Beautiful Secret

By Dana Faletti

Beautiful Secret is set mostly in the lush French Ardennes and Southern Italy. It is the story of thirty-three year old Tate Robbins, a woman who has lost almost everything that is important to her in life. When Tate decides to travel from her hometown in the North of Pittsburgh to Europe, she expects an escape from the life that is falling apar

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pandamoon Publishing
• Release date: Apr 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781945502347

Dana Faletti

Pittsburgh native Dana Faletti loves Broadway musicals and knows all the words to Les Miserables - the entire show. One of her favorite TV series is Sons of Anarchy, and her favorite movie is the Sound of Music. Don't try to start a conversation with her in the morning until she's had at least one cup of coffee - preferably Starbucks, but do come over for a glass of wine (red) and some good conversation at dinner time. Dana loves to cook and owned a successful catering business for a few years, before giving it up to focus on her family and write full-time. She shares her life with a Gemini husband who also knows every word to Les Mis, and three amazing daughters - an eleven-year-old theatre buff, a nine-year-old future mega-entrepreneur, and a curly-haired six-year-old who is the true CEO of the household. Dana has been writing for what seems like forever. Her young adult trilogy, The Whisper Series, is a paranormal romance that's rife with angels, demons and forbidden romance, as well as a message of love and acceptance that has touched readers nationwide. Her newest novel, Beautiful Secret, will be released by Pandamoon Publishing in 2016. Beautiful Secret is a women's fiction romance set in the scorched hills of Southern Italy, where Dana has spent much time traveling and visiting relatives. Dana has a love affair with all things Italian and is proud to be part of the loud, crazy, and wonderful Italian family that inspired her new book.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

Pandamoon Books

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Beautiful Secret

BY

Dana Faletti

© 2016 by Dana Faletti

This book is a work of creative fiction that uses actual publicly known events, situations, and locations as background for the storyline with fictional embellishments as creative license allows. Although the publisher has made every effort to ensure the grammatical integrity of this book was correct at press time, the publisher does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. At Pandamoon, we take great pride in producing quality works that accurately reflect the voice of the author. All the words are the author’s alone.

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

http://www.pandamoonpublishing.com

Jacket design and illustrations © Pandamoon Publishing

Art Direction by Matthew Kramer: Pandamoon Publishing

Illustrations by Ayush Pokharel: Pandamoon Publishing

Editing by Zara Kramer, Rachel Schoenbauer, and Rachel Lee Cherry: Pandamoon Publishing

Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC

Edition: 1

ISBN 13: 978-1-945502-34-7

Dedication

To Nana.

Beautiful Secret

Prologue

June

The next worst thing could happen any minute now.

Tate Robbins had to get to the hospital before it did. Nana’s last breath was on the horizon, and Tate’s heart twisted around the need to say one more good-bye. She threw her purse over her shoulder and bounded down the stairs two at a time. On the bottom step, Tate tripped over her husband’s briefcase and stumbled into the foyer, clumsy confusion stopping her in her tracks.

Nathan was home this morning? Anxious prickles crawled along her arms, but she rubbed them away. She couldn’t afford to let his presence slow her down.

As she hurried into the kitchen to grab her car keys, Nathan’s arrogant eyes assaulted her.

There are coffee grinds everywhere, he said in a monotone that she thought sounded at once both judgmental and apathetic. I just Cloroxed the counter this morning.

Of course you did.

Without another word, Nathan sauntered out of sight, leaving Tate with her fists clenched at her sides, biting back the temptation to fight for the last word.

Damn, Tate muttered and swiped a tea towel half-heartedly over the granite to sop up the grainy mess. She didn’t have time to get emotional over the ridiculously expensive coffee maker Nathan had given her the Christmas before last, back when they were still exchanging gifts. In fact, she didn’t have time to entertain Nathan’s obsessions with cleanliness and perfection, either. Each minute that ticked by was a gamble with fate, and with ovarian cancer whispering death threats Nana’s way, the odds were not in her favor.

Screw this. Tate tossed the tea towel, not bothering to watch where it landed, and grabbed her car keys from the rack on the side of the refrigerator. Her reflection glinted from the sheen of too-pristine stainless steel, mocking her with its dark circles and incorrigible curls. In a moment of rebellion, she licked her middle finger and dragged it in zig-zags across the front of the fridge.

There.

Let her emotional dropout cheat of a husband enjoy a few smudges in his otherwise spit-spot environment.

That ought to shake him up a bit, Tate thought as she slipped through the back door and into the garage.

