A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (15 page)

I already spoke with Anna. It wasn’t her nephew—

It had to have been him and his—

Anna told me she followed them from room to room to supervise their work. They never came near this bedroom, Gloria.

She’s lying to keep her job.

Stop it.
 He’d thrown the packet on the bed and said, 
It was you.

She’d crumpled at his feet.
 
I’m sorry…I’m sorry…

I want a divorce.

No!
 She’d clutched his pant leg. 
No, please!

I’ll move out. You can stay in the house until we sell it.

No. No, Charles. You can’t leave me.
 And then, because she was desperate and because it was true, 
I’m pregnant.

He’d stayed in the guest room until after the baby was born, vowing that if the child didn’t look like a Blacksworth,
he would divorce her.

Gloria reached for the bottle of Vicodin, popped off the cap. But he hadn’t divorced her; Christine had been born with a full head of midnight hair and the bluest eyes any doctor had ever seen; Blacksworth eyes. And Charles died never knowing the Blacksworth blood running through Christine’s veins might not be his.

She was standing in front of Nate Desantro’s home. Yes, she was four days late, but she’d come. That should count for something. She’d planned on waiting a month and going on the next scheduled date, but her mother had insisted she make the trip this month.

She’d scheduled the next available flight and now here she was. Christine pressed the doorbell, waited. Bocelli’s
 
Canto Della Terra
 swirled around her, climbing, clinging. Maybe Nate couldn’t hear her. She pressed the doorbell a second time.

He was the only person who could make this visit work; that’s why she’d come here first. If he would just try to understand why she’d not been here four days ago, then maybe they could form a truce of sorts. After all, there was Lily to think about. She rang the bell one last time and slowly turned the knob.

He was in the kitchen, his back to her, stirring something at the stove. Tomatoes and garlic? Sautéed onions? Whatever it was, it certainly beat the hamburger and chips she’d eaten on the plane.

She’d almost reached the kitchen when he turned around. “Jesus! You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry. I rang the doorbell—” She gestured toward the stereo. “But I guess you couldn’t hear it.”

He turned back to the stove, flipped off the burner, and set the pan aside. His hair was damp, slicked back, probably from a recent shower and he’d trimmed his beard and mustache, which made him look half-civilized.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to see Lily. I promised her.”

“You’re four days late.”

“I know. My mother broke her ankle and she had to have surgery. I couldn’t come until she was settled.”

He turned back to the stove. “You didn’t need to come.”

She moved beside him so she could see his face. “Yes, I did. I promised Lily.”

“Have you seen her yet?”

“No. I wanted to come here first, make sure you weren’t going to give me a hard time when I visit her.”

“Depends on what the arrangement is; is this a one-time stop or are you planning to mark her on your calendar every month like your old man did?”

“I... I hadn’t thought much past this visit.”

“Well, you’d better before you see Lily.” He stirred the sauce, a tomato and zucchini mixture. “She’ll expect you to come every month, just like your old man did. So, if that’s not part of your plan, then end it now. Don’t give her hope where there isn’t any.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

He stared at her. “People do it all the time, Christine. You know that.”

“Well, not intentionally.”

“Sure they do. Haven’t you ever gotten a phone call, maybe from a friend who wanted you to do something, and you knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell you were going to do it, but you didn’t have the guts to just say no?”

“I guess—”

“You know you have. It’s human nature, the best and the worst of it. We’re trying to save another person’s feelings, dangling a shred of hope in front of him a little longer, because we don’t want to make him feel bad, or worse, make ourselves look bad.”

“Are you saying you’ve never done that?”

He shrugged.

“I won’t do that to Lily. I give you my word.”

He didn’t respond to that. “Are you hungry?”

And with that, the subject of Lily and man’s adept ability to deceive others to preserve his own image was closed, shifting instead to topics of food and wine—safe topics. She actually enjoyed his dry sense of humor as he relayed tips on different ways to cook pasta, most of them learned through first-hand experience, ranging from a campfire setting with a ten-pound iron skillet to a motorboat and a two-burner hot plate.

