alone on Earth, Book 4

In Dark Woods, Book 4.5

All the Sky, Book 5

Show the Fire, Book 6

Leave a Trail, Book 7

As always, to the women of the Freak Circle Press, whose nourishing roots keep me secure and allow me to grow. I love you.

I am rooted, but I flow.

Virginia Woolf, The Waves

Prologue

Carmen Pagano slammed the door of her Tundra and smoothed her charcoal grey pencil skirt over her hips. Then she checked the side mirror and decided her makeup and dark hair looked fine. Whatever. She would never be comfortable dressed like this. And now she had to walk across acres of grass in stupid high heels. She felt like a lawn aerator.

It had taken her nearly twenty minutes to find any parking at all. Her little sister Rosa’s college commencement ceremony was set to begin soon, and Carmen hated to be late. She should have taken her brother Luca up on his offer to ride with him and his wife. But Carmen liked to have her own mode of transportation. She wanted to be able to go when she was ready.

Finally, she arrived at the expanse of lawn that was set up for the ceremony, and she scanned the rows of seats for her family. Within the crush of proud families, she found a row of mostly empty seats. Luca was sitting one seat in from the outside edge.

Carmen sat next to him, breathless. Fuck, parking is impossible. And the attendants are assholes.

Hey to you, too, sis. Luca handed her a program.

She took it but didn’t look at it. Where’s Manny?

We’ve had seat-saving detail for a while. She got bored and wandered off. He shrugged. You know how she is. She’s got her phone, so I’ll reel her in when it’s time.

Fussing with her snug skirt and white, stiff cotton blouse, Carmen huffed. Everybody else? She looked down and saw that each heel on her black, ankle-strap pumps had a little clod of sod attached. Oh, screw it. She should have worn her work boots.

Carlo and Sabina got a call from the lawyer and went off for some privacy. Pop and Adele are keeping Trey occupied. Joey and John are right there—he indicated his brothers at the end of the row, also on seat-saving detail—and Rosa is where she’s supposed to be, I expect: taking group selfies with all her BFFs, crying, and promising to always keep in touch. Now you’re here, and the commencement can commence. ‘Cuz, you know, they were all holding it up for you.

You’re a smartass. Carmen gave him the stinkeye.

He laughed. That’s news?

Nope. She replayed what Luca had just said. "They got a call from the lawyer? Is that news?" Their elder brother, Carlo, and his wife, Sabina, were trying to adopt a baby. For reasons both tragic and infuriating, Sabina was unable to get pregnant.

Luca shrugged. I don’t know. Carlo got the call, grabbed Sabina, and they went off. I guess we’ll know soon, though.

Music began playing from somewhere Carmen couldn’t see. Luca pulled his phone and reeled Manny back to Rosa’s graduation from Brown University. A degree in political science. Little Rosie. Who’d’ve thought?

Carmen looked around and saw their family trickling back toward the seats as well. She returned her father’s wave as he came back with Carlo’s son in one hand, and Adele, their newly-minted stepmother, in the other.

Carlo and Sabina were headed back, too. Carlo finished his call as they came up to the seats. They both looked happy—anxious, but happy.

Luca stood and moved out of the seats to make way for the returning family. He turned in a circle, scanning the area for his wayward wife. Carmen scooted down to sit next to Joey, giving the youngest brother an affectionate, light punch in the arm as a greeting. He smiled, the tubes for his cannula tightening across his cheeks.

Carlo sat on her other side.

Luca said you were talking to the lawyer.

He nodded and smiled. Yeah. I’ll tell you about it after.

Good news, though?

He cocked his head, giving her a cautious look, but he was still smiling. Positive news. We’ll see.

The ceremony was beginning, so Carmen only bumped his shoulder in response.

In the middle of the invocation, Manny finally made it back, and she and Luca sat down. Carmen chuckled to herself. That girl would keep Luca on his toes forever.

~oOo~

Rosa wanted a blowout for her graduation party, and their father had complied. They were in a ballroom at a big Providence hotel. A DJ played house music for about a hundred young, aggressively hip, fresh college graduates. Some of Rosa’s family was there, too, though they had begun to disperse. The Uncles and aunts had attended the quiet family dinner before the bash, handed Rosa thick envelopes, and said their goodbyes.