I’m coming, Nana, she whispered and slid into the driver’s seat. She glanced up from behind the wheel at the Saint Christopher medal that was attached to the visor. As was her habit, Tate kissed two fingers and touched them to the bronze-plated figure Nana Maria had given her as a token of safety when she’d bought her first car.

With a prayer on her lips and her heart bouncing like a super ball in her chest, Tate raced through the wooded hills of suburban Pittsburgh. As she crossed over the Fortieth Street Bridge, she stared at the murky flow of the Allegheny River, idling in summer slowness below. Its stagnant waters made her think of the conversation she hadn’t had with Nathan this morning. He hadn’t asked about Nana. She hadn’t divulged any emotion.

Suddenly, a feeling of dread washed over her shoulders.

Something was happening with Nana.

She could feel it.

When her cell phone started to ring, Tate knew it was the hospital. She dug inside her purse until her sweaty fingers closed around its smooth case.

Hello?

Hey there, chickie.

Suri. Thank God. The bright voice on the line was an anchor, as always, and Tate grabbed onto it before she dipped into an anxiety attack.

You sound a little stressed.

I’m on my way to the hospital.

Any changes?

Suri was asking if Nana was worse. She would want to say her good-byes to the woman who was like a second grandmother to her.

I don’t know. Tate stumbled on the words. I just have that feeling in my gut. That feeling like the bottom was going to drop right out from under her and she’d have nothing left to stand on.

I bet she’s just resting, Tate. Suri laid on the horn, and Tate could hear muffled cursing, even though her friend had obviously tried covering up the microphone. Sorry. Goddamn people are driving like there’s a full moon.

Tate’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Her best friend’s road rage always made Tate laugh—except when she was a passenger in Suri’s car. Then it made her toes curl.

Listen, Tate, I bet when you get to the hospital, Nana Maria will be sitting there in her blue nightie, sipping her coffee and chatting up one of the nurses. Tate smiled at the image of a healthy Nana, but she knew it was impossible. And as soon as you walk into the room, she’ll shoo out the staff and it’ll be story time, okay?

I hope you’re right, Sur.

And tonight, you’re going to meet me at Patron’s, and you’re going to share every last amahhhzing detail of Nana’s story with me over a few salty margaritas. Tate didn’t respond, but Suri pushed into the quiet. Sì, señorita, it’s happening. I have to hear what happens next.

I’ll text you when I leave the hospital, Sur. She couldn’t think about drinks or later or anything else right this second.

Don’t text me. Just meet me at Patron’s at seven.

Sur—

See you there.

And Suri was gone.

God, she was forever wanting to talk about every emotional nosedive, always trying to dig up the things Tate tried to shove down deep. And as much as it annoyed and exhausted Tate, she knew that her friend acted this way out of love. They were as close as sisters, Suri having grown up just two houses down from Nana’s. They’d gone from Barbie’s to boys together, and now to asshole husbands—at least in Tate’s case.

Tate felt no guilt about sharing Nana’s life story with Suri. Nana loved Suri and treated her like family. It was Nana who taught Suri how to use a tampon. She’d altered Suri’s prom dress when it was too tight around her chest and then nursed her back to standing when she was drunk and falling over from too many after-prom drinks. She made sure Suri had sobered up before sending her home to her parents and then gave her hell for it the next day.

Nana wouldn’t mind if Suri knew her secrets, and it was cathartic to retell the words, to be talking of drama, love, and scandal instead of sickness, death, and divorce. Maybe she would meet Suri at Patron’s tonight. If everything was status quo with Nana, she’d consider it.

As the hospital loomed into view, Tate felt her grip tighten on the steering wheel and a rubber band squeeze around her chest. The conversation with Suri had briefly eased her mind, but now the feeling of dread was back in full force.

A few minutes later, her arms numb with terror, her feet propelled by hope, she burst through the door of Nana Maria’s private room at Shadyside Hospital. As she choked on the smell of disinfectant and urine, Tate’s gaze landed on her grandmother’s still body, lying still beneath a mountain of bedclothes.

Oh, God. Was she too late?

Nana! Tate cried, running to her grandmother’s bed and kneeling beside the starchy sheets that puddled around Nana’s shrunken frame.

The pale woman’s cloudy eyes fluttered open, their serene blue littered with a gauzy haze of pain medication and disease.

It’s okay, Tati, Nana Maria said through cracked lips. I’m not dead yet.

A wheezy, muted laugh escaped Nana’s mouth, sounding to Tate like a death whistle. Tate shook her head at Nana’s easy sarcasm and exhaled sweet relief.