“I can’t believe you could think of food in the middle of a storm.” She laughed. “Just the thought of putting anything in my stomach with the boat tossing and turning would send me to the railing.”

“I said we cooked it.” A smile slid across his mouth. “I didn’t say we ate it.”

“Ah, the truth emerges.”

He sipped his wine. “It usually does, in one form or another.”

She set down her fork. “Nate?” When he met her gaze, she said, “Just give me a chance with Lily, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

“You ask a lot.”

“I won’t let her down.”

“I’ll think about it.” He twirled a forkful of linguine. “So, Christine Elizabeth Blacksworth, do you have any cooking stories?”

“No, sad to say, I’m a mess in the kitchen. How did you know my middle name?”

“Are you kidding? With Lily in the house, I know more about you than I knew about my ex-wife.”

“Ex-wife?”

“Yeah, I had one of those.
You?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged, fixed her gaze on a piece of zucchini. “I just never...took the big step.”

“It can be a step or a dive, depending on the person and the situation.”

“I take it yours was more than a step?”

“It was a damn parachute jump without the parachute.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. She’s remarried to some bank executive who keeps her happy with houses and cars. Log cabins and pickups weren’t her style. She’s much happier now.”

“Good.”

“What was the name of that guy you were seeing? Lily used to draw hearts with your initials inside. Colin? Curt?”

“Connor.”

“That’s it, Connor. What happened to him?”

“He’s still around.”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’m not, we’re just friends.”

“Does he know?”

“He should.”

“Trying to dump him, huh?”

“No.” She looked away. “It’s not that. Connor’s a nice guy; everybody likes him.”

“Except you.”

“I like him.”

“
Like
 doesn’t make for a marriage.”

“Connor Pendleton’s a great guy.”

“Okay, Connor Pendleton’s a great guy. You don’t have to convince me. I’m not the one marrying him.”

“Neither am I.”

“Then tell the poor schlub before he buys the ring and orders the monogrammed towels.”

She rubbed her temples. “I’ve tried.”

“Remember what I was saying about giving hope where there isn’t any? If you’re done with the guy, you should give it to him straight up, no sugar.”

“It’s not that easy.” He didn’t have to live with her mother’s disappointment.

“It never is.”

***

Miriam wiped her hands on an old towel crusted with color. She’d been working on this piece for months. It was an oil of Lily on a four-foot canvas. Charlie had been so excited about it, had sat beside her as she blended tans and pinks with off-white to find just the right hue for their daughter’s skin tone. He’d be pleased with the results, a pale ivory dusted on the cheeks with pink. And she’d gotten the eyes right, too, a vibrant sea-blue that changed with the seasons: Charlie’s eyes.

God, but she missed him. She shook a cigarette out of its pack, lit it, and sucked in a deep pull of smoke. It had been seventy-seven days since she’d lost him. The pain remained sharp, the tears just below the surface though she tried to keep them hidden from Lily and Nate. What good would it do to let them see that sometimes she just wanted to curl up and disappear inside herself?

They all depended on her: Lily, Nate, the town. Charlie had depended on her, too. The world didn’t know the real Charlie Blacksworth was riddled with self-doubt, tormented by guilt of decision and indecision, whether to choose love over duty, desire over expectation.

She’d cried when he was gone from her, back to his other home, and she was alone in the queen-size bed, wrapped in the easy folds of the chenille spread. When they were together she hid her desperate longing to keep him there, instead waiting until he’d backed out of the drive to snatch a cigarette and two quick shots of Johnny Walker Red—to steady herself, which ultimately failed, and only made her feel worse.

But then morning would come, and with it Lily and reminders of how bleak her life had been before. It was true that one could be more alone with someone than by oneself. She’d always thought the idea foolish, a poet’s version of love gone awry, but that was before her baby girl’s death, before marriage to Nick Desantro became nothing but a piece of paper blessed by St. Gertrude’s Church. That’s when she knew loneliness, sleeping beside a husband-turned-stranger, passing through the motions of polite existence day after day, speaking but saying nothing, meaning nothing, feeling nothing. Nate had been her only light, her salvation.