Carlo and Sabina had gotten news that a pregnant woman in New Jersey wanted to meet with them as soon as possible, so they’d taken Trey and left after the graduation ceremony.

Their father and Adele had taken a room at the hotel for the night, so they could be close in case of trouble but not subjected to the horror that was Rosa’s idea of the perfect party.

Manny and Joey were having a good time, sitting at the family table making viciously cutting remarks about Rosa’s college buddies.

John and his girlfriend, Kristen, who’d shown up for the party, were making out in the back of the ballroom.

It was just Carmen and Luca on chaperone duty. Well, not chaperone, per se. They were sitting in the hotel lobby, the noise of the party muffled behind heavy doors. They had a bottle of Dewar’s and a couple of cut-crystal glasses. And they’d ordered some pepper biscuits from the restaurant.

The doors opened, and the roar and squeal of Rosa’s party momentarily filled the lobby. Luca sighed. I can’t believe you’re spending three months alone with that girl. How are you going to keep her entertained? And fuck, it’s gotta cost some bank.

Carmen’s graduation present for Rosa was the summer in Europe. They were leaving in less than a week, not due back until late August. Their siblings—and their father, for that matter—thought Carmen was nuts. But she thought it was a good idea. Rosa needed to get shaken out of her paradigm. Ivy league poli-sci degree or not, she was turning into not a great human being, the cliché of the Italian-American Princess. The kind of girl they made reality television shows about.

And no. No, no, no. No Pagano was going through life that way. She needed a new way to see the world. So Carmen had decided to show her some of the world.

To answer Luca’s concern now, Carmen shrugged. She’s twenty-two. She doesn’t need a sitter, she needs a base. It’ll be fine. We’re staying at Izzie’s place in Paris while she’s in India for a year, and I can write the rest off—I’m touring some commercial flower growers and gardens, and getting some ideas, so I’ll be doing some work.

She was a landscape designer. It had taken some doing to arrange her work so that she could take the entire summer—the peak season—off, but she had jobs going and people she trusted to supervise them, and she had a healthy cushion. Her tastes were not extravagant, and her work paid well; she’d always lived comfortably within her means.

Her friend Isabella had been living in Paris for more than ten years. They’d been roommates at Bryn Mawr and had had big plans about how they’d take on the world after graduation. Izzie had come much closer to reaching that goal. Carmen’s life had had something else, something smaller, in mind for her. Now Izzie and her husband were off to India on some humanitarian project for a year, and she’d offered Carmen dominion over their Paris apartment for as long as she wanted during that time.

The timing could not have been more perfect, just as Rosa was finishing college. And with the free accommodations and tax write-off, Carmen could afford this trip without pinching every penny.

She fussed with her skirt—she’d been doing that all day; she was not a woman who usually wore a skirt, and she’d spent the day constantly, uncomfortably aware of her clothes. Also, her feet were about to start a prison riot inside the toes of her stupid pumps. Huffing in frustration with her bindings, she continued her point to Luca. "She’s never been to Europe. You ever think about that? We used to go every year when Mom was alive. God, I got bored of Italy. And Rosa has never been. There’s something wrong with that."

Their mother had been close with her Italian relatives, and they’d spent a few weeks every summer in Tuscany. None of the kids had managed to learn more than cursory Italian, because all of their relatives spoke English, but they had learned a lot about their history and family nonetheless. And summer in Tuscany was spectacular.

Every summer, for one week of that trip, the week their father joined them, they’d travel elsewhere in Europe. That had all stopped when Joey was about four, when their mother’s aunt died, and some kind of family shenanigans had happened in the old country.

Luca considered that, and then nodded. Good point. But why not take her to Italy, then? Look up the cousins or something. Rosa should get some of that.

Rosa’s a Francophile. She knows the language. I took it, too, a long time ago. Maybe I still have some left. And like I said, I’ve got a free place in Paris and work I can do there. Plus, France is a decently central location. She wants to see the UK, too. And we’ll hit Italy for a week or so, at least.

Still say you’re in for a long fucking summer catering to the princess.

There won’t be any catering, Luc. That’s the whole point. That girl needs a new attitude, and she’s never going to get it unless she gets out of Rhode Island for a while.

Luca turned and stared at the closed door behind which was their youngest sibling’s gala event. Yeah, I guess. Sabina says we spoil the shit out of her, and then talk about her behind her back.

