A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (12 page)

“Uh-huh. Christine and I are going to dance. Dance, dance, dance. Right, Christine?”

He waited, curious to see how she was going to try and get out of this one. Vice President of Blacksworth and Company Investments of Chicago, dancing in her stocking feet with her thirteen-year-old half sister in a log cabin located in the obscure town of Magdalena, New York. Never happen.

“Of course we are.” Her voice fell out thin and shaky. “We’re going to dance.”

Well, well, well...

Lily and Christine did dance, first to 
Greensleeves
, then 
Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies
; subdued versions that dwindled and stalled, rolled into Elton John’s 
Crocodile Rock
, and ended with Billy Joel’s 
Only the Good Die Young
. He pictured Lily moving in half-jerky steps, round and round, clutching Christine’s hand, one arm planted on her waist. He wanted to turn around but forced himself to keep his back to them as he played, even when Christine joined in with Lily to sing the chorus in 
Crocodile Rock
.

He finished the last chords of
 
Only the Good Die Young
 and stroked the length of the keyboard, once, twice, three times, signaling to Lily that music time was over. She ran up to him, flung her arms around his shoulders.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Nate!”

He reached up, patted her hand. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Next time, I’ll play. You can dance with Christine.”

Right.
 “You play too fast, Lily.” He turned around and pulled her onto his lap. “I’d look like the Energizer Bunny.”

She giggled, patted his beard. “I’ll play verrrry slooowww.”

“You’re silly, you know that?”

Another giggle.
“So are you, Energizer Bunny.”

He smiled. “Let’s go fix some hot chocolate and cinnamon toast. Then we need to get you home before Mom starts calling, wondering what happened to you.”

“Nate? Can we stay here tonight?”

“Of course you can’t stay here tonight. We have to get you and Christine back home.”

“I think Christine wants to stay.” She turned to her half sister. “Don’t you want to stay, Christine?”

Nate cut in before Christine could answer. “And just where would she sleep, missy?
In the tub?”

“No.” Lily shook her head, giggled again. She pointed a finger at him. “She could sleep in your room.”

“I don’t think so.”

“And you could sleep on the couch.”

“And you can sleep at home, in your own bed, which is where I’m taking you as soon as you have your snack.” He pushed back the bench, stood up, careful to avoid looking in Christine’s direction.

“I’ll help.” Lily scrambled off the couch and started after him.

“Why don’t you just keep Christine company? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Okay. Don’t forget the—”

“Extra marshmallows.”

“Right.
Do you want extra marshmallows in your hot chocolate, Christine?”

Slight hesitation.
“Sure.”

Nate disappeared into the kitchen, thankful for a few minutes’ respite. He’d drink the hot chocolate, but what he really wanted was a shot of Jack Daniel’s.

Lily never meant anything by her questions, but they stirred up a whole lot of emotion that people spent thousands of dollars in therapy trying to justify and certainly didn’t want aired in general conversation. In a society that valued politeness over truth, where malice and subterfuge were commonplace, even accepted, Lily’s frankness was labeled an eccentricity of her “condition.”

“Can I help?”

Christine stood in the doorway, watching him. She lifted a hand, pale and soft-looking against her pink sweater, and gestured toward the other room. “Lily fell asleep. I think the dancing wore her out.”

“She’s not used to being up this late.” He moved the pan of milk to a different burner, flipped off the heat. “You can have hot chocolate if you want,” he said, reaching into the cabinet above him, “but I’ve got something else in mind.” He pulled the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s down, turned to her. “What’ll it be?”

She blushed, a faint shade of pink that matched her sweater. “I’ll take the hot chocolate.”

“Suit yourself.” He poured the steaming milk into a mug, stirred it until it mixed with the cocoa and the tiny marshmallows popped to the top. He handed the mug to Christine,
then fixed his own drink.

“Thank you for letting me
come tonight.” She sipped at her hot chocolate. “I appreciate it.”

He shrugged. “Lily wanted you to hear the music.”

“I know, but you didn’t have to agree.”

“I did it for Lily.” He took a drink, enjoyed the burn.

