All the Right Angles (2 of 3 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
All the Right Angles by Stef Ann Holm. Copyright 2007 by Stef Ann Holm.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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PROLOGUE (CONT'D)

At the age of sixty-two, his wife looked better than ever, even though her raven-black hair shone with a few threads of silver now. He'd always thought she had the prettiest brown eyes he'd ever seen--their color a warm mix of walnut and golden-honey. Time had not faded the sparkle in them that expressed her love of life.

Their marriage had always been good, but they had had their struggles. Early on, Mariangela hadn't been pleased with him when he'd left her behind in Italy to get settled in America. As soon as he sent for her, he promised they'd never be apart again--and they hadn't. He had never left her at home without him, even when the babies had come and he'd had building conventions and business trips. Mariangela would bring the kids along, and they'd swim in a motel pool or visit a local attraction while Giovanni took care of business.

He was truly blessed, he knew, and he couldn't imagine life without his wonderful wife by his side.

However, in recent months, there had been a growing wedge of tension pushing between them--all his doing. He accepted the blame. He wanted this project so very badly, but Mariangela wanted him to retire.

Over cappuccino the other morning, she'd said, "But Giovanni, you don't need to get up at five o'clock anymore. You're seventy-two. You shouldn't be going up and down ladders or ducking under scaffolding. You've got a bad back and your ankles are starting to give out."

She was right, of course. His darling Mariangela usually was. She was the cement of the family, the foundation of reason and common sense that kept him glued together--emotionally and physically. But in this instance, he just couldn't let the Grove Marketplace project rest.

Throughout the years, Moretti Construction had completed some very significant jobs, but never anything this big. He'd lived in Boise long enough to want to leave his mark in a significant way, with something that would be a long-term testament to Moretti Construction's craftsmanship.

"We should take a trip home to Italy, a long visit, Giovanni." Mariangela's gentle words broke through his thoughts, bringing him back to reality.

"Yes . . . we should." He cupped his wife's face with his hand, his fingers calloused and rough. "But, bella mia, first I'd like to get this project."

He could see the disappointment in her gaze, perhaps mixed with a small flicker of ire. He'd been pushing for this too long and she was reaching her limit. But he couldn't help it.

In an almost exasperated tone, Mariangela said, "But we aren't qualified to get the bonding--you said so yourself. It'll be an uphill battle. We just aren't big enough." The compassion in her brown eyes warmed his heart, and her fingers squeezed his with a familiar reassurance he'd come to treasure. "Our life isn't going to change if you don't get the marketplace--we'll be okay."

Deep down, he knew her words to be true. Of course they'd be okay. This wasn't about their livelihood.

For Giovanni, the Grove Marketplace had everything to do with sharing his talents for others to enjoy. Doing his best and leaving his mark on an area of Boise that would flourish for many years to come.

For that, he couldn't let this rest.

He stroked his wife's soft cheek. For a second, she closed her eyes, leaned into him, and he felt her love surround him.

He almost wanted to pull out of the bidding, just to please her and make her happy, but he couldn't. There was so much more to this than he could ever explain to her. In fact, he couldn't fully explain it to himself. The desire to press forward was so strong that he blocked out caution and reason and even the quiet pleading in his wife's gaze.

With an ache in his chest, he took her hand again and drew her down the street to the alleyway. Smiling with mischief, he stepped into the alley and took her into his arms.

Giovanni planted a big kiss on his wife's soft lips, and she sighed.

"I love you, my angel," he whispered.

"I love you more." Her voice was warm now, the earlier tension gone. "Maybe we should forget the ice cream and go home."

He grinned. "What ice cream?"

Even after forty-four years of marriage, they still had that honeymoon passion.

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