Roan

Roan by Jennifer Blake Page A

Book: Roan by Jennifer Blake Read Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Blake
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“Doesn’t happen much any more.I remember I started going around with Todd Carlson in middle school. My grandmother freaked, since Todd was my third or fourth cousin or something. She made such a fuss that it scared me off of dating for a while.”
    Tory tipped her head. “So is lack of choice the reason Roan hasn’t married again?”
    Johnnie grinned. “Not so you’d notice. I think he’s just so busy, not to mention so modest, that he doesn’t notice the women chasing after him. He’s a hunk, though, isn’t he? Not bulked-up-macho like a body builder, but quite a package. And such a cute butt!”
    The pinching motions the plump, motherly woman made with her fingers to go with that last comment were so unexpected that Tory gave a spurt of laughter. Immediately, she caught her breath and clapped a hand to her shoulder. “Don’t do that, it hurts,” she pleaded with a heartfelt groan.
    â€œSorry. Anyway, that’s the saga of the Benedicts. The brothers homesteaded good-size tracts of land, hunted and fished and trapped around the lake, raised cows and cotton and lots of kids the way most people did in those days.” She opened her arms in a wide gesture. “And that’s how we all came to be here.”
    Tory couldn’t help smiling at the pride and affection in Johnnie’s voice. “It must be nice to have such a big family.”
    Johnnie’s expression turned droll. “Sometimes I wish I were an only child of an only child and lived in a city where I didn’t know a soul. You can’t run to the food mart for a gallon of milk around here without seeing a dozen people you know. If you go in your work clothes or without makeup, they say, ‘What’s the matter with Johnnie? She looks so bad. Think she’s having family troubles?’ I mean, honestly!”
    â€œAt least it shows they care,” Tory said quietly. She actually was the only child of an only child. None of her mother’s many flings at matrimony, after the gala first wedding to her Italian prince, Tory’s father, had produced children. It was just as well, perhaps, since her mother had never been the maternal sort in any case. Only with her grandparents, in the little town tucked into the hills of Tuscany where the Princes Trentalara had lived for a thousand years, had Tory felt part of a family. Life there had been much like Turn-Coupe sounded, with such intense interest in everyone’s well-being and close relationships that it was like living in the middle of a soap opera.
    In some ways, then, her grandparents had provided the greatest security she’d known as a child. For a few precious summers from age six to fourteen, she had been sent to Mama Sophia’s at the Trentalara estate. There, along with two older female cousins from Rome, she had been coached in manners and deportment so she was capable of meeting anyone of any station. The three girls had roamed Italy with Mama Sophia and Papa ’Vanni, learning about art and life and how to speak extremely idiomatic French and Italian. And they had escaped to romp with the gardener’s children and range the hills with the village boys and girls. Those had been the best days, before Papa ’Vanni had a stroke and Mama Sophia fell and broke her hip and died of pneumonia, and it all came to an end. Afterward, it was a succession of nannies, butlers, boarding school counselors, and college deans who had shaped her life.
    Tory, lost in thought, looked away toward the sunlit window as she began in soft tones, “I remember…”
    Johnnie’s head came up and her friendliness was replaced by sharp professionalism. “Yes?”
    Tory stopped abruptly. She could feel the color draining from her face as she realized the mistake she’d almostmade. She’d slipped earlier, too, when she’d suggested by inference that she had no near relatives. Had Johnnie

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