Carmen chuckled drily. Like we’re doing right this second. Spoiling her in there—she pointed toward the ballroom—and bitching about her out here.

Her brother’s head whipped around. Shit. Shit. He was quiet for a moment, staring at her. Shit. You want me to throw in for this trip?

No, Luc, she laughed. I’m all set.

~ 1 ~

Carmen cracked open the door to Rosa’s room and saw a lump in the bed, under the white cotton comforter. Long strands of sable and burgundy hair coiled from the top and spread over the crisp, white cases on the pillows.

With a roll of her eyes, she quietly closed the door and went into the kitchen. She wrote a quick note (Went out. Text if you need me. There’s food in the fridge. C—), tented the paper and left it sitting on the countertop. Then she did as advertised and went out, locking the heavy door behind her.

Izzie and Laurent’s apartment was located in the swanky seventh arrondissement of Paris—only a few blocks from the Eiffel Tower. The neighborhood boasted tree-lined streets and sidewalks bursting with cafés, pâtisseries, chocolatiers, flower shops, and chichi boutiques. The apartment buildings were grandly aged and perfectly Parisian, with red geraniums abloom on black iron balconies onto which opened multi-paned French doors.

Elegant women and men in designer clothes strode with purpose down the walks and drove luxury cars, high-end scooters, and motorcycles, traveling the streets with the same blatant disregard for traffic law, self-preservation, or common decency of every other driver in Paris.

Izzie had left the keys to their Audi S8, but there was absolutely no way in all the nine hells that Carmen was going to drive that six-figure fucker in the city of Paris. When it was time to go out into the countryside, they’d take the Metro to the edge of the city, and she’d rent a car from there.

But they’d only been in Paris a week, and there was plenty to do right in the city to keep them occupied for a while. Once Rosa got herself out of bed, that was. Jetlag had laid the girl out, and she’d spent days doing virtually nothing but sleeping and occasionally coming out to the living room to sigh for a while. It had been all Carmen could do to get her to go out for an occasional meal. It was about time to kick that girl up the ass and get her moving. They were in Paris, for fuck’s sake.

When they’d arrived, Rosa had been giddy. While they’d been planning the trip, she’d been skeptical of the free accommodations, but when she’d seen with her own eyes that they’d be living among well-heeled Parisians, surrounded by shopping and food, she’d bounced up and down in the taxi.

Then she’d seen the apartment itself. It was a typical upscale flat, Carmen thought, in a stately building with an old cage elevator. The ceilings were high, the plasterwork was ornate, the doors were tall and carved. Izzie preferred a more muted palette than Carmen liked, but still, it was warm and classy. Four rooms and a bath—large living room with a fireplace, small kitchen, and two bedrooms, one large and one small. Carmen took the large bedroom, which shared access to the balcony with the living room. The small bedroom was quite small, but had a view of the Eiffel Tower.

When Rosa first walked in, she’d squealed. Oh. My. Gawd! I feel like Audrey Hepburn! She’d even done a little pirouette in the middle of the living room.

They’d walked to the Eiffel Tower that first afternoon, browsed through some of the shops on the way back, and had an early dinner at a cute little café. Rosa had been happy and chatty, and Carmen had felt more convinced than ever that she’d made the right choice, bringing her here.

Then Rosa had taken to her bed and slept for approximately ninety percent of her life.

Carmen had felt some jetlag, too, but she’d slept hard that first night and late into the next morning, and then her clock was reset. So she’d been doing Paris mostly on her own for this first week of their summer.

She needed to get her baby sister moving. But frankly, Carmen had enjoyed this week. She preferred her own company above all, and wandering alone through the streets of this magnificent city had been blissful, really. She’d done a lot of things Rosa would have balked at—the Catacombs, for instance. The Shakespeare and Company bookstore. Notre Dame. A day spent simply walking along the Seine until her feet gave out. Had she dragged Rosa along, those days would have been ruined by her endless complaints.

She’d also made it her mission to scout out the cafés, pâtisseries, and the like around their flat to figure out which had the best offerings and atmosphere. Usually, she’d been able to get Rosa out for a meal and a little bit of shopping, just an hour or two before she was back to yawning and sighing.

It really was time to get her in gear. The whole point of bringing Rosa to Europe was to get her out in the world and broaden her outlook a little.