The loneliness she’d felt with her husband and the one she’d known when Charlie was gone were different. With Nick, it was his presence that evoked the feeling; with Charlie, it was his absence. And then
came the deaths. Nick’s brought relief, Charlie’s, sorrow. Both times, Nate was by her side.

She loved her son, prayed for his happiness each Sunday at Mass and all the moments in between. If God would grant her one wish, it would be that Nate would bury the hatred he carried for Charlie once and for all with the anger that scarred his life and blotted out his ability to see goodness. Had that same hatred caused his breakup with Patrice? Had she felt the pain of his wounded soul and been unable or uninterested enough to pull him out?

A mother knows her children’s weaknesses, even if she sometimes refuses to acknowledge them. When Nick died, perhaps it was guilt that prevented her from speaking up each time Nate immortalized his father, creating images and situations that were so much grander than the actual man had ever been. She’d believed that, given time, Nate’s misplaced loyalty would fade and replace itself with a future where Nick Desantro was a vague memory, loved, respected, but put in the past.

But it had continued, molded, and changed until Nate decided the only way he could truly honor his father would be to carry on in the family business. It didn’t matter that Nate loved furniture making; ND Manufacturing was his duty.

So, when Charlie Blacksworth came into her life, there was no chance Nate would approve. How could he when Charlie was everything his own father was not—educated, articulate, city-born, wealthy…caring? To welcome such a man into his life would be to disrespect his own father.

She’d wanted to tell him hundreds of times just what kind of man his father had been. She’d practiced the words so many times that they sat in her subconscious, ready to spring to instant recall. Even the pauses and enunciations were well tuned.
 
He couldn’t even face his baby daughter when she was dying. Did you know that? Anna died in my arms and he couldn’t face
 
her. Do you know where he was?
 Another pause
. In O’Reilly’s Bar, that’s where, all night. What kind of honor is that, Nathan?

But she couldn’t strip the image her son had so carefully created, year after year, layer upon layer of beliefs, wrapped in supposition, most of them groundless, all of them untrue.

And so she said nothing.

***

Lily was almost asleep when she smelled it: sweet, flowery, familiar. She lay very still, sniffing into the half-darkness. Was she dreaming? Was her mind playing tricks again like it sometimes did, making her wonder if what she saw or smelled or heard was in a dream?

She turned just a little, lifted her nose in the air, sniffed again. The scent grew stronger, heavier, filling both nostrils.
 
It wasn’t a dream!
 She was wide-awake and still she smelled it.

“Christine?” Lily whispered into the darkness. “Christine?”
 
Please, please, please, let it be you.

“Lily?”

“Christine!” She jumped up, scrunched her eyes to see. Someone stood next to her, same size, same shape as Christine but fuzzy. Lily swiped a hand over the nightstand, found her glasses, and shoved them on her face.

“Christine!” It was her! Even in the half-dark, she could tell it was her.

“Your mom said you went to bed a little while ago, but sometimes it takes a bit for you to fall asleep.” Christine sat on the edge of the bed. Her hair was long and fluffy tonight. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

Lily giggled. “I smelled you.” She giggled again, moved closer to Christine and grabbed her sister’s hand. “Like flowers.”

“Oh, my perfume.”

“Yeah.”

“You like it?”

“Hmm-hmm.”
She touched her sister’s hair, so smooth, so soft.

“I’ll put some on you tomorrow if you want.”

“Okay.”
...the best sister in the whole world.

“Okay.”

”Is your Mom better?”

“Yes, she’s doing better.”

Lily stroked her hair again. “You are so beautiful.”

“You are so beautiful, too.”

Lily threw her arms around Christine’s neck. “I love you.” She squeezed tight, burying her nose in Christine’s hair, inhaling the flower perfume. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”