A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (21 page)

Harry bit into his ham sandwich and watched Greta reach for a glass bowl on the top shelf of her cupboard. Nice. His gaze followed the strong lines of her back, the firmness of her ass stretched over white shorts. Very nice.

He was sitting at a small oak table in Greta Servensen’s tiny kitchen on Wendell Street eating the best damned ham and Swiss he could remember. He’d become a regular here, since the night Greta’s car died at Gloria’s and he’d given her a ride home. No matter where he was going, a banquet, dinner, the theater, and no matter where he’d come from, golfing, a bar, a benefit, he invariably ended up at Greta’s for a cup of coffee, to talk; hell, who knew why he ended up here, he just did. She didn’t seem to mind, actually; after the initial shyness of having a man in her kitchen, he might even say she looked forward to seeing him.

And he looked forward to seeing her, too; not in the confines of Gloria’s buttoned-up house, where she had to wear a white-box uniform and old lady tie shoes, but here, in her own home, with that golden hair falling down her back and those bare legs, strong and tanned.

She was killing him, bit by bit, with that laugh, those
legs, that smile. Oh, God, she had no idea how much he wanted to take her, right here, spread-eagled on the kitchen table. Every damn time he walked through that door, he fought with himself, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; one part reveling in the pureness of their growing friendship, the cleanness of it, and the other, saturated with lust and visions of her naked body covering his.

He could screw any woman he wanted; hell, he’d been doing that for years, but friendship, especially with a
woman, now that was rare.

“Harry, can I get you another seltzer?”

He shook his head. “No thanks, I’m fine.” Look at him, Harry Blacksworth, drinking seltzer water. What he really wanted was a scotch neat but that would have to wait.

“Would you like another sandwich?
Maybe half?”

“I haven’t finished this one yet.” He rubbed his stomach. “I’m going to have to start living at the gym just to work off what you’ve been feeding me.”

She smiled. “I don’t think so, Harry.” Her voice softened. “You look perfect.”

He looked away, tore into his sandwich. Now why’d she have to say that? He kept his eyes on the blue and white plate in front of him. She was supposed to be his friend; couldn’t she tell how hard he was trying to keep it that way?

“Harry?”

“What?” He needed to go home, right now.

“What’s the matter?”

He heard the concern in her voice, all soft and sincere, slithering over him, wrapping itself around his cock, tormenting the hell out of him. He needed to go home right now and call Bridgett.

“Harry?”

“Nothing.
Okay? Nothing’s the matter.”

She was leaning against the sink, her long, golden hair falling around her, pale blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a swell of breast. He pushed the plate away, stood up.

“I’ve gotta go.” Now, he had to get out of here 
now
.

“But I made you lemon meringue pie.”

There was the hurt in her voice, making him feel like a class-A asshole. He couldn’t help it; he 
was
 a class-A asshole.

“Take some with you.”

That was it. “I don’t want your goddamn pie. Do you understand?” He took a step toward her, then another until he had her backed against the sink.

“Harry?”

Her eyes turned a liquid blue, her lips parted, her head fell back. He knew the actions for what they were, though he doubted she understood herself. Desire. Women had been looking at him like this since he was a teenager, offering themselves up to him. And he’d been taking since then, too, mindless of anything but the push and pull of physical pleasure. Did she think he was going to stick around and hang his towel next to hers, sit beside her in church, shovel the walk? Didn’t she know it would only be about sex? Didn’t she care? He was trying to protect her from himself, from his worthless lechery.

She reached out and touched his cheek. “Underneath all of this, there is a good man. I see it.”

He grabbed her hand, thrust it away. “What the hell’s wrong with you? I’m not a good man. Would a good man be thinking about bending you over that table right now, with your kids asleep in the next room?” He saw the tears starting. “No, don’t start. Please.” He backed away. “You are the good person, Greta. You. And the best thing I can do, the one decent thing is to not touch you.”

She stood watching him, face wet with tears, eyes bright, and for the first time in years, he wished his life had been different, wished he had been different.

