A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (22 page)

The bitch was back and it had taken her less than forty-eight hours to strike. Harry should have known she wouldn’t fade quietly into that goddamned floral chair of hers. Hell, he’d almost felt sorry for her the other day, sitting there, looking old and defeated. She hadn’t said a word after he confessed their affair, nothing. As for Chrissie, she wasn’t willing to talk about it yet.

Life was such a goddamn mess sometimes. You tried, you screwed up,
you exercised damage control, tried again, screwed up again, and on and on it went until you died. Maybe Charlie had felt the same way; maybe he’d been as screwed up as Harry. The more he learned about his older brother, the more he understood that the person everyone saw, the CEO, the husband, the father, the brother, wasn’t really Charlie Blacksworth at all. The real Charlie was the poor bastard who died on the road that night, the one who tolerated Chicago but lived in Magdalena...the one who was too much a coward to fight for his own happiness.

Harry knew about cowardice; he’d been a coward most of his life, giving up on himself and the rest of the world when he was a mere seventeen and the love of his life killed their baby with his father’s money. Nothing mattered after that except disappointing the old man and screwing himself up on a grand scale. Numb, that’s what he’d been after, no feeling, nothing. Except for Chrissie, her he cared about.

Shit, he guessed he cared about Greta, too, not as a conquest but as a person. No matter how much he wanted to bang her, he couldn’t, much different than wouldn’t, which implied reasoning on a higher moral ground, a quality he knew he lacked. He wished to hell Greta would realize it, too, stop telling him crap like what a good man he was and looking at him as if he were Superman. He was a sleaze bag, a worthless human being, a no-good womanizer. Couldn’t she see that? Greta was too good for him. Her kids knew, so did her old lady; that’s why they scurried away to the corners when he came, kept their eyes on him, mouths clamped shut. But they watched and they saw. 
And they knew
.

He’d told Greta he wouldn’t be back, that there was nothing he could offer her; he was a taker, a user. But when he heard her voice on the other end of the line tonight, the promises fell away, leaving nothing but a friend in need.

Gloria had fired her, of course, not until after the last dish from the veal scaloppini dinner was dried and put away. He knew she’d gotten rid of Greta to punish him for telling Chrissie the truth. Why the hell did everybody always want to shut him up the few times he decided to tell the truth?

He’d be at Greta’s soon. The kids and the old lady would be waiting for him, lurking in the corners.
Elizabeth, Arnold, and Helene. What the hell kind of name was Arnold for a seven-year-old? Thank God the kid was big for his age; he’d have to learn to throw a mean right hook to defend a name like that. Elizabeth was a smaller version of her mother, fair, blonde, blue-eyed. And the old lady, Helene, she reminded Harry of a Clydesdale.

He pulled his Jag into the driveway behind Greta’s Toyota. Last week he’d had one of the mechanics from the dealership
replace the carburetor and the fuel pump. The car was a piece of shit but it got her around—most of the time.

“Harry!” Greta flew out the door as he eased out of the car. She ran up to him, feet bare, blonde hair flying, and threw her arms around his waist.

“Easy, Greta. You’ll make me heave the pork chops and potato I had for dinner.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.” She pulled away, arms falling to her side. Her eyes were wet, tears slipping down her pale skin. She looked away. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re going to get another job, girl, that’s what you’re going to do.”

“I’ve already looked in the papers but there is nothing, only cooks at McDonald’s and Bob Evans. I even asked Mrs. Blacksworth if she’d write a letter for me, but she said only that she would think about it.”

Bitch. “So? Who needs her anyway? We’ll find you something.”

“I need to find a job, Harry.
Fast.” She hugged her arms around her waist, blinked hard. She looked so young and vulnerable in her pale pink T-shirt and jean shorts, so incapable of supporting an entire family.

“Calm down, Greta. Let’s go inside.” He put his arm around her shoulder, careful not to pull her too close and guided her to the front door. “Where the hell is the kids’ father? Doesn’t he send you money?”

“When the courts can find him, but that’s only once, twice a year, maybe.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

She opened the door. “That’s real life, Harry.”

Shit, the world really was screwed up.

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

She never offered him anything stronger, though he hadn’t missed the bottle of Zinfandel on top of the refrigerator.

“Coffee’s fine,” he said. There were sounds in the next room, scampering feet, whispers; the spies were readying in position.

She fixed his coffee, black,
two sugars and set it down in front of him. “I knew she wasn’t crazy about me, but I thought it was just her way of separating herself from the hired help.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He took a sip of coffee. “It was mine.”

“Yours?”

“I told the truth and she got pissed.”

“But what did that have to do with me?”

