A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (17 page)

“Christine!”

She stilled, opened her left eye, the right was little more than a slit. “Nate!” She scrambled across the bed, grabbed his waist. “Nate.” Her shoulders started heaving, she clung tighter.

“It’s okay.” He put his arms around her. “You must have had a bad dream.”

“I…” She gasped and sucked in air. “I dreamed I was going to…to…”

“No.” He stroked her hair.

“Like my dad. I was going to die just…like him.”

Nate eased her hands from around his waist, sat down on the edge of the bed. “Look at me, Christine.” He kept his voice soft and low, like he did when Lily was afraid of something. “It was a bad dream. That’s all.”

The tears started then, a great outpouring of grief and pain and fear. Her shoulders shook with the force of it and she fell into him, thrusting her arms around his middle. “I saw him in the car, Nate,” she sobbed.
“Dead, in the car.”

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

More agony poured out. “I was covered in blood.”

He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “You’re safe now, do you hear me? Nothing’s going to happen. You’re safe.”

In the semidarkness of his bedroom with the wind and rain battering against the cabin walls, he held her until the whimpering faded into exhaustion and she drifted off to sleep. As he lay down beside her, he studied her swollen face, memorized it. Then he pulled the afghan around them and turned out the light.

“You know, it’s probably a good idea Connor’s not coming tonight,” her mother said, gazing at Christine over her glass of Chardonnay. A pair of crutches with lamb’s wool covering the tops rested on the chair next to her, the only visible sign she’d endured surgery less than two weeks ago; the other indicator, aside from the bottle of Valium, was the compact air cast on her right ankle, well-hidden under the green and gold tablecloth. “At least until the unsightliness of the swelling goes down a bit.”

“I didn’t want him here.”

“Of course, you didn’t.” She leaned forward, lowered her voice. “A black eye is not something you want to parade around showing everyone, especially a prospective husband.”

“That’s not what—”

“Hello!” The front door slammed and Uncle Harry strode in carrying a vase filled with tulips. “How’s my black-eyed girl? Jesus!”

“Hello, Uncle Harry.”

“Good God, girl, you said you had a black eye; you didn’t say a train rolled over you.” He set the vase on the table and looked down at her. “Honey, are you all right?”

It was the tenderness in his voice that almost made her cry out,
 
No, Uncle Harry, no, I’m not all right. I’m falling apart. Help me, help me
. Instead, she forced herself to say, “I’m fine.”

“Shit.” He reached out and touched her cheek.

“I told Christine this is a warning; she should be done with the cabin. Back roads are treacherous,” her mother said. “They can be lethal; we all know that.”

Uncle Harry shot her a warning look but she merely shrugged and picked up her wine glass.

Was this how her father had felt every time he returned from Magdalena, disjointed, flushed with remembering, moving his mouth in conversation while his heart remained in the white house on Artisdale Street? Had her mother exhausted him the way she was exhausting Christine tonight, question after question, well planned, perhaps even rehearsed, to elicit what? An answer? Conversation? Guilt?

The prime rib would be superb, the potatoes au gratin exquisite, the green beans almandine perfect. And yet, she found herself longing for a simple white ceramic bowl filled with vegetable soup.

What kind of daughter would be thinking about her father’s mistress and her family when her own mother had gone to such measures to create a welcome-home dinner for her?

And yet she couldn’t help herself. The visions bombarded her brain, memories pouring into it, taking hold;
Nate lifting her from the car, Nate wiping the blood from her face, Miriam turning away so Christine wouldn’t see her tears, Lily throwing her small arms around Christine’s waist, Nate lying beside her asleep.

Nate Desantro had shocked her almost as much as the accident had. She’d glimpsed a side of him she’d doubted he had, one that was tender, concerned. He could have ignored her wishes, taken her back to his mother’s, and yet he hadn’t. And when he’d found her screaming in his bed, he could have pulled the afghan around her and told her to go back to sleep, or worse, ignored the screaming altogether. And yet, he’d held her until she fell asleep and then stayed with her.

She’d tried to thank him the next day, feeling awkward and self-conscious to have revealed such weakness to him, but he’d brushed it off and then disappeared as soon as he dropped her at his mother’s. She hadn’t seen him the rest of the day and today, she’d headed for the airport and still there’d been no word from him. Something had happened between them the other night, she knew it, and she knew that he knew it, too.