“Good-bye, Greta.” He took another step toward the door. “I think it would be best if I didn’t come here anymore.” And with that, he opened the door and walked away from the one true friend in his life.

***

She was packed to go, and if she left right this minute, she’d still make the flight. Christine tossed her overnight bag into the trunk of the Saab. The last several hours were still a blur; Nate standing in the middle of the living room learning the truth about his father, Lily crying because “Nate had acted scary”, and Miriam sitting beside Christine on the couch, sipping tea and talking into the early morning hours about losing her baby girl and her husband in the same day, learning to move on, and finally, loving Charlie Blacksworth.

Christine hadn’t cringed when she heard this last part; it was easier to understand now after piecing Miriam’s life together. But there was still her father and his duplicity; one man, two lives. Would she ever understand his motives?

She’d be back next month for Lily’s birthday and the momentous horseback ride. Nothing would keep her from seeing Lily’s face the first time she climbed on her mount. Nate would be there, too. Given time and different circumstances, they might have shared something. She took a deep breath and closed the trunk. How was it that she’d dated Connor for almost two years and yet their breakup had left her with none of the emptiness she felt right now?

“Christine! Christine!” Lily scrambled toward her, waving a photograph in her right hand. “Here.” She held it out and said, “I almost forgot.”

“Oh, Lily.” It was a picture of the two of them standing arm in arm in front of Miriam’s flower bed. Their smiles were wide, bodies relaxed, leaning into one another. They both had on red shirts and jean shorts, a seeming coincidence that Christine later learned was no coincidence at all, but merely Lily’s eagerness to emulate her sister, which explained her reluctance to dress in the morning before Christine did.

“Take it with you,” Lily said, lips parted, waiting.

“Thank you, Lily. Thank you very much.” She pulled her sister to her, felt the small arms hug her tightly.

“One more month,” Lily whispered against her shoulder. “One more month and then I get to ride a horse just like you.”

Christine stroked her sister’s hair. “One more month. That’s it, Lily, one more month.”

***

She followed the back road leading out of Magdalena. The picture of her and Lily rested near the gearshift column and she caught herself glancing at it every few minutes.

How had her father done it all those years? How had he pretended, or maybe he hadn’t pretended, maybe he’d really cared, had truly wanted to be with her mother and herself...maybe, just not enough.

She didn’t hear the truck barreling down the road, horn blaring, engine roaring, until it was almost on top of her. She pulled over, close to a dented guardrail and waited for the truck to pass, but it didn’t; instead it swerved to a stop behind her.

Dear God, who—Nate!

He moved toward her, closing the gap between them with long, purposeful strides. “What the hell was that all about?” His large, dark frame filled the window.

“What are you talking about? You’re the one who almost ran me off the road.”

“After I tried signaling you to stop for two hundred yards.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“Obviously.”

“Why were you signaling me?”

He straightened. “I need to talk to you.”

“I”—she glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to be at the airport.”

“Screw the airport.”

He stared at her, waiting…what choice would she make—Chicago or Magdalena?
Him or her other life?

“Okay.”

He nodded then, a quick jerk of his head but she saw the relief that crossed his face. “Follow me back to my place.” Then he turned and was gone.

She spent the next fifteen minutes calling herself a fool. Why wasn’t she on her way back to Chicago? She’d miss the flight.
For what? He’d told her he didn’t care about her, that it had been sex, nothing more.

What was she doing?

Will pushed her forward, forced her up Nate Desantro’s blacktop driveway. As she stepped out of her car, she realized she really had no choice; she had to do this.

He was already opening the door as she walked up the path, remembering the last time she was here. “No guests today?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The last time I was here, when you told me I should have called, you were obviously occupied.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

She followed him inside. “Yes, you were,” she said to his back.

He turned. “No,” he said, in a forceful voice, “I wasn’t. I haven’t been...not since you.”

“But why—”

“Jesus, you ask a lot of questions.” He moved toward her. “Haven’t you ever heard of a ruse?”

