A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (16 page)

March in Magdalena was brutal. Rain and hail pelted the town on and off for the better part of three hours, bombarding rooftops, ripping immature branches from their fragile frames, filling the streets, forcing man and animal alike to seek shelter.

Christine peered through the slat of the white wooden blind. She was in Miriam’s living room, having her second cup of green tea and her third slice of poppy seed bread. The rain had settled to a steady drizzle, much less threatening than the earlier downpour. The winds had diminished, too, fizzling to sporadic mini-gusts that swirled and then died.

It was her second night in Magdalena. Lily had gone to bed an hour ago but her presence still circled the room. They’d spent the day inside, playing checkers, Go Fish, Ker Plunk, making play dough spaghetti, smearing Crayola paint on a white sheet of paper, and coloring in a 
My Little Pony
 coloring book. Lily had chattered nonstop about everything: her new red shoes, the blue jay in the bird feeder outside, the loud horn in Nate’s truck, the wind and rain, but she always circled back to the same subject.

Christine? I want to ride a horse like yours.

Lady Annabelle?

Uh-huh.

Maybe someday you will.

Dad promised for my fourteenth birthday. I want to wear a hat like yours, too.

The one in the picture? The black riding hat?

Yup.
Just like you.

Maybe for your birthday.

Yup.
 Giggle. 
Maybe for my birthday.

Lady Annabelle was a very gentle horse. You would have liked her.

Yup.
 Lily’s lips curved into a big smile. 
On my birthday, Christine, I’m gonna ride a horse just like yours and wear a hat, too, just like yours.
 She poked Christine in the arm, giggled. 
Yup, just like yours.

On her birthday...Lily was wriggling her way into Christine’s thoughts more than she liked to admit, making her wonder, just for the briefest of seconds, if her father hadn’t spent hour after
hour wishing he were here in this town, in this house. Away from Chicago and Christine and her mother, away from everything that reminded him of his other life.

Her own life was a mess; she wanted to delve into the existence her father had shared with these people, dissect it, piece it back together, and yet, there was that other part of her that considered running back to Chicago, sinking into her work, and pretending she’d never heard of Magdalena or the Desantros.

Uncle Harry thought she’d only come back because of the watch. That was part of it, but not the whole reason. She pictured it lying in Lily’s pink jewelry case beside the fold-up ballerina with the net tutu. She’d had a case like that when she was about six or seven. It wound up from the back and played 
Some Day My Prince Will Come
, just like Lily’s. But it hadn’t had Randolph Blacksworth’s pocket watch resting on the pink velvet lining.

“Christine?” It was Miriam, calling her from across the room.

Why? Why didn’t you love me enough, Dad? Why did you give what was mine to someone else? You had no right...

“Christine?”

“Yes?” 
You had no right...damn you...

“That was Nathan on the phone.” Miriam sat down on the flowered chair, reached for her tea. “He sounds horrible; his cold is going into his chest.”

When had the phone rung?

“And he’s got a horrible cough.”

Christine moved away from the window and turned to Miriam. “Is he taking anything?”

“He either takes nothing, which is what he’s doing right now, or he takes a double dose of everything.” She sipped her tea, breathed out a long sigh. Tonight she wore a salmon-colored sweater and jeans with gray hunting socks and moccasins. She looked absurdly elegant. “I’ve got a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove.” She pointed a work-roughened hand toward the kitchen. “That’s what he needs to open him up.
A bowl of chicken soup and good old-fashioned Vick’s VapoRub, just like when he was a boy.” She paused, rubbed her cheek. “Some things never change. Have you ever noticed that, Christine? Think about it; you grow up, move out, and still, some things just never change?”

Yes, she’d noticed.

“Don’t you think we all tend to revert back to our childhood roles when our parents are around?”

“I guess so.”

“I know so.” Miriam slid a piece of poppy seed bread onto a napkin. “I’ve done it myself. I can be a successful, independent woman three hundred and sixty-three days out of the year and then, the two days my parents come to visit me, bam! I revert back to the shy little girl who used to trip over a one-inch rug and fall flat on her face.” She let out a small laugh. “I’m no longer a well-respected artist; I’m the little girl sitting at the kitchen table smearing finger paint on a piece of freezer paper and waiting for my mother to tell me it’s beautiful.”

