I burst out laughing, watching as Marco looks down from his seat on the edge of the pool. His eyes narrow and he reaches into the closest bucket and grabs a handle of balloons.
* * *
“YES!” Vina cheers, jumping up and down, the tutu of her bathing suit bouncing. “You got Daddy!” She spies Marco’s action, and extends a stern finger. “No! No hitting G-pa!” She squeezes in between him and the edge of the pool, holding out her arms as if to protect him. Only, given her short stature, she’s only defending him from the thigh down. “He’s OLD!” she screams, and then her eyes widen, one hand clamping over her mouth as she peers up at him. “I didn’t mean old-old,” she whispers up at him.
* * *
Edward steps back, away from the pool, and clasps his hands in front of him. I watch him closely, and can see, in just the tiniest twitch of facial features, the edge of his mouth lifting.
* * *
She’s broken him. From the minute she was born, I saw the beginning of the crumble. He insisted on fetching her bottles, on examining her bibs and nappies before use, on sanitizing her toys constantly. When she started to talk, insisting that he was her grandfather, the crack in his veneer widened into a cavern.
* * *
I feel something behind me and turn, seeing Marco’s foot hook my waist and pull me toward him. I allow the move, the warm water of the pool splashing against the side as he maneuvers me between his open knees. He leans forward, wrapping his arms around me and presses a kiss on my shoulder. I watch as our daughter sternly gives instructions to the opposing lines of four-year-olds, a moment of composure in place until all hell breaks loose, brightly colored water balloons flying between the two rows of children.
* * *
“I wish Vince could have seen this. Your dad, too.” He squeezes me.
* * *
“The sex grotto, turned into a water-balloon battlefield?”
* * *
“Yeah.” He chuckles against my neck. “But also, our life. The changes.”
* * *
I twist in his arms and look up at him. “Do you think he’d be happy?”
* * *
He nods, and I see the hint of sadness that tints his eyes. My husband is getting older. There is now silver in his hair, crows-feet that appear when he smiles, and a peacefulness that has dampened his scowls. They still appear, frequently enough, but don’t have quite the same venom—their effect still devastatingly sexy when they hit.
* * *
He scowled a lot during our first year together. After that interview, one where he left Vince’s playboy legacy intact, and confessed to falling for me … there was strong backlash from the gay community. Stores were picketed, there were boycotts, and sales struggled. We lost the support of one of Vince’s strongest markets, and Marco struggled with the guilt of being a fraud.
* * *
IBut over the last five years, he has channeled that guilt into charities. The Vince Horace Memorial Hospital, set up two years ago, is directly funded from Vince Horace, Inc. While it serves any needy individuals and families, it has six inner-city centers set up for the mental and physical well-being and care of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender individuals. In addition, money is funneled every month into runaway centers for gay youth and equality litigation and support.
* * *
He’s still a fraud. There are still only a handful of individuals who know the truth—that his relationship and love for Vince was strictly platonic and not passion-filled. But I think, behind the long hours, press avoidance, and big donations … I think Marco has begun to forgive himself. Vina has been, in large part, to thank for that. She burst into our lives and took over every part of it.
* * *
I watch her adjust her goggles, her tiny brow creasing in concentration, her palms pressing against the front of the eyewear to stick them into place. She pinches her nose with one hand and leaps into the air, cannon-balling into the pool, the resulting splash barely noticeable.
* * *
I remember earlier today, when we walked down the block to buy the balloons, and she danced between the snow flurries, ducking away from each one in an impossible attempt to not get hit. She is a lucky girl. I wonder if she will ever realize it. I’ve taken her to Detroit, taken her to the bad areas and showed her the way that so many in our world live, but she doesn’t understand. In her four-year-old mind, it’s normal that she can have a pool party in December, or order an ice cream sundae from a chef in her kitchen, or walk down a runway in Paris in her own pajama line.
* * *
She’s spoiled. I can see it, and I fear it. I keep telling her no, but every part of this world screams yes.
* * *
“Stop worrying.” He pulls off his shirt, the front of it wet from Edward’s attack, and tosses it aside, moving me forward and sliding into the water beside me. “I can feel you worrying.”
* * *
“I’m not worrying.” I let him pull me into the deeper water, my arms and legs wrapping around him. “I just…”
* * *
“She’s fine. She has the summers at Spring Lake to keep her in line.”
* * *
“Right.” I fix him with a look. “A mansion on the ocean. Tough life.”
* * *
“Without any staff,” he reminds me. “Nobody to pick up after her, or fetch her things, or catch us doing anything naughty…” he slips his hand down the back of my bathing suit and grips my ass. I laugh and squirm away, my legs floating through the water before he brings me back.
* * *
“Mommy!” My name is a command, stern and disapproving, and I turn to see Vina, sitting astride a floating unicorn with an inflatable spiked collar.
* * *
“Yes?” I hang on to Marco’s neck and look at her.
