A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (11 page)

“Nate?”

He jumped, slammed the pad shut. “Jesus,” he said, turning on Christine. “What the hell are you sneaking up on me for?”

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you. Your mother sent me to tell you lunch is ready.”

“How long are you planning to stay in Magdalena?” He pushed the sketch pad aside and stood; might as well get it all out in the open now before Lily became involved.

She shook her head and her hair swayed across her shoulders, brushed past her cheeks, thick, black hair, smooth, pale cheeks.

“I was planning to stay a few days.”

Her words brought him back. “Four?”

“I don’t know.”

“Four would be an interesting choice.”

She shrugged and stuck her hands in her pockets. “I’m sorry if my being here upsets you, but I have to do this.”

He looked away. He didn’t want to see the sadness in those blue eyes, didn’t want to admit that she might be right; hell, he didn’t want to admit that she
 
was
 right. He’d blocked out enough issues to screw himself up for the next twenty-five years. He called it self-preservation, but wasn’t it really self-destruction?

“I have to meet Lily, too.”

“I know.”

“Today, after school.
Your mother said it would be all right.”

He didn’t answer. Maybe once she met Lily she’d leave and they could all get back to their lives, back to grieving and moving on in their own ways, one breath at a time. That’s all you could really count on anymore: the next breath coming out of you, and sometimes, you couldn’t even count on that.

“Nate?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For understanding. I know how hard this must be for you—”

“Stop it.” He should have pushed her to leave. So what if she never came to terms with her old man’s secret life? She could go see a shrink. It wasn’t his problem.

“I just—”

“No.” He shut her down again. “Don’t thank me for anything. My mother thinks it’s important for you to meet Lily. So fine, you’ll meet Lily; maybe even
play a game or two together. But then you’re out, got it? You leave and we get back to normal around here.”

Christine flipped another page, stared at the picture of Lily dressed as Snow White. She must have been seven or eight at the time, wearing a blue and white gown, her thick, black hair held in place with a red band. But this Snow White wore thick glasses that distorted the shape of her blue eyes, and the smile she offered was lopsided, a hint of moist pink protruding through full lips.

She was surrounded by other children dressed in fairytale outfits: Pinocchio, Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, Peter Pan, most wearing thick glasses, which, like Lily’s, hid the true color and shape of their eyes. But it wasn’t the high foreheads, the flat noses,
the half protrusion of thick lips that pulled Christine in, held her there, as she studied them one by one. Their physical appearances faded next to the expressions on their faces. Pure joy.

She turned another page, and then another. Here was a picture of Lily a year or so older, cheeks puffed out as she leaned over a chocolate cake glowing with candles. In the corner of the picture, a man’s hand rested on the table, long fingers spread wide. A gold wedding band circled his left finger. It was her father’s hand.

There were pictures of Nate, too, looking younger and more relaxed, dark hair shorter, beard trimmed, skin brown from the outdoors. In one photo, he stood on a large rock in the middle of a stream with Lily hefted high in his arms, clapping her hands and laughing. In another, Nate sat in a rocking chair with Lily tucked against him, thumb in her mouth, sleeping. There were several others, most of them outdoor shots, traipsing through the woods with backpacks, fishing on the banks of a river, building a campfire. And in all of them, including the photo of Lily sleeping, there was a joining of brother and sister.

But when she turned another page, the dreaded truth was outlined before her. There were three photos of her father and Lily; one sitting side by side, arms touching as Lily opened a present; one hugging each other, eyes closed, smiles wide; and one with Lily lifting a basketball from a box, head thrown back in laughter as her father looked on, the pleasure and love on his face undeniable.

She tried to ignore the jealousy that stabbed her. Why would she be jealous of Lily Desantro? The girl was destined to live her life on the outside of a world that demanded perfection and precision.

She flipped the page, studied the 5x7 glossy staring back at her. Her father stood in front of a Christmas tree, wearing brown corduroy slacks and a green and black flannel shirt, Miriam at his side, nearly as tall as he was. One hand rested on her waist, the other on Lily’s shoulder as she stood in front of her parents, dressed in a red velvet pantsuit trimmed in white lace, and black patent leather shoes.

It was the flannel shirt that held her attention. He was a cashmere-casual dresser, or wool, even, cotton. But flannel? Most of her memories of him were in suits and ties, or khakis and polo shirts.