“And I also want to thank you for not making a scene when your mother invited me to stay.”

“You really think I’m an asshole, don’t you?” He downed the rest of his drink, poured another. “You might not be one of my favorite people,” he said, his back to her, “but even I wouldn’t send you on the road in weather like we had last night.”

“But you could have made your opinion very public and you chose not to.”

He turned and saluted her with his glass. “Like I said, I’m not that much of an asshole. Besides, after this trip, I don’t expect we’ll see you again anyway, so what’s a night or two in Magdalena?”

Christine sat on the edge of the bed and watched Lily rummage through a box in her closet. “Here they are.” She pulled out a stack of what looked like books. “I’ve got them all.” She clutched them to her small chest as she moved toward Christine, her glasses slightly cockeyed on the bridge of her nose. Lily pushed them up with her forearm and plopped the stack of books on the bed.

But they weren’t books. They were calendars.

Thirteen of them.

Lily pulled one from the pile, flipped it open. “Mom wrote in these until I was old enough to do it myself.” She pointed to a date. “See. October nineteenth, ‘Dad comes home.’ October twentieth, ‘hayride and pick out pumpkin.’ October twenty-first, ‘carve pumpkin—make pumpkin cookies.’ October twenty-second, ‘Dad leaves.’”

Christine ran a hand over the page, fingering the half-scribble covering those dates. She gently flipped to the next page. “November; Dad comes home. Eat turkey and pumpkin pie. Make birdfeeders. Take pictures/Dad leaves. December; Dad comes home. Decorate tree/hot choc. w/ m mallows. Presents! Purple bike! Dad leaves.”

“I have thirteen of these,” Lily said, shuffling the calendars in her hands. “Most are of horses, ’cause those are my favorite.
One, two, three.” She counted through thirteen. “Ask me when Dad came, any year”—she spread them out on the bed—“and I can show you.” She smiled up at Christine. “I can show you all of them.”

No.
 
No.

Lily scrambled off the bed and ran to the calendar on the wall. She eased it off its hook and scurried back. “Now I can start to write your visits, too. See—” she pointed to Thursday’s date. “March seventeenth, ‘Meet Christine!
Very pretty!’ March eighteenth, ‘Sing and dance at Nate’s.’ March nineteenth, I didn’t write anything for that yet,” she said and giggled. “’Cause that’s today.”

Lily expected Christine to come back, like her father had done. She thought it was just that simple; pick a date on the calendar and show up, no questions asked, no history to confront, no guilt.

“Oh! Wait!” Lily jumped off the bed, ran to her dresser. “I want to show you something.” She pulled open the top drawer, rifled through it. It was a beautiful dresser, dark, with a high-gloss, cherry, or mahogany. Had Nate made it for Lily?

“Here it is.” Lily held up a small box in her right hand, the innocent pleasure in her voice seeping through her words. “I have to keep it safe.” She moved closer, protecting the box with both hands. “Dad said this is very special. There’s no more like it.” She sat on the edge of the bed next to Christine. Her glasses had slid down her nose again, and she smiled as she opened the box and carefully removed the gold pocket watch.

Christine didn’t have to turn it over to know the initials R.E.B. would be inscribed on the back, or that there’d be a small dent on the side from the time Uncle Harry threw it across the room, saying, “The damn thing should be buried with the old man so it could rot in hell with him.”

They’d all heard the stories of how Randolph Ellis Blacksworth had carried the pocket watch every day for fifty-four years, had consulted it in the middle of business deals, from the early days of renting a one-room office on Michigan Avenue to the later years, when he negotiated global contracts and put his name on his own building. The watch represented power and determination, gleaned through hard work and perseverance. Charles had earned the right to own it and Christine had hoped to do the same.

She’d assumed it had been lost in the accident, or perhaps stolen in the transportation of her father’s body from one location to another. What bitter irony that it should end up in Lily’s hands.

“Want to hold it?” Lily’s soft words reached her, strangling her with their innocence.

“No.”

“It’s okay.” She held the pocket watch out to her. “You’ll be careful.”

Christine accepted it, cradled it in the palm of her hand. This was what she’d been waiting for, strived for years to achieve.