“She’s trying to get me where it hurts.” He looked away. “She knows
I—” He almost said 
care about you.
 “She knows I don’t want to see anything happen to you.” He kept his gaze fixed on a pen mark on the wall, about three inches long, eye level.

“That’s a horrible thing to do.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Gloria.” It was safe to look at her now that the topic of him and his feelings had shifted back to Gloria.

“Maybe since Mr. Blacksworth died—”

“Hell, this has nothing to do with Charlie’s death. Did you really not know she was like that two seconds after she hired you? You’ve been with her almost a year.”

“I don’t know. She’s not much different from most of the other employers I’ve had.”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t like hired help to forget their place.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Her lips pulled into a sad smile. “Harry, you are so worldly and yet, in some ways, you are so innocent. I go into other people’s homes, cook their filet mignon and veal in their fancy ovens, wash dishes that cost more than a month’s rent, and then I come home to this.” She waved a hand in front of her.

“So?” He shifted in his chair, not wanting to notice the chipped paint on the walls, the cracked linoleum, the old stove. “So?”

“So, this is life, Harry, my life, and I accept it. I cook other people’s food and wash their dishes so I can feed my own family. I keep my mouth closed and I do not gossip. I believe I do a
good job.” Her voice dipped. “That is why it is so hard to believe Mrs. Blacksworth has fired me.”

“I told you, Greta, this has nothing to do with you. It’s me. She’s getting back at me.”

“I have to find a job, Harry.”

“I know.” Hell, he could float
her a loan, even give her the damn money, that wasn’t the problem. But how could he do it and not make it look like a pathetic gesture or payment as an expectation for services to be rendered, namely, Greta Servensen’s delicious body? She might see it that way, might actually consider it, but in the end, honor would force her to turn away. Wouldn’t it? God, he hoped it would. She was one of the last decent people he knew, and he didn’t want to think she could be corrupted, especially by a no-good bastard like himself.

He was responsible for her predicament, whether she saw it that way or not, and he’d figure a way out of it, whether she liked it or not. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to come up with a solution.

“It’s not your fault, Harry.”

He didn’t answer. Maybe she could work for him, cook his food,
clean his house…naked.

“It’s God’s will, I know this.”

…naked and moving over him…

“God will provide somehow. I must stay strong, continue praying.”

…his hand in her hair…that beautiful hair…

“Do you believe in God?”

…her breasts dangling in his face…

“Harry? Harry?”

“Huh? What?”

“I asked if you believed in God.”

“What?”

Her face turned a dull red. “I was telling you how I think everything that happens is God’s will.” She paused, flushed a deeper red, and said, “And then I asked if you believed in God.”

“Oh. Sure, sure I do.”

She let out a sigh of relief. Maybe she’d half-expected him to say he didn’t believe in God, that he didn’t believe in anything. Well, he’d surprised her, and himself.

“Do you know anyone who needs a cook, Harry? Your friends maybe? I could clean, too.”

She wasn’t getting within a football field of any of his friends. They’d all be after her, single and married. “No, sorry, I don’t.”

She sighed. “I understand.”

“We’ll find you something, just relax.”

They sat together in the tiny kitchen with the chipped paint and cracked linoleum, Harry staring at the pen mark on the wall, Greta staring at Harry. Despite the pain-in-the-ass indecision looming over them, he felt needed. And it was a damn good feeling.

The answer hit him as he studied the smudged end of the pen mark trailing over the off-white wall. It was a perfect solution, brilliant actually. “I’ve got it.”

“Did you think of someone?”

“Hell, yeah, I thought of someone.” He jabbed his chest. “Me.”

“You?”

“I love to eat, right? So I go to The Presidio’s four, five times a week and Mi Hermana’s Ristorante the rest. Sometimes I don’t like the crowd, sometimes the sauces are a little off, but still, I go. So, why don’t I open my own restaurant? Huh?”

“You want to open a restaurant?”

“Hell, yeah, why not?
There’s this little dive on Monroe Street, been for sale forever. We could gut it, remodel it, the whole works.”

“We?”

“You’d help me run it; actually, you’d probably run it, hire a few cooks, whatever. Me, I’d be the front man.” He smiled, excitement rippling through his body, a sensation he hadn’t been able to generate without the help of booze or a woman in a long time. “I’ve got a shitload of money, Greta. Maybe I’ll start buying up properties that everybody else has given up on, kind of like me, and restore them, turn them into something worthwhile.”

Greta’s eyes were wet as she whispered, “I think that’s a wonderful idea. You’ll give those places a second chance.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I’d be doing.” He’d be giving himself a second chance, too.

She reached out, covered his hand with her own. “You’re a good man, Harry Blacksworth.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, easing his hand from beneath hers. “I’m just a drowning man trying to catch a few breaths.” He opened his wallet, pulled out three one-hundred-dollar bills. “Get some groceries. I’ll send more to tide you over, just a loan, until we can get things up and running.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

It was there in her eyes, the invitation, calling him, offering. “I’ll be in touch.” And then he turned and left, not because he didn’t care, but because he did.