Tomorrow. Carmen would let her sleep through this night, and then she’d shake her out of that comforter in the morning, and they would take on the Louvre and some gardens. At least.

For tonight, though, the thought of a nice meal, a good wine, and a good book at the little café she’d decided was her favorite so far sounded like a lovely end to a beautiful, solitary day in Paris.

~oOo~

Café Aphrodite sat on the corner across the street, at the end of Izzie’s block, but Carmen hadn’t tried it out until the third day. Since then, she’d eaten there four times. It was the perfect blend of good atmosphere and good food.

The side walls were lined with books and odd little knickknacks, many of which had the kitschy feel of knock-off antiquity. The ceiling was mirrored. The back wall was bottles of wine shelved from floor to ceiling. A small bar took up space at about the middle of the room. A ten-foot tall marble fountain of Aphrodite herself, standing nude and glorious in her shell, dominated the center of the interior. There had been risk in this design of tending toward tacky. But the effect was instead cozy.

Though about fifteen small tables were perched within a low, wrought-iron railing on the sidewalk, and Carmen had enjoyed a couple of meals people-watching out there, on this night, she decided to sit indoors with her tablet. She had taken it as a challenge to finally get through David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest during this trip. She’d been a fan of DFW since she’d come across a hilarious article of his in The Atlantic several years ago, and she thought she had read all of his published works but one. Infinite Jest was his most famous—and, in Carmen’s opinion, two hundred pages into his thousand-plus-page brick of a postmodern masterpiece, his most ponderous. The footnotes in this one were going to drive her insane.

Her reading tastes tended toward the literary, especially the contemporary literary stuff. But she liked the classics, too. Virginia Woolf was her favorite author. She’d enjoyed studying literature in school, and had danced around the idea of majoring in English for a while, but then she’d taken an upper-division course with a professor who’d insisted that texts had only one correct reading. Carmen didn’t like to have her own view of texts or the world wrangled so narrowly. So she’d majored in philosophy instead.

Not exactly a career-oriented choice, but one she’d enjoyed immensely. The world of the philosophy department had been delightfully open to ideas. She’d basically gotten a degree in arguing. It suited her well.

She’d knocked around for awhile after graduation, doing her own thing, serving at a diner near campus, still living with Izzie, who was finishing a Master’s program. They’d been planning to move to Europe together and see what happened.

Then Carmen’s mother had gotten sick, and Izzie had gone to Europe on her own.

And they’d seen what happened.

Marc, a server who’d had her table before, smiled when she came into the café. He sat her at a good table near the window and took her order for a bottle of pinot gris. They spoke English, which was good, because Carmen had discovered that she’d lost most of the French she’d learned after three years of study in high school and three more in college. Fifteen years was a long time away from a language.

While she waited for her wine, she perused the menu, which helpfully had English translations under every item. Marc brought her pinot, made the usual production of pouring and tasting and approving, and took her order of a chicken entrée in a mushroom sauce on a bed of wild rice—which was called Suprêmes something and made Carmen sing old Diana Ross songs in her head. Then Carmen settled comfortably, sipped her wine, and opened the bookshelf on her tablet to confront the goings-on at the Enfield Tennis Academy.

~oOo~

"Pardon, mademoiselle."

Well, that French accent was worse than hers—and hers came with a touch of Rhody. Carmen looked up from her tablet and her half-eaten meal and found a man standing at her table. He was tall and good looking, in a blond, sunbaked, wind-blown, California way. Which, she supposed, was the traditional way to be good looking. He had blue eyes and a face a bit on the rugged side. Handsome, not pretty. Maybe forty or so.

He wore a crisp, cotton button-down shirt in emerald green, heavily faded jeans, and a brown leather jacket. His shirt was open at the throat, and she could see at least two stone pendants on leather cords around his neck. Yep. Definitely California.

He looked vaguely familiar, but Carmen chalked that up to the way that all Americans seemed to stand out to her in Paris. There was some kind of ‘home’ vibe to them, or something. Or maybe it was that Parisians all seemed to be so glamorous and put together, and Americans as a group looked like schlubs in comparison.

She didn’t answer, just lifted her eyebrows to signal that if he had something to say, he should get on with it.

"Parlez-vous anglais?"

Wow. Your accent sucks. Do you speak English better than you speak French?

