A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (19 page)

“I can’t think...”

“Good.”

“This is insanity.”

“I know.” His mouth was on her neck now, working its way inside the opening of her shirt to more skin, beautiful, glorious skin.

“Nate?”

“Hmm?” He flicked open the top button of her shirt. Who would have thought flannel could be such a turn-on?

“Look at me.”

“I am looking at you.” And that bra, low-cut peach with lace…front clasp…his favorite…

“Nate, look at me.”

The desperateness in her voice yanked him back, forced him to meet her gaze. “Are you okay?”

“I just want you to know that right now I’m not thinking about
who you are or who I am, or why we should never be together.” She reached out and stroked his cheek.

He kissed her then, a swelling of need that gripped his soul, swirled into his consciousness, consuming him and yet at the same time warning,
 
Beware...beware...

But he didn’t hear the words; his heart was pounding too loudly, his need beating too fiercely against his body as he slowly unbuttoned Christine’s shirt and began the delicious free fall into oblivion.

The sweetness of brown sugar and cinnamon drifted through the house, crawling up the stairs, seeping through the small cracks in the windows to dissipate in the spring air. Miriam was baking cinnamon rolls, Christine’s favorite. Actually, she’d acquired several favorites since she’d begun visiting Magdalena: marinara sauce with linguine, meatloaf smothered in gravy, vegetable soup (with a rutabaga for sweetness), pumpkin rolls, and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Four months ago, she didn’t know the difference between a rutabaga and a parsnip. But Miriam had taught her this, had taught her, too, about cooking from scratch, what constituted “a pinch” and how to use a rolling pin.

At home, the kitchen was reserved for people with foreign accents, who wore white uniforms and white shoes. But Miriam’s time in the kitchen was a form of art, created with mediums such as flour and eggs, used to convey her caring for others, friends as well as family. She whipped up chicken noodle soup for the neighbor with a cold, spaghetti sauce and homemade noodles for the widower who still couldn’t force himself to cook a meal without thinking of his deceased wife, banana and pumpkin breads for the church. The giving went on and on; names and faces didn’t matter. It was the need that took precedence, weighing heavily on Miriam’s soul, luring her back into the kitchen until she’d created food for their family, their cause.

But food wasn’t the only pull of this room. The warm, unassuming presence of the woman herself let Christine ease into conversations she’d never had with her own mother. Why do some women feel their only value is in their body? Why do they continue to stuff their shapes into too-tight dresses, their feet into stilettos, their brains into closed vaults that can’t breathe and subsequently suffocate? Why do they tuck and nip and smooth when the ultimate beauty isn’t on the surface at all? And why do they not see this?

“Would you like another cup of coffee?”

“I’ll get it.” Christine slid out of her chair, picked up her cup. “How about you? Are you ready for another?”

“This is my second pot,” Miriam said. “Decaf or not, I think I’ve had enough.”

“You could sleep until six some morning, you know. You won’t shrivel up and disappear. Trust me, lots of people don’t see daylight until much, much later.”

“But there’s nothing like the silence of early morning. Your father used to love to sit on the back porch with his first cup of coffee, just gazing out at the hills. He looked so peaceful then; I would watch him from the other room, wondering what he was thinking about, where his mind was. I always wanted to know.” Her voice drifted off.

“Didn’t you ever ask?”

She set down the hot pad she’d been holding.
“Once, in the beginning. It was too painful, so I never asked again.”

“Still, most women wouldn’t stop at one time.”

“There were too many parts of our lives that we couldn’t change. I didn’t want to start questioning him again because I knew once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’d want to know every detail: what kind of coffee cup did he use, where did he have his shirts laundered, his hair cut? The questions would never stop and I wasn’t going to do that to him, to us.” Her gaze was honest as she added, “Or to myself. I loved him and I was not going to destroy that with questions I had no right asking.”

Christine opened her mouth and the words fell out, “Blacksworth and Company mug, Custom Dry Cleaning, Mario’s.” It was the least she could do, one small gift.

“Thank you.”

“If there’s...anything else you’d like to know, maybe I can help.”

Miriam nodded, her eyes wet.

Life was filled with so many twists and turns, like the sides of a prism, giving off light; what seemed wrong before seemed almost right when viewed from a different angle.

“Christine.” The sadness lifted from her face, shifted to concern.

“Yes?”