I was afraid I missed my chance to say good-bye, Tate told her grandmother, placing an open palm on Nana’s cool cheek and leaning in to kiss her.

Don’t be afraid, Tati, Nana said, her raspy voice layered with familiar comfort, wrapping around Tate like a worn wool sweater. Don’t we say good-bye every day, bella? Good-bye, I love you, be careful. All of these things, right?

I know. Tate was silent for a moment, letting the anticipation of this loss crawl over her. It’s never enough, though, Nana. I’m always hoping for one more kiss good-bye, one more story, you know?

Ah, bella, you’ve been coming here every day for weeks. Haven’t I told you everything there is to tell? Nana took Tate’s hand into her own.

Tate stared into her grandmother’s eyes and mustered a smile. I don’t know, she teased. Have you?

Nana rubbed Tate’s fingers quietly, her parched skin drawing dry circles over Tate’s.

There’s always a little more to tell. A little for today. A little for tomorrow. I’ll hold onto a few of my secrets too, okay, tomorrow girl? Nana said.

Tate smiled at Nana’s use of the nickname her father had given her as a child. Tate’s maiden name, Domani, was the Italian word for tomorrow.

No one’s called me that since he died, Nana.

No? Nana’s skin pulled together where her eyebrows should have been. What does Nathan call you, then?

Tate sighed, suddenly swallowed in a drowning fatigue at the mention of her husband. You don’t want to hear what Nathan calls me, Nana.

Nana Maria nodded, and the two women quieted.

Tate found herself studying a brown water spot on the ceiling, trying to ignore the blush of flames that licked her cheeks at the thought of discussing her marriage with her grandmother. She just didn’t want to go there. Not now, when they had so little time.

Suddenly, Nana Maria folded into a fit of coughing, breaking the silence and forging an exit route for Tate’s unwanted conversation.

Can I get you some water, Nana? Tate placed her hand on Nana’s bony shoulder. She applied pressure and tried to steady Nana’s frail, quaking body.

Nana shook her head and swallowed as the convulsions eased.

How about some ice chips? Tate asked.

Okay, Nana managed to murmur.

Tate stepped into the hallway and moved toward the nurses’ station, where they kept the ice machine. Grief strangled her thoughts as she filled Nana’s pink plastic pitcher. Ice chips plinked noisily while Tate dwelt on the necessity of Nana’s presence in this lifeless place where everything smelled of rubbing alcohol and overcooked food. Quite unexpectedly, a voice from behind her broke into her thoughts.

That grandmother of yours is really something, isn’t she?

Tate turned around to find one of the nurse’s aides, a petite woman with worry lines around her eyes and muddy brown curls that stuck to the sides of her face. Before Tate could say anything, the woman went on.

My whole married life, my husband hates my cooking, she said, and Tate felt her eyebrows furrow. He eats it, of course, because what else is he gonna do? Thirty years we’ve been married. He could have starved by now. The woman’s laughter reverberated along the silent corridor.

At a loss, Tate sidestepped away from the ice machine and gave the woman a half-smile. What did any of this have to do with Nana?

I told your grandmother about my husband, and you know what she does now?

What? Tate asked, doing nothing to hide her confusion.

Every day, she tells me what to cook and how to cook it, and every day, I leave work and go straight to the grocery store. I buy everything I need to make whatever she tells me. The woman nodded and placed a wrinkled hand on Tate’s arm.

She’s a great cook, Tate said, a smile of comprehension creeping onto her lips. She taught my mother how to cook, too.

She’s not just a great cook. She saved my marriage. The woman’s voice boomed. My husband’s never been happier.

That’s fantastic. What a character this woman was. Tate glanced at her nametag. Joan.

Last night, I made breaded veal cutlets and pasta, and my husband actually stood up from his chair and applauded. Joan’s eyes widened, and she inched close to Tate’s ear. And the appreciation didn’t stop there. My bedroom hasn’t seen so much action in ten years.

Tate’s shoulders shook with laughter.

Thanks for sharing that, Joan. I’m glad my Nana is sharing her recipes with you.

Me too, dear. And so is my husband. Joan winked at Tate before turning on one foot and walking away.

When Tate returned to her grandmother’s room with the pitcher of ice, she found her sitting straight up in bed, looking more alert than she had in weeks. Tate felt her eyes stretch wide in shock that Nana could have found the strength to hold her body upright.

Tatiana, Nana said. I want you to do something for me.