And it had been given to Lily, the other daughter.

***

Chrissie hadn’t eaten more than three bites since Greta brought out the pork tenderloin. She hadn’t touched her salad either, and she usually loved that radicchio crap. Harry had eaten all of his salad tonight, iceberg with red onion, served separately. He thought old Gloria’s tweezed
eyebrows were going to jump to her scalp when Greta set the plate in front of him. He hadn’t asked Greta to do it, hadn’t even thought he’d made that big a deal of hating “the other lettuce.” Gloria had made some comment about iceberg lettuce containing absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever, and that it was filled with nothing but water. Harry told her that’s why he ate it; so he didn’t have to dilute his scotch and she should try it.

Now she wasn’t talking to him. Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten the cold shoulder. But she wouldn’t shut him off completely, not with company present, and he guessed Connor Pendleton was company, asshole that he was. Couldn’t the jerk see that something was wrong with Chrissie? Didn’t he notice the listlessness in her voice? Shit, how could he when he wouldn’t shut up about that stupid-ass deal he had going in New York?

Harry slid a glance at Chrissie. Damn it, he’d told her to forget about the watch. Charlie had probably given it to the kid because it was shiny and it caught her eye. Or maybe he’d wanted to put an end to the expectations behind that goddamn watch; relegate it back where it belonged, a piece of shiny hardware, period. No sense mentioning that possibility, so he’d stick with the shiny-object-to-the-kid theory. Chrissie might not like it, but she’d probably buy it.

“Christine.” He didn’t miss the edge in Gloria’s
voice, a slight jarring that upset the languid fluidity that usually accompanied dinner conversations at the Blacksworths. “You’ve barely spoken two words since we sat down. Are you feeling ill?”

Chrissie’s gaze darted to Harry. “I’m fine, just a little tired.”

“Well, of course, you’re tired, traipsing back to that godforsaken cabin in the middle of nowhere.” She forked a piece of cucumber. “You’re probably on the verge of a cold. I’m sure the heating was inadequate and you’ve always been prone to colds in the winter.”

“I think I’m just tired.”

“You’re acting more than tired. That’s how colds start.” She lifted her wine glass and took a healthy sip. “Usually indefinable, spreading through the body, making a person feel miserable long before he’s identified the culprit as a cold.”

“Mother, I’m fine. I’m just really tired.”

“Well, I don’t care if you’re sick or tired; I’m just glad you’re home.” Connor Pendleton laid his hand over Chrissie’s. “Back where you belong.”

Oh Jesus, give me a break.

“And these next few weeks, you just need to relax and take it easy.” He stroked the back of her hand. “Leave the office at five, go to bed at nine.”

“That will never happen.” Gloria looked on, her lips pulled into a tight smile.

“Of course, it will.” Connor grinned at Chrissie, a flash of white against tanned skin. “My girl just needs somebody to make sure she does what she’s supposed to.” The stroking started again. “Pick her up from work, take her to dinner, tuck her in.” Chrissie’s hand lay lifeless under Connor Pendleton’s earnest ministrations.

“And after she’s rested up”he winked at Gloria“say around the twenty-second of next month, we’ll head to New York for a show.”

Chrissie pulled her hand away. “I can’t go on the twenty-second.”

“Let’s see how you feel. If you’re not up to it, I’ll change the flight. I booked the reservations yesterday.” He dropped his voice to a low, persuasive rumble. “I’m going to take care of you, Christine. I want to.”

Oh, God, the bullshit was getting deep.
 What he really meant was he wanted to take care of Chrissie’s interests: her money and her position. Being the shrewd businessman he was, he’d undoubtedly detected his sliding loss of market share in regard to Christine’s affections.

“I can’t go.”

Connor Pendleton rubbed his jaw, first one side, then the other. He was too damn good-looking; Harry never trusted “pretty” men. If you could imagine them slimmed down, wigged up, shaved and painted, and if the visual were almost credible, then they weren’t to be trusted. No guy should be able to pass as a switch-hitter.

What the hell did Chrissie see in him?