“I know it’s none of my business and I just gave you a big talk about not asking questions, but I care about you, and Nate’s my son. I don’t want to see either one of you get hurt.”

She should have known Nate’s call last night wouldn’t be the end of the conversation. What mother wouldn’t inquire when her son told her the daughter of the man he’s hated for years is staying overnight? And when she’d come in the back door this morning, hair still wet from a shower, Miriam had glanced up from the pot of soup she was stirring and offered a quiet smile, nothing more.

What to say? I don’t know what’s happening between us? Last night he touched me in a way no man’s ever touched me before? I woke up in the middle of the night just to look at him, this stranger lying next to me who’d stripped my defenses?

“Nate’s a wonderful person, kind, considerate, caring, but there’s a hard streak running through him that keeps him from forming relationships, lasting ones, anyway.”

She did not want to hear this, not right now. “Miriam—”

“Hear me out, Christine. Please. You’re Charlie’s daughter; I would do anything to protect you, and Nate, well that goes without saying. But a mother sees her child’s shortcomings, even if she doesn’t admit to them very often.”

“Miriam, this is all very premature. We…I…”

“You know Nate’s never forgiven your father for not choosing between his life here and the one in Chicago. He still doesn’t understand that for me, those four days were enough. Maybe I should have told him the truth about his own father, how living beside him after Anna died was lonelier than being alone, but I couldn’t bring myself to shatter the illusion he’d created. But I’m afraid he might try to punish your father through you.” She took a deep breath and pushed out the words. “Do you understand what I’m saying? He harbors such hate, I worry he’ll use you just because you’re a Blacksworth.”

Miriam’s words hit Christine, throwing her whole world off center. Had he merely been using her last night?

“And then I worry, too, that perhaps it isn’t that at all, perhaps Nate’s falling for you. I remember how he used to stare at your pictures when Lily showed him her album, the ones of you a few years ago and more recent. Maybe it wasn’t all hate he felt when he looked at you; maybe deep down it was an unwilling attraction.”

“Would that be so bad if he were attracted to me?”

“It could be if you didn’t share that same attraction, or”—her smile was sad, pained—“if he fell in love with you and a cruel twist of fate forced him to live a life he condemned your father and me for all these years.”

“But if we loved each other—”

“What, Christine? If you loved each other it would be enough, like it was for your father and me? No, it wouldn’t be enough. It would be the worst form of torture for him. That’s why, deep down, I don’t think he’ll let himself love you, Christine and that’s what scares me most.”

***

Gloria sipped her Chardonnay and took in the surroundings, pleased that even now, several weeks after the accident, her presence still evoked a kind of quiet command among the employees of The Presidio. It was evident in the number of trips Armand had made to her table, inquiring about the food, the service, for God’s sake, the butter rosettes. Was the prime rib pink enough for her liking? Had the waiter seen to her needs? Did she prefer butter rosettes or perhaps a cream pat substitute? The poor man spoke with an earnest concern but underneath she saw it for what it was—fear.

He was afraid of her. They were all afraid of her. Sad, that such lavish attention could be garnered on the person posing the greatest threat. And she knew that Armand and his entourage were petrified that she’d take them to court, cry to the judge over the surgery, the pain, the agony of rehab she’d endured, all because of a slippery step at The Presidio. There was power in this, great power.

Harry Blacksworth was fit to be tied that she was now almost as much a regular as he. She secretly delighted in his obvious aggravation, though she remained civil, even cordial during their encounters. Being at odds with her dead husband’s brother in such a public venue would only lead to questions.

“Mrs. Blacksworth, may I get you another Chardonnay while you wait for your guest?” Armand stood before her looking very European in his black suit, a maroon silk scarf tucked into the breast pocket.

She handed him her glass. “Thank you, Armand, I think I will.”

He flashed her a smile and took the glass. The bow was almost imperceptible, but she noticed it. The man’s deference to her must infuriate Harry. It certainly cramped his style. She’d heard he’d taken to having his lunch at Mi Hermana’s Ristorante most days. Good. Let him think about her every time he passed The Presidio. Harry Blacksworth thought he was the only one who could make a person’s life miserable, but he was wrong. It might take her longer, but she’d see to it that she disrupted his life, even if it was as simple a consideration as where to have lunch.

He had no right to tell her how to handle her own daughter. Christine was her daughter, hers, and no amount of threats from him would change that fact. If he thought she was going to sit by and watch Christine make a mess of her life, then Harry underestimated her.