He grinned then, showing perfect, white teeth and long, deep dimples, and for the first time, Carmen was a little interested. She had a thing for dimples. Thank God. Yeah, I’m not good with French. But my facility with the English language is solid, I think.

He was cute—okay, hot—but Carmen was ensconced in her private moment, maybe her last private moment of the summer, once she got Rosa up. She wasn’t in the mood for company. Good for you. Is there something you wanted?

Her terse rejoinder didn’t erase his grin. Instead, he cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow as if accepting a challenge. Yes, actually. I was hoping you could help me. I made a promise that I wouldn’t go home until I’d spoken with a beautiful girl. It’s been days now, and I really want my bed. I don’t suppose you’d speak with me?

Carmen rolled her eyes and set her tablet down. Immediate deduction of at least six hot points for starting off with a lame line like that. Seriously? Is that line something you practiced in front of the mirror? Because I’m here to tell you, bud. Your mirror lies. You should never use that again. There. Now you’ve spoken to a beautiful woman. Home you go. She picked up her tablet and her wine glass and tipped it to her mouth to empty it.

Instead, the stranger pulled out the empty seat at her little table and sat. He extended his hand. I’m Theo.

Ignoring the hand looming over her dinner, Carmen set her empty wine glass down and filled it from the bottle Marc had left. No. This is not our Woody Allen meet-cute. You are not charming. And you are not invited. Go away.

But he would not be dissuaded. "See, according to the terms of my promise, I have to have an actual conversation. I have to speak with a beautiful girl, not simply to her. And we both agree you’re beautiful. He finally dropped his hand and sat back. That’s refreshing, by the way. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a woman refer to herself as beautiful before."

Carmen knew what she looked like. She wasn’t proud of her looks—genetics, being out of her control, were nothing to be proud of—but she knew her appearance made some things in her life easier. And other things harder. Enjoying a quiet meal alone, for instance.

She sighed and set her tablet down again. Theo—is that right?

He nodded, his widening Cheshire grin suggesting that he thought he’d won something here. It was a good smile, she’d give him that. Nice hands, too. She’d noticed while it had hovered over her table. Not too smooth. Good size. No rings. The sleeve of his jacket had pulled back to show a wide, brown leather cuff around his wrist and a hint of golden hair on his forearm.

Yeah, she needed to stop checking him out.

Theo. You say your command of English is good. So listen up. She spoke slowly, as if he were in fact not a speaker of English. You are not welcome at this table. I am not interested. Find somebody else to pester.

Before Theo could respond to that, Marc came to the table. Carmen expected him to ask after her meal, at least, but he turned to her intruder instead. M. Wilde, I may bring your dinner to this table, yes?

All at once, Carmen knew why he’d looked familiar. Wait. You’re Theodore Wilde?

That was victory he was beaming at her now. Dammit. Yes. You know me?

She was remembering his author photo. "I read Orchids in Autumn a couple of years ago." She’d had some issues with it, but overall, she’d loved it. Lyrical prose and a moving story. A memoir. About the death of his wife.

Marc was still standing there, his question unanswered. Theo lifted an inquiring eyebrow at her. Oh, fuck. What the hell. Yes, Marc. You can free up M. Wilde’s table.

Very good. Marc gave a little bow, just a tip of his head, and moved quickly to bring Theo’s food and drink to her table. Carmen looked around and realized that the café had filled up almost to capacity.

She gave Theo a one-sided smile. His method of getting over here was still lame as hell, so he didn’t deserve the full wattage. I guess you get to go home tonight. That’s a still a shitty line, though.

It’s not a line. I actually made a promise. I might have embellished with the part about how long I’ve been trying, though. As she closed her tablet and slid it into her leather bag, he added, What are you reading?

"Infinite Jest. Trying to, anyway."

Theo chuckled. That’s a commitment, it’s true. But I really liked it. It’s a brilliant book.

Are you one of those people who say they’ve read it, but in reality only got fifty or so pages in?

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he said, ‘I’m just afraid of having a tombstone that says HERE LIES A PROMISING OLD MAN.’ That’s one of my favorite lines in the book.

She smirked. I like that line, too. I just read it tonight. But I’m only about two hundred and fifty pages in. Point not proved.

I could spoil the ending for you. Or are you one of those readers who reads the last page first?

"No, I’m not.