“Of course.
But why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He reached out, stroked her shoulders, and eased her toward him. “If a small-town country boy like me can finally figure it out, not that I haven’t done my share of denying, then surely a sophisticated city girl like you knows why.”

“You’ve confused me since the day I met you. Why don’t you tell me?”

“You’re in my blood, Christine Blacksworth. You’ve been in my blood since before I ever met you, probably the first time I saw those blue eyes staring back at me from one of Lily’s pictures.”

“But why—”

“Why not just come clean and admit it?”

She nodded.

“Hard to do when you’re fighting it like hell, even harder when you’re bent on hating the woman’s father.” His fingers worked their way down her neck. “But the most god-awful part is feeling like a hypocrite, berating my mother for waiting four goddamned days a month for him and then finding myself doing the same thing. How the hell is that for irony?”

She reached up, stroked his hair. “I wasn’t even out of Magdalena and I was already thinking about next month.”

“Christ, what a mess.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

He trailed a finger along the inside of her shirt. “Do you think that’s what they said when they first met?”

“I don’t know.” She shivered, leaned into his touch.

“You feel wonderful.” His fingers cupped her breast, slid inside to rest on her bare skin. “Like silk,” he murmured, brushing his lips against hers.

“Nate,” she breathed. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He eased her onto the couch, his hands working her body, his lips and tongue covering her as he removed her clothing. She pulled at his belt buckle, grabbed the snap on his jeans, took hold of the zipper,
yanked it down.

“Nate…
please…”

He entered her, still half-clothed. “I can’t wait any longer,” he said, burying himself deep inside her, his hands cupping her buttocks. “It’s been too damn long.”

She pulled him closer, wrapped her legs around his hips, and moaned as his tongue filled her mouth, stroking, pleasing, possessing. It wasn’t enough...it was too much...She fell apart, shreds of blistering heat filling her seconds before Nate stiffened and spilled himself into her.

She didn’t know how long they slept, his body sprawled over hers, his face tucked against her neck, his breathing even, peaceful. This was how it should be, this overwhelming feeling of oneness. She stroked his hair, lifted it to her lips.

She missed him already.

“Warm enough?”

“Hmm-hmm. I thought you were asleep.”

“I was...until you started touching me.”

“Was that a complaint?”

“Hardly.
Let’s go to bed.”

“I’m not the least bit tired.”

She felt him growing hard inside her. “Good. Neither am I.”

The phone woke her. She reached for it, not wanting to wake Nate. “Hello?”

“Christine?”

“Miriam. Hi.”

“You’re—” There was a short pause. “You didn’t leave today?”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh.”

“Nate wanted to talk to me. He kind of tracked me down.”

“Oh.” The tone changed from question to understanding. “I see.”

Did she ‘see’ Christine lying naked in bed next to her son? “We”—she cleared her throat and glanced at Nate’s back—“had a lot to talk about.”

“I’m very happy for both of you, Christine.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, I was calling to invite Nate to dinner, but I’m sure he won’t be interested.”

“I can ask him when he”—she caught herself, before she said “wakes up.”

“Don’t give it another thought, dear. You and Nate spend as much time together as you need.”

“Thank you. Miriam?”

“Yes?”

“In all the years my dad came here, he was never late getting home. I mean, he might have been late by an hour or so, but he never stayed longer than the four days.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I know, and well, my mother’s expecting me; she always has this dinner thing; I’m sure Dad told you about it. It’s a really big deal for her. So what am I going to tell her?”

There was
a quietness to Miriam’s voice when she spoke. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Christine.”

“But, Miriam, my mother thinks I’m at the cabin. This would kill her. What should I do?”

“Do you really want to know what I think?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Your mother already knows.”

“What?”

“She knows, Christine. She’s always known.”

A sharp pain shot to her right temple. “You mean since I’ve been coming here?”

“I’m sure she knows you’ve been coming here, but no, that’s not what I’m talking about. Your mother knows about me...and Lily.”

“No. She can’t.”

“Christine, she’s known for years.”