Tate placed the ice chips on the bedside table, carefully climbed onto the bed, and cuddled into the woman who always smelled of Oil of Olay and fried dough.

Anything, Nana. What is it?

I want you to go to France, Nana said.

France? Tate parroted, her voice betraying its confusion with a squeak. Why?

To meet my sister-in-law, Luisa, the one I told you about.

Nana, I can’t go to France. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here—

Tati, you always take the summers off, and it’s only June. I don’t have much longer here, bella. Nana’s voice grew quiet, her wrinkled fingers sneaking beneath the pink turban that swathed her bare head, fiddling with the seam until it was straight.

When I’m gone, she continued, I want you to go. Zia Luisa will have some things to share with you, things I cannot bear to speak of here, like this.

What are you talking about? Tate asked, the strength of her curiosity overpowering her grief. Why can’t you just talk to me now?

Nana sighed, turning to stare out the window with eyes that were too big for her shrunken body. You must see some things for yourself, child. Now listen. I am not finished with my request.

There’s more?

Oh, yes, Tati. After you visit Luisa and her family in France, I want you to go on to Calabria. There, you need to let the waters of the Ionian Sea heal that broken spirit of yours.

Nana— Tate began, but her grandmother waved a pruney hand and shushed her.

Do you think, bella, that all the things I’ve told you over these last few weeks have been for myself, that I shared these secrets I’ve guarded all my life just to hear myself say the words?

Tate was silent, studying the woman who had been her rock when she’d lost her parents. Then later, it was Nana, not Nathan, who’d scraped the fragments of her heart off the floor when she’d crashed into that solid stone wall at what seemed like the very end of all things.

When the worst thing had happened.

Without realizing what she was doing, Tate ran her fingers along the tight band of abdominal muscles she’d worked hard to rebuild. Any trace of slack, saggy flesh was gone. For a moment, her breath caught, remembering the strange, stretched sensation. She pushed it away and focused once more on the question her grandmother had posed.

Why had Nana told Tate her story over the past few weeks?

Nana Maria never did anything for herself, so of course she hadn’t told Tate her scandalous history out of self-indulgence. Tate had simply thought it a gift and had absorbed every detail of Nana’s life story with a thirst for more.

Life is messy, bella. Marriage. Commitment. Horrible sloppy messes, they are, Nana said. And you, love, have some hard decisions to make. Just like I did a long time ago.

Nana’s words echoed in the quiet, bleeding all over Tate with a truth she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She could feel it, though. Like a promise deep in her gut, it tickled her with possibility.

She sprung from the bed and went to the windows. Winding them wide open, she sucked the afternoon air into her lungs.

I told you my story not to make you feel sorry for me, Tati, but to teach you something.

Even as Tate hungered for more words, more conversation, she resented the scratchy, sick sound of Nana’s voice, the way that the cancer muddled her beautifully musical broken English.

Loving the wrong man can destroy a life. To love someone is a choice. Choose wisely, my bella, because you have the luxury of making this decision for yourself. Nana paused then, seeming to want a response that Tate just could not give.

Honor my last wish. Find the family that was never lost to me. Although I didn’t get the chance to lay eyes on them after I came to America, I’ve loved them always from afar. Even in their absence, I’ve loved them, just as I love you.

Tate nodded, tears searing a silent promise into her cheeks.

Nana closed her eyes.

I’ve spoken to Luisa, so she’ll be expecting you, Nana whispered. The woman loves a good scandal. She may tell you all the secrets I never dared to speak.

Nana Maria opened her eyes again and winked at Tate.

Two days later, she died.

Chapter 1

Tate

Late July

Tate squinted through tired eyes at the archaic stone structures along the left bank of the river Seine. Here she was in the most romantic city in the world with centuries old sights to take in, a mammoth’s share of culture at her feet, and all she wanted to do was get on with this river tour. The flight from New York to Paris had kicked her ass, and she hadn’t anticipated this jet lag. Glancing at her phone, which had automatically set itself to Paris time, she calculated six hours backward. It was four in the morning back home, and her brain just wasn’t buying this late-morning croissant and espresso business. She peeked again at the phone, wondering numbly if she’d missed a call.

As if Nathan were going to call her, right? Because placing an ocean plus thousands of miles between them would suddenly make her husband care about her the way that he used to.

Tate shoved away the thoughts of her broken marriage and focused on the promise of what lay ahead. She’d traveled here to honor Nana’s dying wish, but she had to admit, she welcomed the freedom a change of scenery offered. For a few weeks, she’d be free from Nathan and free from the constant reminder of Nana’s death. Here, she could focus on the early days of Nana’s life instead.