“If you don’t feel up to going to the office for a few days, take a break,” Uncle Harry said. “I’ll cover for you.”

Uncle Harry believed in taking as many breaks as he could in one week of work. And his idea of covering would be to tell everyone who asked that it was “None of your goddamn business.”

“Thanks, Uncle Harry. But I’m okay, really. I need to get back to work.”

“I’ll be there bright and early then, in case you need me to run interference for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Why can’t you just tell them the truth?” This from her mother.

The truth?

Uncle Harry spoke first. “Of course, we’ll tell them the truth,” he said. “What the hell else would we tell them?”

She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. She wore a pale blue silk pantsuit tonight and three strands of pearls. “You made it sound as though you were considering some kind of,” she paused and her gaze traveled over both of them, “subterfuge.”

“You watch too much television, Gloria,” Uncle Harry said and laughed. “We’re not spies, for chrissake.”

“A lie then.”

“Hell, we’re not going to lie. We’ll tell them exactly what happened.” He met Christine’s gaze, held it. “Won’t we, Chrissie? You slid off the road and bumped your head on the steering wheel. End of story.”

“This road,” her mother’s voice grew weak, “it’s the one leading to the cabin?”

“Right.”

“The same one that Charles...” her voice faded.

“The same one,” Uncle Harry said.

“Dear God.” She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. Her long coral nails sparkled under the chandelier light.

“Please, Mother, I’m fine, everything’s fine.”

“This time.”
She dabbed at her eyes. “Everything’s fine this time, but what about the next or the one after that? Your father, now you...don’t go back, Christine. Please don’t go back.”

***

Harry slipped into the kitchen looking for a slice of Greta’s lemon meringue pie, actually, looking for Greta, too. The granite countertops were wiped clean. Hell, he might have caught her if he hadn’t gotten stuck with Gloria and her theatrics. She’d made herself teary-eyed and near-hysterical, going on and on about omens and begging Chrissie not to go back to the cabin. He’d wanted to tell her not to worry about it because Chrissie wasn’t going to the cabin, hadn’t been there in months.

Gloria knew how to play people, he’d give her that; a sniff here, a teardrop there, never enough to screw up her makeup, of course, and she had them all swarming over her, forgetting what they’d wanted to do that disagreed with her. Even her ankle, for chrissake! Was that a setup or what? He was still pissed that he couldn’t go to The Presidio any more without somebody running up to him and asking about her.

He opened the refrigerator, pulled out two slices of prime rib, and stuffed them in his mouth. Maybe he should think about making Mi Hermana’s Ristorante his regular spot from now on; at least he wouldn’t be bombarded with questions about Gloria every time he walked in. He grabbed another slice of prime rib and headed out the back door.

He missed the mussels and linguine at The Presidio. Maybe Mi Hermana’s Ristorante would make them for him. But he preferred Italian to Mexican. So couldn’t they change the spices? He was so involved with his restaurant dilemma that he almost ran into Greta rounding the corner of the sidewalk leading to the driveway.

“Jesus, Greta! You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Blacksworth.”

“Harry, remember?”

She hesitated. “Harry. I’m sorry, but it’s my car; it won’t start.”

“Oh.” He knew something about cars, had considered racing them several years back, but the 5:00 
a.m
. practice runs had killed the notion.

She fiddled with her purse. “I was going back inside to call a taxi.”

“I’ll take you home.”

“No—”

“I’ll take you home.” Was she like the rest of them, thinking he wasn’t capable of performing even the most menial of tasks?

“It’s all the way across town, twenty minutes away.”

“Then we’d better get moving.” He started walking toward his car.

“I have to pick up my children at the sitter’s. It’s another ten minutes past me; that’s a thirty-minute drive from here.”

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, sighed. “I can do the math.” Why did women have to be so difficult, so damned hell-bent on figuring out every nuance?

“Besides, one of the children is in a car seat”—she pointed to the direction of her Toyota Corolla. “I’d have to bring that, too. Thank you, but this is too much to ask of you.”

Jesus, women drove him crazy.
 He started back up the driveway and held out his hand. “Give me the keys and I’ll get the car seat. Not another word, Greta, I mean it. You’re driving me nuts.”