***

Gloria sat on the edge of her bed and sipped her Crown Royal as she re-read the report Lester Conroy had delivered an hour ago. Then she slipped the photos out of the manila envelope and studied them. Christine and that mountain man! Good Lord, what had gotten into her? No wonder she wasn’t paying attention to Connor; she’d taken up with a lumberjack.

Another Desantro.

She probably sympathized with them, the mother, the son, the Down syndrome daughter. And then to have the audacity to call last night, at 6:15, no less, when the lamb was ready to come out of the oven, and tell her she wouldn’t be home that evening. That was it, no excuses, no apologies.

She finished her drink, poured another.

Miriam Blacksworth. She hated the name, hated the face, the hair, the long legs. God had punished that woman for her sins, punished both of them for their unholy acts; he’d given them a defective child. The girl’s name was Lily, and she wasn’t smart and beautiful like Christine. There’d be no scholarships, no academia for her. The best she could hope for would be a job as a bagger at the local grocery store.

She reached for her bottle of Vicodin. Life was much better lived through a calm haze. She tapped a pill into her palm, lifted it with her fingernails, and popped it in her mouth. Then she slid back onto the peach and blue floral comforter and reached for her drink. Christine would be here soon, filled with apologies and excuses, no doubt. Harry would be coming, too, pain in the ass that he was. He was the most worthless piece of human flesh she’d ever seen, and he didn’t have to think she wasn’t watching him and that little German piece making goo-goo eyes at each other.

If it weren’t so difficult to find someone who could make a decent pork roast and not pocket the silverware, she’d have fired Greta already, just to annoy Harry. She reached for her pack of Salem Lights, slid out a cigarette. Things were going to change; Christine was about to learn that her mother was a fighter who was not going to sit by and watch her daughter ruin her life.

Gloria was halfway through her third cigarette when they arrived. She stamped out her cigarette and eased off the bed. She’d listen to Christine’s apologies, and when the guilt was riding high, she’d mention Connor’s name. A smile slipped across her face. By God, there’d be a wedding yet.

She smoothed her hair, ran both hands over her Chanel pantsuit, and opened the bedroom door. Their voices reached her as she descended the staircase, Christine’s quiet, Harry’s a few octaves below his usual bellow.

“Well, well, the proverbial sheep has returned.”

They turned, faces unsmiling. Why were they looking at her like that, as though she were the accused?

“What’s wrong with the two of you? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harry lifted his glass, took a drink, his eyes still on her. Christine cleared her throat, once, twice, opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“What? For God’s sake what is it?”

“Did you know, Mother? All these years, did you know?”

She stiffened, her daughter’s words yanking the air from her lungs.
 
Breathe in and out, breathe.

“Did you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She waved a hand in the air, headed for the bar. “I need a drink.”

“Mother?”

She poured a double, took a healthy swallow. “Harry, are you ready for a refill yet?”

“Actually, no.”

She poured another splash into her glass. “Well then, why do the two of you look like you’ve just come from a funeral?” She forced a smile. “I wasn’t happy you didn’t come yesterday, but I’m not going to disown you over it.”

Christine took a step forward. “Did you know about Miriam Desantro, Mother?”

In fourteen years, that name had never been uttered in her presence. “Who?”

“Miriam Desantro, the woman Dad went to see every month for the past fourteen years.”

Gloria sank into a chair, splayed a hand across her throat. “Dear God,” she whispered, lowering her head. “I never wanted you to find out.”

“You knew all this time, and yet you never said anything?”

“No. We loved each other. It was just...sometimes couples have to compromise.”

“How could you live like this?”

“I was his wife.”

“He loved another woman.”

“He loved me.”

“It was all a lie.”

Gloria looked up, swiped at a tear. “It was necessary. That lie gave you this house, those summer trips to Italy and France, that fancy education you’re so proud of.”

“How could you?”

“How could I not? Your father owed me, owed us, and I was not going to let that woman take it all away.”

“Miriam didn’t take anything from you. It was you and Dad—”

“Do not defend that woman in front of me and do not say her name again.”