She glanced at the packages stacked four high in the passenger seat. They were Lily’s gifts wrapped in orange and pink foil: a pair of riding boots, tan jodhpurs, a black jacket, and a riding hat. Nate had already called the stable and lined up a seven-year-old white mare named Jenny’s Promise. Christine thought of her own fourteenth birthday party: the itchy taffeta dress, the too-tight black patent leather shoes, the faceless men and women wishing her happy birthday.

Lily’s birthday was different. Hers would be small and intimate, with homemade cake and ice cream, pink lemonade, and fourteen balloons dangling from the kitchen light.

Christine turned off the exit leading to Magdalena. She knew this trip by heart, the tiny airport, the rental car counter, the road stops, even the billboards. They were all part of her life now, this stretch of road leading from the airport to her other life, her other home. She understood now how her father had felt, this pull from one commitment to another, one family to another. One month had passed since Uncle Harry revealed the truth about himself and her mother, one month of her mother’s solicitous phone calls, bouquets of flowers, dinner invitations, theater tickets, everything but a mention of that night. Uncle Harry had been oddly quiet.

Her whole world had shifted and there was nothing anyone could say or
do that would right it. Perhaps time would ease the shock, but right now it was all too much, so she shut it down and concentrated on Lily and the gifts in the passenger seat.

When she pulled onto Artisdale Street, she spotted Lily sitting on the front steps, head tipped to the sky, lips pursed as she blew bubbles. When Lily heard the car, she jumped up and bolted down the steps, yelling, “Christine! Christine!” The second Christine set foot on the sidewalk, Lily hurled herself at her. “I missed you!”

Christine buried her face in her sister’s hair, inhaled the clean scent of Johnson & Johnson’s. “I missed you, too. I have something for you.” She eased out of Lily’s embrace and reached into the front passenger seat to grab the gifts. “Happy birthday, Lily.”

“These are all mine?” Her eyes grew wide as she opened her arms to accept the stack of gifts.

“All yours. Where’s your mom?”

“Inside.
Making peanut butter cookies with the kisses for you to take back.”

Miriam was the kind of mother who took care of children, period, whether they were her own or not. Had her own mother ever baked cookies for her, not by instruction to others because
she’d done that her whole life, but actually measured the flour, beaten the eggs, used her own hands, her own time?

“Smell them?” Lily smiled up at her as they headed for the kitchen. “She made them so they’d be done when you got here.”

“Oh.” For some insane reason she wanted to cry.

“You want some milk with yours?”

“Sure.” Once, she remembered her mother making instant pudding for her when she had her wisdom teeth out.

“She’s the best mom in the whole world, isn’t she, Christine?”

“Uh-huh.” It was chocolate pudding, kind of chunky from undermixing, but she’d eaten every last bite.

“Yup.
She’s the best.”

Rows of peanut butter blossom cookies lined the kitchen counters, covering every available space. The kitchen sweltered from the afternoon sun, oven heat, and no air conditioning.

“Mom? Where are you, Mom?” Lily set the presents down on the kitchen table, peeked out the back door. “Mom?”

“Down here. I’ll be right up.” The sound of footsteps filled the air until Miriam emerged from the basement, arms filled with bags of flour and sugar. “Whew.” She set them on the table and wiped a hand over her forehead. “I almost thought about staying down there awhile to cool off. How are you, dear?”

“Fine.” Christine walked over to her, kissed her cheek, and started to back away. Their eyes met, and she felt the tears starting again. She threw her arms around Miriam and hugged her. “It’s good to see you.”

“Tough month?”

“Very.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She eased away, forced a smile. “I’m really looking forward to this weekend.”

“We’re all looking forward to this weekend,” Miriam said, smiling at Lily, who stood by the kitchen table watching them.

“Christine? You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She swiped a hand over her eyes, “Just fine, birthday girl.”

That made Lily smile. “Can I open my presents now?”

“If your mom doesn’t mind.”

“She’s been counting the minutes, no seconds, until you came.” Miriam laughed, scooping peanut butter blossom dough onto a cookie sheet. “Heavens, I wouldn’t dream of making her wait a second longer. Go ahead, Lily.”

She ripped through the presents, first the hat, then the jacket, the jodhpurs, and finally, the boots, squealing higher with each gift. “Can I try these on?” She held the jacket in one hand, the boots in the other.

“Sure. I’ll help you.”

“Thank you, thank you so much!” She ran to Christine, threw her arms around her middle and squeezed tight.

“You’re welcome so much. Come on; let’s get this on you so I can take your picture.”

