Diana grabbed her and hugged her. No doubt about it. Melissa looked miserable, too.
Yes, Diana had promised Frank that she would mind her own business.
But, well, sometimes a woman just couldn’t keep that kind of promise. Sometimes a woman had to find a way to get to the bottom of a bad situation for the sake of the ones she loved most of all.
By the end of the evening, no matter what, Diana would find out the secrets her daughters were keeping from her.
Frank leaned close. “Don’t even think about it.”
She gave him her sweetest smile. “Happy anniversary, darling.”
Chapter Three
by Susan Crosby
Abby Morgan DeSena and her husband, Greg, had hosted quite a few dinner parties during their three years of marriage, but none as special as this one—a celebration of Abby’s parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary. Abby and her younger sister, Melissa, had spent weeks planning the Italian-themed party as a sweet reminder for their parents of their honeymoon, and now that the main meal was over, Abby could say, well, so far, so good.
For someone who planned everything down to the last detail, that was high praise. They were on schedule. First, antipasti and wine in the living room, then chicken cacciatore, crusty bread sticks and green salad in the dining room.
But for all that the timetable had been met and the food praised and devoured, an air of tension hovered over the six people at the table, especially between Melissa and her boyfriend, Josh, who were both acting out of character.
“We had chicken cacciatore our first night in Bellagio, remember, Diana?” Abby’s father said to her mother as everyone sat back, sated. “And lemon sorbet in prosecco.”
“The waiter knocked my glass into my lap,” Diana reminded him.
“Your napkin caught most of it, and he fixed you another one. He even took it off the tab. On our newlywed budget, it made a difference.” He brought his wife’s hand to his lips, his eyes twinkling. “And it was delicious, wasn’t it? Tart and sweet and bubbly.”
Diana blushed, making Abby wonder if the memory involved more than food. It was inspiring seeing her parents so openly in love after thirty years.
Under the table, Abby felt her hand being squeezed and looked at her own beloved husband. Greg winked, as if reading her mind.
“Well, we don’t have sorbet and prosecco,” Abby said, standing and stacking dinner plates. “But we certainly have dessert. Please sit down, Mom. You’re our guest. Melissa and I will take care of everything.”
It didn’t take long to clear the table.
“Mom and Dad loved the dinner, didn’t they?” Melissa asked as they entered Abby’s contemporary kitchen.
“They seemed to,” Abby answered, although unsure whether she believed her own words. Had her parents noticed the same tension Abby had? Her mother’s gaze had flitted from Melissa to Josh to Abby to Greg all evening, as if searching for clues. It’d made Abby more nervous with every passing minute, and on a night she’d been looking forward to, a night of sweet surprises.
“How about you? Did you enjoy the meal?” Abby asked Melissa, setting dishes in the sink, then started the coffeemaker brewing. “You hardly touched your food.”
She shrugged. “I guess I snacked on too many bread sticks before dinner.”
Abby took out a raspberry tiramisu from the refrigerator while studying her siste
r, noting how stiffly Melissa held herself, how shaky her hands were as she rinsed the dinner plates. She seemed fragile. It wasn’t a word Abby usually applied to her sister. The conversation they’d had earlier in the evening obviously hadn’t set Melissa’s mind at ease, but Abby didn’t know what else to say to her tightly wrung sister. Only time—and Josh—could relieve Melissa’s anxiety.
Abby set the fancy dessert on the counter next to six etched-crystal parfait glasses.
Melissa approached, drying her hands, then picked up one of the glasses. “Grandma gave these to you, didn’t she?”
“Mmm-hmm. Three years ago as a wedding present. I know it’s a cliché, but it seems like yesterday.” Abby smiled at her sister, remembering the wedding, revisiting her wonderful marriage. She couldn’t ask for a better husband, friend and partner than Greg. “Grandma plans to give you the other six glasses at your wedding. When we both have big family dinners, we can share them. It’ll be our tradition.”
Melissa’s face paled. Her eyes welled. Horrified, Abby dropped the spoon and reached for her.
“I—I’ll grab the gift basket from your office,” Melissa said, taking a couple steps back then rushing out.
Frustrated, Abby pressed her face into her hands. If she were the screaming type, she would’ve screamed. If she were a throw-the-pots-around type, she would’ve done that, too, as noisily as possible. It would’ve felt good.