In mere hours, she’d be in Revin, the provincial town where her aunt Luisa, the woman who’d been Nana Maria’s best friend, waited for her. Modern-day Paris was a sight, but Tate was here for an excursion down memory lane, a glimpse into Nana’s past from the point of view of someone who’d been there for all of it. Zia Luisa was going to accompany her to Southern Italy, where she would have the chance to stand within the convent at Nicotera, in the very place of her father’s birth. Tate’s fingers itched with hot anticipation.

Trying desperately to stare straight ahead at the spires of Notre-Dame Cathedral, Tate’s eyes began to blur.

Was that gargoyle giving her the finger?

She rested her head in her hands, painfully aware that she was the only one on the boat tour who wasn’t paying attention. Still, if she could only close her eyes…just for a moment.

Suddenly, a hand was on her shoulder. Fancy French words wrenched her awake.

Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît, le tour est fini. The tour is finished.

Tate opened her eyes to a smug-looking little man with a skinny mustache. He seemed to be judging her for taking a snooze along the Seine. She couldn’t blame him. She was sort of judging herself for that, too.

She ran fingernails through snaggles of her auburn hair and wiped a stray string of drool from the side of her mouth. How sophisticated.

Before she could worry about whether or not she’d been snoring during her little nap, the memory of a dream broke into her consciousness.

She couldn’t have been sleeping for more than twenty minutes, and yet it had been so vivid. A forest of lush green leaves. Heavy summer air, tinged with humidity. She could still feel tiny bubbles of sweat on her forearms, hear the slosh of water rushing in the distance. And there had been a man—an almost faceless man with a French accent and water-blue eyes.

You are very beautiful, he’d said to her. She’d barely been able to breathe, her entire being was so swept up in deep, heady desire, so stark and raw. In the dream, time and space were irrelevant. There was only him and the sensation of being needed more than air, being wanted above all things.

Suddenly aware of the heat that had radiated into the center of her body at the memory of the dream, her hands went to her face to suffocate the fire lighting her cheeks. She recalled the words the man in the dream had spoken to her.

You are very beautiful.

That was cheesier than the melty crust on a crock of French onion soup. Paris was apparently trying to supply her with a romantic rendezvous whether or not she chose to sleep through its sights. She glanced up once more at the attendant, who was waiting for her to reach an acceptable level of consciousness and get the hell off his boat.

Merci, monsieur. She smiled sweetly and allowed him to lead her to the exit of the petit bateau. Au revoir, she said as she disembarked. The five years of French she’d studied in high school and college were actually becoming useful. She was finding that she could at least communicate with the locals if they spoke slowly. And, for as often as she’d heard people complain about the French being rude to Americans, the natives had been quite amicable to her when she attempted to speak their language, patient, even.

Tatiana?

The voice sounded like champagne bubbling up from its flute, a celebration.

She followed the sound to its source: a small, squat late-forty-something woman dressed in long linen pants, a light blue chemise, and pointy boot shoes. A fashionable scarf in muted grays and beiges adorned her neck, of course. Even though it was at least eighty degrees already this morning, the entire Parisian nation was wearing scarves. Tate must have missed the memo. She was in jeans and a Gap T-shirt. She groped self-consciously at her bare neck as she approached the woman who had called her by name.

Colette?

Yes, yes, come, Tatiana! Her cousin Colette, Zia Luisa’s daughter, had promised to meet her at the airport but had texted her shortly after her plane had landed at Charles de Gaulle. Tate had been in the customs line around 6:00 a.m. Paris time when Colette’s text beeped through.

I have a little problem with the petrol, Tatiana. I will arrive for you but late. Can you do some seeing of the sights and then I get you later in the morning?

Seriously? Seeing of the sights?

Yes, Colette. How will I find you? I don’t know the city at all.

I think it’s good you take a petit bateau tour of the Seine. It is very premium. You take the 9:00 tour and I will find

Reviews for Beautiful Secret

[bookslesstravelled · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

*I received a ecopy from the author in exchange for my honest, unbiased review*
Thank you!

Join Tatania in this delicious tale of forbidden romance and buried secrets as she embarks on a quest to learn about the grandmother's forgotten life. Fall in-love with Italy and and follow along with Tatania as she walks long forgotten streets once travel by her grandmother. This story is well written, perfectly paces, and a pleasure to read! Both mysterious and adventurous, this story is sure to please!