Who was this man in flannel, where had he come from, what was he trying to prove? Where was the Charles Blacksworth she knew, the one who ate Chateaubriand and veal piccata, not beef stew and strawberry shortcake, who celebrated catered birthdays with parties of twenty or more, not a grouping of three with a homemade two-layer cake and a double scoop of ice cream?

A horrible, nagging dread threatened to snuff out the air in her lungs, suffocate her with new memories as she pored over picture after picture of this “family.” It was all in front of her, pages of glaring memory: Charles wielding a hammer over a workbench, dressed in another set of flannel shirt and jeans; Charles with Lily standing in front of a snowman, holding a carrot in his mouth; Charles and Miriam wearing sunglasses and straw hats, waving to the camera, somewhat out of focus; Charles in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something. Beef stew? Several of the photos were a younger version of him, his hair a shade or two darker, the silver not as pronounced, the lines around his eyes less apparent.

But in all of the shots, from the earliest days when he cuddled his newborn baby in his arms to just this past Christmas, when he held up a pair of green corduroy slippers, there was a sense of calm, a quiet contentment that spoke of peace and fulfillment.

It was then, as this truth hit her, sucking the air from her lungs in one grand effort to strangle her own memories, that she thrust the album aside. Had the real Charles Blacksworth resided in Magdalena, not Chicago, and worst of all, had the daughter he loved out of duty and responsibility been herself, not Lily?

The front door opened and closed; there was the sound of boots stomping out snow, then a high, excitable, “Mom?
Mom? I’m home.”

Miriam rose from the rocking chair, glanced at Christine. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

No, she wasn’t sure, but she forced herself to say, “Yes. I’m ready.”

Miriam nodded, graceful in a pair of cranberry velour pants and matching cable-knit sweater. She wore a pair of faded moccasins, no socks, a fact that made Christine think of her own mother, who refused to leave the bedroom in slippers or bare feet. Miriam was beautiful; the pink stained her cheeks and lips, a result of the March winds whipping over her during the brisk walk she took each morning. Her eyes were clear, translucent almost, not gobbed with liner and shadow, but framed instead by a natural fringe of dark sable. There were no rings on her work-roughened fingers, no adornments on her wrist save a simple watch, a man’s watch, perhaps, with a large white face and a brown leather band. Today, the earrings she’d chosen dangled in tiny clusters of white and cranberry stones from two fine strands of silver. And of course, she was wearing the gold cross.

Christine wondered if her father had given her the cross. Maybe it represented some greater connection, a unity of body and spirit? He’d never been a particularly religious man, had only declared himself a Methodist when pressed, though her mother liked to say they were members of the beautiful and newly renovated St. Rowan’s Church rather than the smaller, darker, sister church on the other side of town that most of the members of her Junior Women’s Association attended.

“I have a surprise for you, Lily, a wonderful, exciting surprise.” Miriam disappeared and was talking to Lily, whose voice rose as they drew nearer.

“A present?” The words were loud, half-formed. “Can I open it?”

Miriam laughed. “Well, it’s a present but not something you can open. Here, stop a minute. Let me fix your glasses, they’re still all fogged up.”

“I want to see! I want to see the surprise!”

“You will.” Miriam reached the living room first, whispered, “There you are, Lily. There’s your surprise.”

Lily stood in the doorway, staring at Christine. She didn’t move, didn’t speak.

“Lily? Christine has come to visit you.”

“Christine?” Lily’s voice filled with part shock, part disbelief.

Christine pushed herself out of the flowered chair and managed a smile. The child was smaller than her pictures, somehow more fragile. “Hello, Lily. How are you?”

Lily took a step forward, stopped, looked at her mother.

Miriam nodded. “
It’s okay, Lily, go ahead.”

The child hurled herself into Christine’s arms. “Christine! Christine!”

In the seconds that followed, Christine forgot the circumstances that had brought her into Lily’s Desantro’s life, forgot the pain of betrayal and loss, forgot everything but the honest emotions of the child, blending with the scent of her hair, an apples and cinnamon concoction, the feel of her breath along Christine’s neck, faint, tiny puffs of air, and the sound of Lily’s small whimpers as she tried to calm herself.

“You’re really here,” Lily’s words were muffled against Christine’s sweater.

“I’m here.” She raised a hand, placed it along her half sister’s back. Miriam watched them from the doorway, her expression unreadable. Christine turned back to Lily, placed her other hand in the child’s hair, stroked it...so thick...so soft.

Lily pulled back, smiled up into her sister’s face. “You came.”