“Why? Does not saying her name make her disappear? Does it make the whole situation go away, almost as if it had never happened? Is that how you did it all these years? Pretending?”

“I don’t like your tone of voice.”

“I don’t like finding out I’ve been trying to protect my mother from something she’s known about for years.”

“We all have to compromise at one time or another.”

“But you compromised yourself, Mother.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Did you ever confront him, even once?”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. By the time I found out, it was too late. There was a child.”

“Lily.”

“Yes, Lily.” The name stuck on her lips, but she forced it out. “I thanked God for delivering that one small piece of justice.”

“She’s a wonderful girl.”

“Wonderful? Of course, she’s wonderful, as long as she’s petting a dog or participating in the Special Olympics. But what about college, or even trade school? Is she ever going to have a career? A family of her own? Will she ever be able to function independently in any capacity? Of course not. She’ll be a burden to society her entire life and the best she can hope for is to bag groceries somewhere.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“The truth isn’t always pretty, Christine.”

“You should have divorced him and given both of you a second chance.”

“A second chance? For what? A two-bedroom condo and child support? I don’t think so.”

“Did you really love him?”

“That’s a ridiculous question.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, I loved him.” And then the rest of the truth slipped through her lips. “But I hated him, too.”

“You did this all for yourself.”

“He owed me. He owed us. Can’t you see that? Who do you think was taking you to the orthodontist and your piano lessons when he was with her? It was me, me—” She jabbed a finger against her chest. “I’ve got pictures of them together, would you like to see them? See what I saw? I’ve got pictures of you, too. Surprised?” Her lips curved into a bloodless smile. “Yes, I know all about you and your mountain man, Christine. Nathan Desantro, isn’t it?” Her smile faded. “Connor’s the one for you, not this Jeremiah Johnson you’ve been seeing.”

“That’s enough, Gloria.” Harry stepped away from the liquor cabinet and moved toward her.

“Enough? Spoken from the king of excess? You have no idea what’s enough.”

“Stop bullying her. She’s tired of it, and I’m sure as hell tired of hearing your bellyaching. It’s nothing but a damn pity party.”

“Shut up, Harry.”

“I mean it, Gloria. Leave her alone.”

She was so tired of him and his arrogance, making demands as though he had a right. Harry Blacksworth was nothing but an alcoholic degenerate with a fat bank account and a well-known last name. Take the latter two away and he was nothing but a drunk, bedding women half his age. “You—” She didn’t try to mask the loathing in her voice. “You have no right. She’s my daughter, Harry. Mine.”

“You’re trying to run her life, just like you tried to run Charlie’s, with guilt.” He moved closer. “I can’t let you do that anymore, Gloria. I’m going to tell her the truth.”

“No!” No, he wouldn’t. She sucked in a breath through half-closed lips, let the oxygen fill her lungs, her brain, block out Harry’s words.

“I never meant to hurt you, Chrissie. God, I’d cut off my right arm to protect you.” His voice faded, blotted out by her breathing, in and out, in and out. “Your mother and I...” Gloria breathed harder, faster, but the words seeped through, spiraled to her brain. “Your father was in London at the time; he’d been traveling quite a bit. Your mother was angry and lonely...and I, hell, I was resentful of Charlie. He had everything; I was just a troublemaker, a nuisance. I wanted to take something that was his, prove to myself that I could do it.”

Her body shrank into the chair, pulling away, growing smaller, smaller as Harry’s words filled her. “We had an affair. Jesus, I am so damn sorry. It was over before Charlie got back. We realized what a mistake we’d made and all we wanted was to forget it, get on with our lives, pretend it never happened. But...” That one word gouged her heart, ripped it open, still beating, and tore it into tiny shreds. “We couldn’t forget it.” Piece by piece, she shriveled; hair, nails, skin, the weight of her body dissipating, only her breathing remained forceful, loud, but not loud enough to block out Harry’s confession. “Six weeks after your father returned, your mother was pregnant. To this day, I don’t know, I just don’t know if Charlie was your real father or if it was me.”