Christine said nothing. How many times had she looked to her father for approval, tolerated her mother’s critical evaluation of her looks, her lifestyle? How many times had she been the little girl in the corner waiting?

“Nate’s a fighter, though. He hates it when I hover; that’s what he calls it, hovering. He’d never let me take care of him, not since his father died, said it was his duty to care for me. Can you imagine a twelve-year-old saying that? I remember…” Her voice drifted, stilled. When she spoke again, a sadness clung to her words, filling in the gaps. “He just needs somebody to care 
about
 him, not 
for
 him. Anybody can iron a shirt, wash a few clothes, and cook a meal. For heaven’s sake, a cleaning lady can do that. Nate needs somebody who’ll stand beside him, maybe even stand up to him if need be.” She sighed, rubbed her eyes. “Not those silly women either, the ones who flit in and out of his life like butterflies. He shoos them away before they can light.”

“I’m sure he’ll find someone.”

“I just hope he’s not too headstrong to admit it when he does. Love doesn’t always come according to plan.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Sometimes there is no plan; it just appears. And if we’re very lucky, we see it and we seize it quickly, because once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

Is that what you and my father did, seized it quickly?

“Don’t close yourself off to possibilities or people, no matter how absurd they might seem.” She tilted her head to study Christine and a dangle-bead earring brushed her neck. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Since Nate will probably lie there and be miserable all night, the least he can do is try some soup. I was thinking about taking a container over to him.”

“You can’t go outside in this weather. I’ll take it to him.”

“If you don’t mind...” Her smile deepened, spread to her eyes.

“No, not at all.”
She followed Miriam into the kitchen, wondering if the woman had ever had any intention of going to her son’s.

She should have been here by now. Nate coughed and pulled on a flannel shirt. His mother had called forty-five minutes ago to say Christine was on her way with chicken soup. So where was she? The back roads to his house were black and wet. What if she’d taken a wrong turn? Or ran into a ditch?

It pissed him that they hadn’t just left him alone. He knew it wasn’t Christine’s idea to pay him a visit; his mother’s handiwork was written all over the chicken soup. He could just picture her, making the damn soup, worrying about him, insisting he take medicine, drink fluids, like he was a goddamn baby. So he felt like shit? He’d be fine once his head stopped pounding and he could quiet the damn cough. All he wanted was to be left alone.

Now he had to go looking for Christine. Great, just what he wanted to do on this god-awful night. He pulled on his jacket, checked his watch again. No sense calling his mother; she’d worry herself sick if he told her Christine hadn’t showed. He’d drive around first, check her route. He hoped she wasn’t in a ditch somewhere. That would involve a tow truck and at least an hour to get her out. 
Shit.
 He was sweating to death one minute, freezing his ass off the next. He grabbed his cell phone, stuffed it in his jacket, and headed out the door.

The rain started again, making it difficult to see more than a few feet past the windshield. He squinted into the darkness, trying to scour the sides of the road, searching for her car. What had she rented this time? It was a Saab, wasn’t it?
Black? He’d only had a quick glimpse of it the first night when she came to see him. Damn, he should have paid closer attention, but hell, how could he have known he’d have to play investigator later on?

The first mile and a half turned up nothing. The roads were slick, some parts pooled in water, forcing him to go slowly. His mother never should have let her out on these roads tonight. What did a city girl know about driving back roads in weather like this? All for some goddamn chicken soup? He coughed, coughed again. The hacking started then, hurting his lungs, making it hard to keep his eyes on the road. His mother’s damn soup was going to get him killed.

Christ.

A chill ran through his body. He reached over, flicked the heater on high. There was a bend in the road ahead, a slight curve that ended in a straight stretch and it was there, halfway into the
bend, that he saw the faint stream of light in the ditch, noticed the crashed guardrails, and finally, the tail end of a dark car jutting out.

He pulled the truck alongside the road and jumped out. Wind and rain battered his body, whipped around him, making it difficult to work his way down the ditch.

“Christine!” he yelled into the storm. “Christine!” Was she lying inside bleeding or unconscious? He slipped and slid his way to the front of the Saab. “Christine!”

She was huddled inside, unmoving. Nate tried to open the driver’s door but it was smashed in at the handle. He maneuvered to the other side and yanked the passenger door open.