The meeting with Connor this evening, masked as a casual dinner engagement, was all part of the plan. Connor was Christine’s future—handsome, attentive, heir to a fortune, a man she cared about and would come to love eventually, though never obsessively. The perfect combination for a comfortable life.

“There you are, Gloria.” Connor Pendleton shrugged out of his trench coat and sank into the chair beside her. “Sorry I’m late.” He flashed
her a smile. “I was talking to Tokyo.”

“That’s quite all right. I understand.”

“We’re close to doing a deal with them that could open up the market in Asia.”

“I’m very happy for you.”

“I’m heading to London next week.” He nodded to Armand as he placed a bourbon on the rocks in front of him.

“I love London.”

“I’m working on a possible merger. Huge deal. I want Christine to go with me, Gloria.”

“Have you asked her?” She slipped a cigarette from its case. Let Armand tell her The Presidio was “No Smoking.”

“Not yet. I can’t get a minute alone with her anymore.” He sipped his bourbon. “You know how she’s been these last few months. Ever since Charles died, it’s like she doesn’t recognize her own life. She flits off to that damnable cabin every month without even thinking about it, but if I ask her to go anywhere, she turns me down flat. What the hell’s going on, Gloria?”

She lit her cigarette, inhaled. “Perhaps you need to make your intentions known.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve done quite a bit of talking, you say you love her, you want to be with her, but what have you actually done to prove it? Sometimes, women want action more than words.”

“I’ve tried that. Remember the trip to New York? She refused to go, said it interfered with her other trip, though how the hell that became a regular thing, I’ll never know.”

“Connor, buy the ring.” She could picture Connor and Christine’s wedding photo in the
 
Chicago Tribune
.

“You think so?”

Christine Blacksworth Pendleton, what a powerful name. “Of course I do.”

He finished his drink and reached for her hand. “Thanks, Gloria. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her smile widened. It was wonderful to be appreciated. “We’re going to be family, Connor. We’ll stick together you, and I. You’ll see, everything will be just fine.”

She was already counting the hours until she could leave again. What was it that pulled her to Magdalena even when she was hundreds of miles away?

There were the obvious reasons: Miriam and Lily, but what else? What part did Nate play in her increasing desire to return? He stole great gaps of time throughout her day, filling her mind with memories, hopes that he might call her, confess he was thinking of her, too, perhaps tell her he missed her, and then the enormous stretch of revelation...confide that he couldn’t wait to see her again.

Of course, he didn’t call.

Was Miriam right? Had he been using her to punish her father?

There was one other possible reason for her growing attraction to Magdalena.

Her mother.

She just wouldn’t stop pushing and pulling, making demands, even if they were subtle. 
Greta cooked five pounds of prime rib and I need you to come for dinner tonight...bring Connor, too...I bought us tickets to the theater...Come, keep me company...Bloomingdale’s is having a sale...let me buy you that new coat you’ve been looking at...

The quiet demands bombarded her until she ignored the phone, let her mother’s words fill her voicemail with dates and times. Was this how her father had felt? Had her mother overtaken him like a sweet elixir seeping into his veins, suffocating him with excessive consideration? Or had that merely been control?

The fact that Christine was sitting at The Presidio right now, waiting for Connor to meet her for dinner was, in some way, her mother’s doing. He might have called Christine, even made the reservations, but her mother was behind it.

“Christine.”

Connor. His teeth were so white, his skin a deep golden bronze, even in spring, all the results of bleaching kits and tanning beds. She tried to envision Nate sticking a bleaching tray in his mouth or cramming himself onto a tanning bed. It would never happen.

“It’s great to see you.” His husky voice spilled over her, lending just the right inflection to speech, pitch, expression. He leaned down to kiss her.

She turned her face just in time so the kiss he’d intended for her lips grazed her cheek. He smiled and straightened as though her action was acceptable, even normal.

“I’ve missed you.”

She couldn’t say she missed him, too. It would be too great a lie. She looked down at her wine glass, fingered the stem. “You said you needed to see me, that something had come up and you needed to talk to me right away.”

“That’s right. Something has come up.” His smile faded.
“Something of a most urgent nature.”

“What? Is someone in your family ill?”

“No, nothing like that; you know my family, fit as race horses.”

“Ever since Dad died, I get nervous when people say they have something ‘urgent’ to tell me.”

