A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (5 page)

What if they were all mistaken, what if he really had been living in the cabin and only visited the woman once in a while? The shopkeeper would recognize him, wouldn’t he? She could find out, give herself hope that maybe he hadn’t lied about everything. But in the end, she’d said nothing.

Harry answered the phone on the second ring. “Hullo?”

“Uncle Harry? I’m sorry. Were you asleep?”

“Chrissie.” He glanced at the woman lying in the middle of the bed, full breasts pointed skyward. “No,” he reached for his robe. “Of course not.”

“I went to Magdalena today.”

Harry stuffed one arm into his silk robe, then the other, letting the belt hang loose, exposing his nakedness. What time was it anyway? He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Seven-thirty. He needed a drink and he needed to take a piss.

“Did you see her?” He closed the bedroom door, kept his voice low.

“No. I saw her son, though.”

“Hardass.
What’d he have to say?”

“That...that...”

“Tell me, Chrissie. What happened?” He poured himself a double scotch, neat, carried the glass and the bottle to the burgundy leather recliner, sat down.

“Fourteen years, Uncle Harry. Fourteen years.”

“What? What’s fourteen years?”

“How long they were...together.” Pause. “How long he was seeing her, Uncle Harry. Fourteen years.”

“Jesus.” He took a healthy swallow of scotch. “Jesus.”

“All this time, all these years, and he’s been with her.”

Fourteen years? Harry took another drink, drained his glass. “Desantro could be lying. We never heard the name before two weeks ago. This could all be a scheme to get more money; maybe the woman blackmailed him into leaving her a wad of cash so you and your mother wouldn’t find out and Charlie just figured he’d live long enough to change the will later. Shit, I don’t know. None of this makes any sense, but, I’d believe the mother and son were trying to blackmail your father before I’d believe he was,” he almost said, “screwing the bitch” but reworked it to “in a relationship with that woman for fourteen years.”

“Really?”

There was hope in her voice, clinging to one last shred of possibility, and he could not disappoint her, so he said, “I do, Chrissie. I think maybe they both set him up.”

“I’m going back tomorrow.” She sounded more like the old Chrissie now. “I don’t care if I have to sit outside that house all day; I’m going to talk to Lily Desantro.”

“This isn’t something you should do alone, kid. Let me come, too; it could get nasty. I can leave first thing in the morning.”

“I need to handle this alone. But thank you.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. This isn’t a boardroom; it’s real life and having me there might even out the playing field.”

“I’ll be okay. Right now, I need you to keep an eye on Mom. I wouldn’t ask you if there was anyone else, but can you please do this?”

He thought of Gloria crumpled over in her chair, whimpering the night she found out about Charlie. So much damn self-pity, too much for his patience. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Thank you, Uncle Harry. I’ve always known I could count on you.”

They hung up after that, Christine sounding renewed. Harry had given her that even when he knew it might all be a big smoke job. But how could Charlie have been screwing the woman for fourteen years and never aroused suspicion? People left trails, somehow, somewhere, they always left trails.

He owed Christine and Charlie, and he would do right by them. The last time he’d tried to do something honorable, his old man had pulled out his wallet and simply taken care of the situation. That was thirty-one years ago, and he’d hated him ever since.

***

It was late morning when Christine pulled up outside the Desantro home. She’d waited a few hours before leaving the cabin, hoping Nate Desantro might not be there. He must have a job, other commitments that would pull him from the house.

She locked the car and crossed the street, sloshing through the thick mix of snow and dirt. Brown sugar, that’s what it reminded her of as she kicked it with the toe of her boot, watched it fly in chunks around her. She climbed the steps of the white house, listening to the faint tinkle of snowman and Christmas tree chimes in front of her.

The door opened before she had a chance to ring the bell. A woman stood in the entranceway, tall, lean, in a bulky wheat sweatshirt and jeans. She wore sandals on her feet, and her toes were
long, slender, devoid of polish. Her hair, a spray of black mixed with gray, was tied back from her face. Tiny clusters of gray and brown stone dangled from her ears on golden wires. Christine took it all in: legs, feet, hair, ears, even hands that were rough and cracked with long fingers and blunt nails, these, too, without polish. And then she looked at the woman’s face. It was tanned with tiny lines fishing out from her eyes and around her mouth, perhaps from years of laughter, or perhaps not. Her nose was narrow with delicate nostrils, lips thin, cheekbones high, skin pulled tight, free of makeup and blemishes. There was an ethereal quality about her that made Christine want to examine each detail to determine where the line of physical beauty ended and the intangible factors began.

“Christine.”

She had a soft, low voice, soothing even. Christine sucked up these details before lifting her gaze to the woman’s eyes. They were hazel, clear, like the mist off a fresh mountain spring.

“I need to talk to you.” After days of rehearsing, she was suddenly speechless.

“Yes. Come in.”

The interior of the living room boasted an eclectic gathering of color and fabric that in some bizarre manner both calmed and aroused the senses. The walls were pale blue with large oil paintings hanging from them. One featured a field of wildflowers, the canvas covered in brilliant splashes of red, yellow, green, and orange. Another was of a house in a snow storm, the same long, broad brush strokes trailing through the snow. The third painting held the identical strokes but it stood out from the others. Done in blue and black hues, it was of a child curled up in a blanket asleep, long black hair brushed partway over her face.

There were pots of flowers, dried and fresh, scattered in bowls and vases, and a Boston fern hanging from a hook in the ceiling, its leafy fronds stretching to touch the tip of a rocking chair. The furniture consisted of a rocker, two side chairs, and a love seat, all old but comfortable- looking in matching shades of faded burgundy, navy, and cream florals. The floor was a dark, bare wood, oak maybe, with an area rug woven in shades of black, burgundy, green, and tan. A wind chime hung in the far corner, this one in the shape of a sunflower. There were baskets stuffed with magazines, 
Forbes
 sitting on top.