“Christine!” He reached in, touched her hair. “Are you all right?”

She whimpered. Her face was streaked with blood, her right eye swollen shut. “Nate. Help me.”

“It’s okay. I’ll get you out of here.” He reached for her shoulder, stopped. What if she’d hurt her neck? Or back? Then she wasn’t supposed to move, was she? He’d have to call 9-1-1 and they’d send out medics, lift her out on a board. Wasn’t that how it worked? He ran a hand over his forehead. Christ, he was burning up.

“Nate. Help me.”

He forced himself not to look at her right eye or the patches of blood drying on her face, smeared on her nose, chin, forehead. Instead, he concentrated on her left eye, staring into it in the faint light enveloping the front seat, trying to remember the blueness of it, ocean blue, like Lily’s.

“I’m going to call 9-1-1, get you some help.”

“No. Please.” She touched her face, felt the swelling around her right eye. “I’m okay.”

“What about your neck?
Your back?”

She straightened against the seat, winced. “I’m okay, Nate. Please. Just get me out of here.”

He stayed focused on her good eye. “You might need stitches.” His gaze slid sideways. There was too damn much blood. She should go to the hospital, shouldn’t she?

“I need to get out of here.” She tried to open the driver’s door. “I need to get out of here,” she repeated, throwing her shoulder against the door, once, twice, three times. “I need to get out of here!”

“Okay, just calm down. We’ll get you out. Just relax. Grab on to my arms, hold tight.”

She clutched his forearms, her grip biting through his jacket as he eased her from the seat. “I thought…I thought…”

“It’s okay.” Nate lifted her into his arms, tucked her against his chest as he made his way out of the car and up the ditch. He’d deal with the car later. She was shivering from cold, rain, fear—he didn’t know, but hell, who could blame her when she’d ended up in a ditch just like her old man?

He opened the truck door, helped her in,
then ran to the other side. “Here.” He pulled a handful of McDonald’s napkins from the glove compartment. He turned on the ignition and cranked up the heat. Damn, he was roasting again, but she was shivering beside him. Nate unbuttoned his jacket and flicked the heat up another notch. “I’ll take you to my house first and get you cleaned up before we head to my mom’s, all right?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

They drove in silence, and when they reached his cabin, Nate parked the truck at the top of the driveway and helped her out. The rain had eased to a slow drizzle. Christine leaned against him, almost into him, her shoulders sagging, her steps slow.

This was not the Christine Blacksworth who’d presented herself at his mother’s front door three months ago demanding to see Lily. This woman was tired and afraid...

In the brightness of his kitchen, she looked like a prizefighter who’d taken one too many punches to the face. Brilliant purples and blues seeped over her swollen eye; dried blood streaked her face in crusty patches.

He pushed back a lock of hair. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he
said, his voice almost gentle. He fixed her a cup of hot tea with a splash of Jack Daniel’s and then set about working on her. She held an icepack to her swollen eye while he filled a pan of warm water and proceeded to swab each section of her face with a damp washcloth.

“It doesn’t look like you’ve got any huge gashes,” he said, studying a small cut above her right eyebrow. “Just this nick above your eyebrow is all. I think the blood came from your nose when you hit the steering wheel.”

“I don’t want to see my eye.”

He would have thought she’d ask for a mirror by now.

“Well—” He busied himself wringing out the washcloth, “It’s not a pretty sight right now, but give it a day or two.”

She shrugged. “It’s not the black eye that bothers me...”

He looked up. “So what is it?”

“The questions.
Everyone will want to know what happened, you know, where, how, and I’ll have to relive it over and over.”

“So wear dark glasses.”

“In my office?”

“Take some time off.”

“That won’t get me away from my mother. She’ll find me.”

“So tell her to mind her own business.”

“Obviously, you’ve never met my mother.”

“Obviously.”

She was quiet then, pulling into herself, shutting down the outside world. He let her be, concentrating on a patch of dried blood on her left cheekbone. He knew all about being poked and prodded like a lab rat, pushed through a maze of questions for answers you didn’t know or didn’t want to admit you knew. It was a real pain in the ass. When Patrice moved out, the town couldn’t help but wonder. 
Where did she go? How long will she be gone?
 And then, later, as time passed and the Nissan Maxima she drove still hadn’t been seen around town, there was real concern in their voices. 
When did you say she was coming back? Where’d you say she was?
 And finally, when the mailman stopped delivering Patrice Desantro’s mail to Nate’s address, only the very bold ones ventured forward. 
Is she coming back, Nate?