She barely said a word for the first fifteen minutes of the drive. He watched her out of the corner of his eye: hands pressed tight on her knees, back hardly touching the leather, eyes fixed straight ahead. She needed to relax. She was acting like he was a complete stranger or a kidnapper. Didn’t she know she should feel honored? Harry Blacksworth never did people favors. Didn’t she at least know that much about him?

Maybe she did, and maybe that was the problem. He was starting to think he’d have been better off pulling out a fifty and letting her call the damn cab.

“Turn up here,” she said, pointing to the right. “Take this road to Brookside, then turn left.”

Harry turned, noticed the change in scenery. It didn’t take an Einstein to figure out they were now in the low-rent district. The houses were tiny boxes, some vinyl, some wood, folded and stuffed onto a piece of property with a scrap of front yard and a strip of side driveway. A few homes had awnings over the front stoop and wrought iron railings supporting cement steps. If there was a garage, it was detached, in the back, and he guessed used to store anything that wasn’t an automobile.

It was sure a hell of a lot different than Essex Estates. Was that why she hadn’t wanted him to drive her home? As if he cared. But what did he know, really? He’d never been without, not even a meal unless he was trying to shave off a few pounds after the holidays. But he’d bet Greta knew about not having; he bet she knew a hell of a lot about it.

“I thought your mother lived with you.” He pulled that from nowhere and couldn’t even say why.

“She does.”

“Then why isn’t she watching your kids?”

“She had a meeting tonight.”

“With a man?” he said, trying to loosen her up.

“With Father Mahoney at church.”

“Oh, well, you know what they say about those priests.”

“Is everything a joke with you, Harry? Is nothing sacred?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just trying to get you to relax. Hell, you’re sitting there like a scared rabbit. Did I do something to offend you? Other than the priest joke, I mean.”

Her shoulders eased a bit, and she slipped back against the leather seat. “No. It isn’t you.”

He waited for her to continue. Okay, it wasn’t him, so what was it? “Greta?” A full minute between sentences was fifty-five seconds too long and yet he’d given her the opportunity, just in case, and still, she remained silent. “What’s on your mind? If it isn’t me, what is it?”

“I’m not comfortable with you doing this.”

“What? Driving you home?”

She nodded.

“You don’t trust my driving? I’m going too fast? I’ll slow down.” He lifted his foot off the gas. “There, though I was only eight miles over the limit.” He flashed her a smile. “That’s practically a crawl for me.”

“Your driving is fine, but you shouldn’t be doing this.” She turned to face him. “You’re driving your sister-in-law’s cook to pick up her children in a car that cost more than her home.”

“So?”

“So it isn’t right.”

“You think you don’t deserve to be in this car? You think your kids don’t?” She didn’t answer. “You think my goddamn excuse for a sister-in-law is better than you because she was born into money, because she married into it? And me, Christ, don’t tell me you’ve got me on some goddamn pedestal, too.”

“No, Harry, I don’t think you’re better than me, or that Mrs. Blacksworth is, but I do think I need to remember where I belong. That way, I don’t start to want things I can never have, things that could destroy me with the wanting, even though I know they’ll never make me happy. I can go home at night to my second-hand stove and cook pot roast instead of filet mignon and be completely happy because I know
it’s how God meant things to be, and I will not feel the least bit of jealousy or want.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You mean to tell me you wouldn’t like to have a little bit of this life?” He swept his hand over the seat, “Feel the leather, sink your fingers into it.
And what about the houses, the trips, the bank accounts? You’d rather live hand to mouth in some shithole for the rest of your days, cleaning up after some rich bitch?”

“I’m proud of my work. It’s decent and honest.”

“Okay, okay, but is that all you want? Don’t you have a dream, you know, something you’d really like to do if you could erase the limits?”

She didn’t answer at first, and he thought maybe she wasn’t going to. “I have dreams.” The words came out softly, slowly, as though she weren’t used to speaking them out loud. “In Germany, my grandparents owned a restaurant. When they came to the United States, they wanted to start one here, but my grandfather died, and my grandmother couldn’t bear the thought of carrying out their dream alone. So she taught her children and then her grandchildren how to
cook and bake according to tradition. That’s my dream, Harry, to start a restaurant, for my grandparents, my children, and myself.”