* * *
“I have a present for you.” She splashes over, the unicorn in danger of tipping, and hands me a water balloon. Leaning forward, she crawls into my arms, her tiny body curling against my chest, her arms wrapping around my neck. I let go of Marco to give her some room, and she glares at me. “NO! Sandwich.”
* * *
“I got you.” Marco pulls me back into him, her soft tutu squishing in between our bodies, her head resting on his chest. His arms tighten around me, and I feel as if my heart will break.
* * *
This. It’s all I ever wanted, but it’s so much more than ever I thought it would be.
* * *
Her hand reaches down, finding mine, her tiny fingers pulling my hand into the air, and when she cuts her eyes to her father, a mischievous grin lighting up her face, I understand what she wants.
* * *
“I love you, Daddy,” she says softly, patting his arm.
* * *
He meets my eyes, and I see the innocent happiness there, the love that has no idea of what is to come.
* * *
“I love you, Vina,” he says hoarsely, and presses his lips to the top of her wet head.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” I mouth, then swoop my hand up and down, the full balloon bursting on the top of his perfect, salon-created, mess of hair.
* * *
Water splashes, he curses, and her shriek of delight fills the air in the moment before he dunks me under the water.
* * *
I hold my breath and open my eyes, taking a moment in the stillness of the water to admire the muted and blurry image of them, his laugh, her giggle, the closeness and connection they share. I swim around them and come up for air beside them, and right before I break the surface, it feels like the seams in my heart will rip.
* * *
Love, in this moment, has no boundaries. Vince, James, Andrei, Marcia, Marco, and Vina … they’ve taught me that. I am finally loved. I am finally happy. And I finally, in the wet and messy embrace of their hug—understand the meaning of family.
* * *
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essandra Torre’s next book releases?
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Author’s Note
Hidden Seams marks the finish of my sixteenth novel. Sixteen! I remember, so clearly, when I finished my first. The heady power of reaching The End. The anxiousness to publish. The terrifying fear of rejection. Now, things are different. I have a career, one that doesn’t hinge solely on the success of one book. That security allows me to be bolder, to explore storylines that interest me, and to take risks.
This book was born from a variety of places, and is one of my riskier concepts.
The idea—a straight man who pretends to be gay—was my husband’s, and this is the first idea of his that I’ve ever written. He offers me ideas like a prostitute dishes out hand jobs. They come from anywhere, at any time. Some are amazing, and others are terrible, but with all of them, I sort of nod and write them down, with no plans to ever write. And that’s because a story must come from inside ME to have any legs. I have to be able to picture the characters, and put myself in their lives. Except … this idea sort of stuck with me. It pestered me from its spot on the notebook list. I actually picked up the computer and wrote the first five chapters of it about six months ago—then had to set it aside to work on a different novel (The Ghostwriter). But it kept niggling at me.
Then, I had a drink with a girl in a bar. A Russian, who was here on a work visa. Does this sound familiar? It should, if you didn’t skim over most the novel. The more we drank, the more we talked, and the more I found out about the people she worked for, the places she stayed, and what her experience has been like so far in our country. She was the basis of many of the characters in this novel, and the inspiration for Avery’s job.
Marco was a different beast, and I had trouble with his character until I ended up on the tail end of an Archer marathon. If you’ve never seen the show, it’s about a spoiled-ass secret agent who is ridiculously selfish in every sense of the word. And I loved him. I don’t think you’re supposed to love him, and I may be the only person in the Archer fan-base who does love him—but I did. I loved him, and I stole so many Archer tendencies in my creation of Marco.
Please excuse any fictional liberties I took with the story. Please understand that these are flawed characters, and their views and actions do not reflect my own opinions or history. I hope you enjoyed a peek into their world. I hope you loved their chemistry, and their battles, and their love—as much as I did.
I owe a moment to the individuals who helped me with this novel. Thank you to my husband, for the idea and inspiration, and your continual patience with my writing schedule. Thank you, Tricia Crouch, for being my biggest cheerleader and beta, and for all your input, advice, and help. Thank you to SueBee and Wendy Metz, for reading early versions of this and giving me your feedback, warnings, and advice. Thank you, Janice Owens, for an incredibly fast turn-around and your gazillion helpful comments and catches. Thank you, Madison Seidler, for always making time for me, and for molding and improving this story into something that readers will actually want to read—and for letting me send it to you in pieces! And thank you Perla Calas, for your proofs and feedback, and for fitting me in at a time when your schedule is so hectic.
And thank you to the amazing bloggers who read, review, and promote all my novels, including this one. It’s been an incredible five years, and I have all of you to thank for it. And the biggest thank you to the readers. Thank you for your support. Thank you for picking up this book. And thank you for recommending it to others.
Until the next novel…
Sincerely,
Alessandra
About the Author
Alessandra Torre is an emerging author of historical romance. This is Alessandra’s fourth book.
Also by Alessandra Torre
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Check out these other Alessandra Torre novels.
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Alessandra Torre, Hidden Seams
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