It happened again when Charles died, all the questions, interrogations actually, wanting to know everything, trying to dig deep enough to understand what had happened, why, how?
 
Why him, why Charlie Blacksworth? How could such a tragedy have happened?
 His mother had been oblivious to their motives, had answered them all, given them responses that were grief-filled, and still, it wasn’t enough.

The real question was not
 
How could such a tragedy happen to a man like Charlie Blacksworth?
 The real question on the town’s mind pulsed just below the surface, frightening in its persistency, paralyzing in its randomness. 
How can we prevent a tragedy like that from happening to us?

Because no matter what the experts said or the church preached or logic dictated, deep down, everybody thinks they’re going to live a hell of a long life, maybe not forever, but damn close to it.

“Nate?”

“Yeah?”
He dipped the washcloth in the pink water.

“Thank you,” she hesitated, “for everything.”

She studied him out of one eye, making him feel that she was seeing more than she usually did with two eyes. He shrugged, “No big deal.”

“It is, considering...everything.”

The blood on her face was almost gone. Her hair was gnarled and matted to her scalp and there was a bruise on her forehead, a small cut above her eyebrow, and, of course, the monster right eye.

Christine Blacksworth sat in front of him, bloodied and bruised, looking extremely vulnerable, and in some twisted, bizarre way, more beautiful than he’d ever seen her before. Was it the sheer helplessness that made her appear so attractive? Or maybe it was the two shots of Jack Daniel’s and the fever that was making him hallucinate?

He turned away, dropped the washcloth in the bowl. “I should get you back.”

“Can I just stay here tonight, please? I don’t think I can handle having Miriam see me like this.”

“It’s not going to be much better tomorrow. In fact, it’ll probably be worse.”

“I just need a little time.”

“Christine—”

“Just give me a blanket, Nate, and I’ll sleep right on the couch. I won’t bother you, I promise.”

He should take her back to his mother’s right now. She didn’t belong here; hell, he’d already gotten more involved than he’d intended.

“Nate? Please?”

“All right,” he heard himself saying.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll take the couch; you can have my bed.”

“No.”

“You’re taking the bed or I’m taking you back.” He coughed, coughed again. “Your whole body’s going to be sore tomorrow and if you sleep on a couch it’ll be ten times worse.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said as he made his way to the bedroom. What the hell was he doing? He yanked open his dresser drawer, pulled out a maroon Black Dog T-shirt and a pair of old gray sweats that were too small for him and tossed them on the bed.

“Thank you.”

She stood in the doorway watching him, her face and body cast in shadow. For just a second she wasn’t Christine Blacksworth, she was merely a woman in his bedroom. There’d been a string of them since Patrice left, meaningless, brief encounters ending before they began. It was the way he wanted it—memories and faces blurred by Jack Daniel’s and darkness, a guarantee that no face would stand out, no touch, no voice...no woman.

The hacking started then and he turned away, tried to stop it. His chest ached, his head pounded, and he was burning up. He coughed again.

“You sound horrible.”

She was coming toward him, her face illuminated by the small bedside lamp. He shook his head, cleared his throat. He should have taken her home.
Jesus, what a mistake.

“Nate?”

“I’m fine.”

“But you sound horrible.”

“I said I’m fine.” He yanked a pillow off the bed, grabbed an extra blanket. “Get some sleep.”

He left her standing there in the middle of his bedroom and made his way to the couch. He didn’t want her concern; he didn’t want anything from her. He stifled another cough, plunked down his pillow and
blanket, and called his mother to tell her Christine’s car had slid into a ditch, a minor mishap, no big deal, she’d see her in the morning. He was careful to focus on the car, not the way he’d found her bloodied, with her right eye swollen shut. His mother would see for herself soon enough. When he’d assured her that Christine was fine, 
honest, Ma,
 he hung up the phone, coughed again, and fell into a restless sleep.

The screaming woke him, piercing,
horrible cries. Nate bolted off the couch and ran to the bedroom. “Christine?”

She was sitting up in bed, head and arms thrashing like a wild woman. “No! No!”