“Yes. I came.”

She turned to her mother. “Mom, Christine came.” There was awe in her voice, and wonder. “She came.”

Miriam nodded, her eyes bright. “Yes, yes, she did.”

“Come see my room.” Lily pulled away, grabbed Christine’s hand. “It’s cool.
Really cool!”

Christine let herself be led to Lily’s room, pretending she hadn’t seen it before, didn’t know about the pictures of herself plastered on the wall and stuffed in photo albums. But when she stepped over the threshold, she saw the room all over again, this time through Lily’s eyes.

Lily pulled her from one object to another, clutching her hand tight, spilling out stories, relaying memories and interpretations. There was the heart-shaped prism hanging from the window on a yellow ribbon, 
a gift from Daddy
, she’d said, that cast pale pink designs on the wall when the wind blew over it. And the yellow basket of stuffed animals, mostly dogs, all with names, tucked near the bed in case her favorite, Jesse, got lonely. There was a collection of smooth, flat rocks piled in a brandy snifter, white, pink, gray, a few black, most of which she and Nate had picked from the stream running along his property.

Lily’s room transformed into a treasure chest told from a child’s perspective; minute details unearthed, bits and scraps of memory whose retelling left poignant longings, soft-spoken, reverent whispers, exposing more about the private life of Charles Blacksworth and his family than any detective ever could.

Daddy used to stay with me when we had thunder and lightning.

Daddy sang “
You are My Sunshine” 
to me every time he came.

Daddy tried to make Mom a birthday cake one time and burned it.
 Giggle, giggle
. He set off all of the smoke alarms.

Daddy said he kept a special calendar where he marked off all the days until he could see me again.

And then, the one that stripped away years of well-planned orchestrations and dutiful responses to expose the truth: 
Daddy cried sometimes when he left.

***

He shouldn’t have agreed to let her come; he should have told Lily she’d have to wait one more day, and then he’d bring her over and they’d have their time together, music, dancing, pizza if she wanted it. But somehow, Lily had gotten it into her head that what she wanted was for Christine to come, too.

He’d tried to coax his sister into seeing the right side of it.
 
This is our time, Lily, family time, just you and me.
 But she’d told him Christine was family. He’d tried another tactic. 
I don’t really like to play for anybody but you, Lily. And Christine might be embarrassed if you ask her to dance. I think she’s shy.
 This was a lie. It hadn’t worked anyway.

So now Christine Blacksworth sat ten feet behind him in his living room on the green and blue plaid couch worn thin around the edges, with Lily squished next to her, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for Nate to start playing. Lily had been yakking nonstop since she’d laid eyes on Christine.
 
What did you get for Christmas? Do you have lots of snow in Chicago? What color is your bedroom? Do you miss Dad?

The woman should have just made up some excuse, like she had to stay and help Miriam bake cookies. Hell, she probably didn’t know what a kitchen was, let alone a cookie recipe. He guessed he should respect her for not lying to Lily, for making the trip when she had to feel as uncomfortable as he did. Okay, he’d give her that, but still, a Blacksworth in his house, sitting on his couch?

He leafed through the music and settled on 
Greensleeves
. Nate might have been able to tolerate the whole Charles Blacksworth situation until the bastard began to permeate every corner of Nate’s world. It started slowly, first his mother; 
Charlie was admiring the desk you made me
, or 
I’m sending you a container of vegetable beef soup. Charlie loved it
. Zing. It was always there, his goddamn presence, lurking just below the surface, waiting to jump out, a reminder of who he was, what he’d stolen.

And then the town started.
 
That old Charlie, he sure knows his numbers, said he’d help me apply for a loan
, and 
Charlie says mutual funds are the way to go right now. You ought to talk to him, Nate, see if he can help you with the business
. Charles Blacksworth had invaded Magdalena, taken the town where Nate had been raised, where his father had sweat years of hard work at a business that eventually killed him, and replaced the memories and the allegiance to the Desantro family with his perfect diction and dollar-cost averaging.

When Lily was born there’d been that split-second after the doctor had said “Down Syndrome” that Nate thought Charles might leave.
 
Now, she’ll see what a bastard he really is,
 he’d thought. 
Now, she’ll see. He’ll go back to his other family.

But he hadn’t left. He’d stayed. And that had surprised Nate most of all.

“Nate. Did you find the song yet?” Lily was standing behind him.

“Got it, right here,” he said, smoothing the pages open. “Ready?”