“Of course you can go.” There was Gloria chirping in like a mother hen again. “Nobody turns down trips to New York. There’s an exquisite Neiman Marcus there.”

“I may just have to bring both of you.”

“Yes, Connor, you may indeed.”

Harry sucked in the rest of his scotch. Swallowing the burn was the only thing that kept him from telling them both to shut up. They were driving him nuts; Gloria with her goo-goo-eyed banter and Connor Pendleton with his smooth-ass sucking up. Nothing was worse than watching a middle-aged woman coo under the attention of a younger man, a prospective son-in-law no
less. Who the hell did she think she was, another Mrs. Robinson? It was enough to make Harry puke.

Nobody was paying attention to Chrissie except Harry. He’d heard her the first time, understood the meaning beneath the quiet words and expected the others would, too.

But they were too busy playing games with one another. Gloria wanted that asshole for a son-in-law to secure the name, the position, the power; to secure that her daughter’s life became as meaningless, as dull and desperate, as her own. And Connor Pendleton—he wanted Blacksworth & Company.

“Why can’t you go, Chrissie?” Harry asked.
 
Tell them.

Gloria and Connor Pendleton looked at Harry as though he were fifteen minutes behind in the conversation. But, at least, they did have the good grace to turn to Chrissie.

“I can’t go to New York”—she cleared her throat—“because I’ll be at the cabin.”

Silence.

“You…” Gloria sputtered, stalled.

“The cabin?”
Connor Pendleton picked up. “What the hell for? You just got back.”

Chrissie looked at Harry.
 
Damn, it was about the watch.

“Maybe she’s got to sort things out,” he said. “And the only place to sort them out is hundreds of miles away from everything.”
Half-lie, half-truth.

“She doesn’t need to go anywhere,” Gloria said. “Christine, I’ll call Roger, have him prescribe something for you.”

“I don’t need any pills.”

“Just for a little while. Until you adjust to your father’s”—she caught herself before the word
 
death
 slipped out—“not being here.”

That was the problem with the whole goddamn world; nobody had balls enough to call a spade a spade. Dead was dead; it was a hell of a lot more permanent than a milquetoast “not being here.”

“You’ll be surprised how they make everything more manageable.”

“Mother, I need to go back there for a few days.”

Gloria took a long sip, or was it a gulp, of wine? “Please don’t go back there.”

“It’s just a few days.”

“Just a few? Is it just four? What about next month? And the next?” Gloria’s voice grew more agitated. “Until the months turn into years and still, it won’t be enough.”

“No. That’s not my intention.”

“It wasn’t your father’s intention, either.” She was going ballistic now, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed. “It was never his intention, Christine, but it happened nonetheless and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.”

Jesus.
 
Did she know?

“It was only four days a month, wasn’t it?”
This from Connor Pendleton. “He could have been doing a hell of a lot worse than holing up in a cabin a couple days a month.”

Gloria stumbled to recover. “You’re right, of course, you’re right. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that,” she sniffed, “I don’t want to lose you, Christine.”

“Oh, Mother—” Chrissie reached across the table and grabbed Gloria’s hand. You aren’t going to lose me. I’ll always be here for you. Besides, it’s only four days.”

Thank God Greta entered the dining room just then, carrying a platter of pork tenderloin and brown-sugared carrots. The rest of the meal took place in relative calm with occasional spurts of conversation, mostly geared toward Gloria’s role as committee chair in the upcoming West Mount Memorial Spring Fashion Show. On and on it went, with Connor Pendleton piping in like a boy scout, offering his services, smiling at Chrissie, stroking her hand, her shoulder, her back. There he was patting her goddamn back again.

She was shutting down right in front of them, withdrawing inside herself, farther down, farther yet, until nothing remained but the shell that carried her. The real Chrissie Blacksworth, the one who laughed, and cried, loved and even hated, that one was buried beneath layers of polite sedateness.

Because Gloria Blacksworth could never, not in a million years, handle the truth.
 
She’s going back to see the kid, Gloria, Charlie’s kid, the thirteen-year-old he fathered with his mistress. What do you think of that, Gloria? Huh? What do you make of that?