Lily talked and giggled as she worked her way out of the red-and-white short set and into the riding outfit. Christine wouldn’t let her look in the mirror until she was completely dressed with her boots on and her hair tucked underneath the black hat.

She led Lily to the full-length mirror behind the door. “There. Now, look.”

Lily opened her eyes and stared at herself. She inched closer, eyes narrowing behind her thick glasses. Gently, as though afraid the clothes might tear, she reached up and fingered the hat, then the jacket, working her way down to the boots, all the while watching herself in the mirror. She straightened and turned to the right, then left, tilting her head forward, backward, to the side.

“Happy birthday, Lily. You look beautiful.”

Lily sniffed, wiped a tear away with her finger. “Daddy’s girls, that’s us.”

Tears clogged Christine’s throat making speech impossible, so she merely nodded and pulled Lily into her arms.

“We miss you, Daddy,” Lily murmured into Christine’s hair, “we miss you.”

***

“It’s late, Nate. I’d better go.”

He stroked her back. “It’s”—he squinted at the alarm clock on the nightstand—“two o’clock. That’s early, stay a while.”

“I can’t.”

“I missed you.” Hard to admit, but it was the truth.

“I was here last night.”

“So? I can’t want you more than once a month?”

“What about Lily?”

“What 
about
 Lily?”

“What will we say when she comes looking for me in the morning and I’m not there?”

“Maybe you got up early and went for a drive.”

“For five months, she’s had to drag me out of bed; do you think she’ll buy that?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” He lifted her hair, let the weight of it fall through his fingers. “I want you in my bed.”

“I’ll be in your bed.” Her voice spilled over him.

“Not the bed I slept in as a kid, this bed, the one with me in it.”

Her laugh made him hard all over again. Would he ever get used to the feel of her on him, the smell of her,
the taste? God, he hoped not.

“Lily can’t wait until Saturday.”

He eased his fingers along her hip. “I don’t want to talk about Lily right now.”

“But she’s—”

He flipped her over, spread her legs. “She’s my kid sister and I love her but right now she’s cramping my style.” He buried himself deep inside her, moved slowly. Christine let out a soft, low moan and clutched his shoulders. He laughed, nuzzling her neck. “Now, what did you say about leaving?”

She did leave at three-thirty with a promise to work on a plausible excuse to stay overnight the next time, which would be tonight if he had his way.

He’d missed her this past month, had found himself watching the calendar, mentally crossing off the days until she’d be back. Lily became his companion in the waiting game. She never tired of sharing little snippets of conversation she’d had with Christine; how Christine was afraid of spiders, how Christine once ate a whole box of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies, how Christine loved the way the sky lit up during a thunderstorm, and even, how Christine missed her father. He was eager, almost desperate to learn all he could about her. And each day he watched Lily mark a big red X on the calendar, narrowing the days until she’d come back to them.

How in God’s name had his mother done it all those years? Four days on, twenty-seven off, some months maybe twenty-six and the big bonus in February when the gap lessened to twenty-
four days in between. He couldn’t see himself settling for four lousy days a month, even if they were great days. Okay, they were incredible days, but still…he wanted more.

What if she couldn’t give any more? Would he tell her to go away, it was an all-or-nothing? Did he really want to go back to the nothingness of his prior existence? People walked away all the time, telling themselves they’d be giving up a huge piece of self if they compromised but in the end, the uncompromised individual ended up with a whole piece of nothing. Go figure.

Maybe that was the way his mother felt fourteen years ago when she’d had to choose. What would he do in that situation? Hell, sometimes life was just too damned complicated.

He dozed off and on, his brain filled with images of Christine. She was standing beside the bed, watching him, her dark hair framing her face, her naked body cast in perfect shadow. He reached for her, eager to pull her to him, touch her—

The phone rang, splitting his dream in half. Christ. He grabbed the receiver. “Hullo?”

“Nate?”

“Lily.”

“Today’s the day, Nate.” She giggled into the receiver. “I’m going riding today.”

“What time is it?”

“Seven-oh-two.”

“Lily, it’s seven o’clock in the morning; you aren’t riding until one.”

Silence.
“Are you mad at me, Nate?”

“No, honey.”
He yawned. “I was just asleep, that’s all.”

“Christine said it was okay to call.”

“Christine’s awake?”

“Uh-huh, since six-thirty.”

He smiled. “What’d you do, wake up the whole neighborhood to tell them you’re going riding today?”

She giggled again.
“No, just you and Christine and Mom.”

“Mom doesn’t count; she gets up at five.”

“Yup. When are you coming over?”

“Is Mom making breakfast?”

“Pancakes.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Lily?”

“Huh?”

“Today’s your day, girl; it’s going to be the best one ever.”