He reached for her hand and covered it with his. “I do have something urgent to tell you, but I’d like to think it’s going to make you happy, not nervous.” He laughed, stroked the back of her hand. “Well, it might make you a little nervous, but it’s a good nervous.”

“You got the Tokyo deal.”

“I did. Pendleton Securities is acquiring Rendo Investments.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“The old man’s pretty pleased, but you know he’ll never come right out and admit it.”

“I’m very happy for you.”

“Thanks. But that isn’t the urgent news I wanted to discuss.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black box and laid it between them.

She forced herself to breathe. “What is it?”

He flipped open the box, angled it toward her. “It’s our future. Marry me, Christine.”

An enormous marquis diamond ring rested in the center of a cream satin lining. It winked and glistened in the light, haunting her with promises she didn’t want, tormenting her with a love she couldn’t accept.

“Say something.”

“I... I don’t know what to say.”

“How about, ‘I’ll marry you, Connor. I’ll be your wife’?”

She knew he meant well, and that in his own way, he loved her. But it wasn’t enough. He’d give her diamond rings, necklaces, trips, houses, cars, probably even a child or two, but he’d never be able to give her the one gift she needed: himself. That would be reserved for Tokyo and
London and all the other cities and business engagements that would mark him as a world-class businessman, capable of negotiating and facilitating the ultimate deal.

“I can’t.” And besides, she didn’t love him.

“I don’t understand.” His hand slipped away; he ran it through his perfect, wavy hair.

“I can’t, Connor,” she said again, this time meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“Christine, you can’t just walk away like this. What have we been building these past two years? What was that all about?”

He’d never understand, so she merely said, “Consider it a due diligence of sorts.”

“Oh, I see; you being the acquiring party who’s decided not to do the deal?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“I don’t understand you. Ever since your father died and you started taking off to that damn cabin, things haven’t been the same. What the hell’s going on up there?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what’s the attraction and why does it have to be the same days every month? Have you got somebody waiting for you up there? A mountain man, maybe?” He let out a harsh laugh.

“Why can’t you just accept the fact that I don’t want to marry you? Why does there have to be another person involved?”

“Is there?”

“No.”

“You’re making a big mistake, Christine.”

“I’m sorry, Connor. I never meant to hurt you.”

He snapped the velvet box shut and stood. “I’m not used to disappointment, but I’ll deal with it.” He shrugged into his trench coat, stuffed the ring in his pants pocket. “But I’m not so sure about your mother.”

“My mother?
Does she know about this?”

“Of course.
Doesn’t Gloria know everything?”

***

“You’re late.”

“Just settle down, Gloria, twenty minutes is fashionable where I come from.”

She glanced at the tall, thin man with the slight stoop. She’d thought he was the epitome of a cowboy the first time she saw him, brown and leathery in cowboy boots and a black Stetson. But fourteen years had weathered him even more, toughened his skin like the hides on his granddaddy’s Hereford farm he liked to tell her about. Lester Conroy was a Texan, born and bred, and no matter that he’d lived in Chicago these past eighteen years, he would go to his grave a Texan.

“Well, Gloria, what you got for me this time?” He hitched up his jeans, rested his bony fingers on his belt.

“It’s my daughter. Christine.” The man might look like a backwoods hillbilly with manure on his boots but he was the best private investigator in the state of Illinois. He’d been setting traps for unsuspecting victims since his early days tracking fox and coyote on his granddaddy’s ranch. The only difference between then and now according to Lester was that this prey walked on two feet and the reward was a hell of a lot sweeter.

“Beautiful girl.”

“She’s been taking off every month, says she’s going to her father’s cabin in the Catskills.”

Lester let out a low whistle. “You think she’s going somewhere else?”

“It’s a possibility.” God, but she hated to admit it.

“I’ll check it out.”

She nodded, not meeting his gaze.

“You want me to let you know all the details, same as before?”

“Yes. I want to know everything.”

“Consider it done.”

“Good.” She sucked in a deep breath, forced a smile. “Pour us a drink, Lester.”

“You still drinking Crown Royal, straight up?”

“For times like these, it’s the only thing that works.”

“I hear you, Gloria.” He started toward the bar, paused. “Damn shame about your husband. After all this time, I felt like I knew him.”

“Nobody knew Charles, Lester, nobody.”

***

Christine turned the rented Saab off the interstate and headed toward Magdalena. Sixteen more miles and she’d be back in the town that was becoming more like home with each passing month. Beside her in a flat wooden box were the ribbons she and Lady Annabelle had won over the years: twelve first places, six seconds, and four thirds. She planned to give them to Lily, detail the events, and how she’d won or lost each. Next month was Lily’s fourteenth birthday and with it came her most anticipated present of all: a ride on a white horse, just like Christine’s.

Lily had been waiting a whole year for this gift, a promise made by their father on her thirteenth birthday. Miriam had told Christine how she’d hesitated at first, pulled under by fear for her daughter’s safety, but after Charlie’s death, she’d realized she had to let Lily ride her horse. It was Charlie’s last gift to her, the one she’d remember the rest of her life.

Christine was excited to see Lily on a horse. She’d already ordered a riding habit, the same cream jodhpurs, black jacket, and black hat she’d worn in the picture Lily had hanging in her room. That was Lily’s favorite picture; it had been their father’s favorite, too. She no longer thought of him as my father, Lily’s father; he was their father. Lily was her sister.

When she pulled up in front of 1167 Artisdale, the front door flew open and Lily ran out, her thick black pigtails bouncing, arms flying in front of her, face shining. “Christine! Christine!”

“Lily!”

“I missed you! I missed you!” She flung her arms around Christine’s waist, hugged tight.

Christine buried her face in her sister’s hair and whispered, “I missed you, too.”

“Come inside.” Lily grabbed her hand. “We have a surprise.”

“Wait a second.” She opened the car door, reached for the wooden box. “I have a surprise for you, too.”

Lily’s gaze slid over the box and her blue eyes grew wide. “You first,” she said, squeezing Christine’s hand and pulling her toward the house.

Miriam was waiting for them in the kitchen, wearing a bright yellow T-shirt and jeans, hair hanging down her back in a loose braid. She was humming under her breath, sprinkling coconut on top of a two-layer cake. “Hello, Christine.”

“Hello, Miriam.” She walked over and hugged her.

“It’s good to see you, dear.”

“You, too.”
The fact that she meant it had stopped surprising her two months ago.

“Can I tell her now, Mom?” Lily pressed her hands together, squeezing them with impatience and excitement.

“Now’s as good a time as any.” Miriam set the knife down and moved the cake to the center of the table.

Lily let out a squeal, reached behind her and pulled out two gifts.
“Happy birthday, Christine!”

“How did you know?” Her twenty-eighth birthday had been last Thursday. She’d gotten a silk shawl and a Louis Vuitton handbag from her mother and a diamond pendant necklace from Uncle Harry. From Connor, fortunately, she’d received nothing, not even a phone call.

“I know your birthday,” Lily said. “May fifteenth. You’re twenty-eight.”

“That’s an old lady, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, very old.” Lily giggled. “Here. Open mine first.” She shoved the smaller package into Christine’s hands.

“Thank you, Lily.” The gift was taped several times, the paper crumpled at the corners. She tore the wrapping, slid the plain white box out, and lifted the top. Nestled on a fluff of pressed cotton was a clear shiny stone in the shape of a heart attached to a silver chain. “It’s beautiful.” She fingered the heart, carefully lifted it out of the box.

“Lily picked it out herself,” Miriam said.

Christine unclasped the necklace, placed it around her neck. “Miriam, will you help me with it?”

“Certainly.” She hooked the glass necklace and moved toward Lily. “What do you think?”

Lily
beamed, her blue eyes shiny through her thick glasses. “Now she has two necklaces. Mine and the other sparkly one,” she said, pointing to Uncle Harry’s birthday gift.

“I love them both because they’re from two very special people.”

“Me,” Lily said.

“Yes, you.”

“Who gave you the other one?”

“My”—she started, corrected herself—“our Uncle Harry. Did Dad tell you anything about him?”

“I know Uncle Harry.” Her smile spread. “He was the baby in the family. Like me.”

“That’s right.”

Lily beamed. “Uncle Harry,” she murmured.

“He’s not a baby though.”

“Nope. I’m not a baby either.”

“No, you aren’t. Twenty-two more days and you’ll be fourteen. I brought you an early gift.”

“You finish opening yours first.”

“I won’t argue with that.” Christine tore the wrapping from the square package, pushed aside swirls of tissue paper to get to the gift, a dark bowl nestled in bubble wrap. It was one of Miriam’s bowls, black cherry with a smooth finish. “Miriam.” She ran her fingers along the fine grain. “It’s beautiful.”