Christine tore her gaze away, moved to a chair and sat down. Four small bowls rested on the coffee table in front of her, each carved from different wood, each a different style. They were smooth and glossy, the fine grains of the individual wood woven throughout. One was filled with
rose petals; another, lavender; the third, pine cones; and the last, holly leaves. A phonograph rested against one wall.

Lily Desantro followed her gaze. “Archaic, isn’t it?” A faint smile pulled across her thin lips. “Oh, but it plays a lovely sound. Charlie loved to dance.”

Christine pictured them gliding across the wooden floor, smiling, laughing. He’d never danced with her mother. “Is it true that you and my father were having an affair for fourteen years?”

“We…were involved, yes.” She ran a hand through her long hair, braided in the back. “It was very complicated.”

“You mean because my father was married?”

“Yes, there was that. No matter what happened between your father and me, he loved you, Christine. He always loved you.”

“How do you know? Did he tell you? Did you talk about me?”

The woman reached for the chain around her neck, fingered it. It was then that Christine noticed the small gold cross. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what? That the man I admired most in the world was a liar and a cheat?”

“I’m sorry we’ve caused you pain, but I’m not sorry I loved your father.” She straightened, pressed her fingers over the cross. “I can never be sorry for that.”

It was time to deal with her and get out. “I want you to forget you ever heard the Blacksworth name.”

“I want my memories just as much as you do, Christine,” she said. “Charlie’s a part of me; he’ll always be a part of me.”

“He left you a large sum of money in his will. I’ll see that it’s disbursed as soon as possible, no point of contest, no complications”—she met the woman’s gaze—“as long as you don’t contact us. Ever.”

“I’m not interested in Charlie’s money.” She sighed, shook her head. “It’s never been about the money.”

“Well, maybe he thought it was.” How could she pretend she had a right to those memories, a right to a life that belonged to his family?

Lily Desantro eased back in her chair and steepled her fingers under her chin. “Charlie said you could be a tough one, that you hid your real emotions under your suit jacket.”

“You don’t know anything about me. And I don’t want to know anything about you. I’m here to do a job and then I’m going back to Chicago and I’m going to forget I ever heard the name Lily Desantro.”

“Lily?” The woman’s face turned white beneath her tan. “What does she have to do with this?” Her fingers grabbed at the cross, squeezed.

“What are you talking about?”

“Lily. You know about her?”

“What? You’re Lily. Aren’t you?”

“Hardly.”
Nate Desantro stood in the doorway, a tall mountain of a man in a red flannel shirt. “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? You couldn’t just go back to your rich little world and leave it alone.” He took a step toward her and stopped. “Lily Desantro is my half sister. She’s yours, too.”

Christine was more beautiful than her pictures, with her glossy black hair and fair skin. Miriam could see Charlie in her: the straight nose, the movement of full lips, the blue eyes, even the way she folded her arms over her chest and tipped her head to the left as though trying to assimilate words she couldn’t or didn’t want to understand.

Dear God, Miriam hadn’t wanted this. And Nathan, standing in the doorway like an avenging angel, had just spoken the words that would change all of their lives. There was no going back now, no pretending around it. The truth had spilled from his lips, infiltrated Christine’s body, settled in her brain.

“I...don’t understand.”

Of course she didn’t, but in reality she did, though not on a conscious level, at least not yet. That would come later, when facts and feelings meshed together to form a new truth, unwelcome yet necessary. People made statements daily that bought them time while they tried to absorb words, replace old beliefs with new discoveries, all the time hoping in the subconscious realm for life to return to its previous state.

“Christine,” Miriam spoke softly, leaning toward the young woman who was now clasping her hands together, fingers pressed into flesh, knuckles white. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.”

“A sister?”

“Seems you’re not an only child after all.”

“Nathan. Please.” He shrugged, folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorway.

Christine stared at him, then turned to Miriam. With the exception of the white knuckles and the tiny skip in her breath, a person would never know she’d just been told she had an illegitimate sister. “How old is she?”

“Mom—”

“Thirteen.”

Perhaps Christine hadn’t expected this answer. Perhaps she’d thought the child would be much younger, a few years at most, a recent indiscretion, not one spanning more than a decade, almost half of Christine’s life.

“What’s her full name?”

“Lily Eleanor…” Miriam hesitated,
then added, “Desantro.”

“My aunt’s name was Eleanor.” She stared at one of Miriam’s bowls, a curly maple filled with lavender. Her voice slipped. “She died when I was thirteen.”

“I know.”

“That’s when he went to the cabin.” Her voice dipped lower, as though she were chronicling events, not for them, but for herself, trying to fill in dates, gaps, trying so hard to make sense of the situation. “He said he needed to get away.”

“He loved your Aunt Ellie very much.”

“Where is she? Where’s Lily?”

“She isn’t here.” Nathan stepped into the room, filling it up with his voice and his presence. He was much taller than his father had been, broader, more muscular. “Lily isn’t your concern.”

“My father left her a third of his estate.” Now she sounded more like the young executive Charlie had earmarked as his successor. “I think I have a right to know the person who’s being given this very generous gift.”

“We don’t want your money. We just want you to leave us alone, go back to Chicago and forget you ever heard our name.”

“My father willed Lily a huge sum of money. It’s my job to see that it’s disbursed. And to make sure there aren’t any loose ends.”

“In other words, to pay off the Desantros to keep quiet.”

“No.” But Miriam saw the way Christine’s gaze broke away from Nathan’s cold stare for the briefest of seconds before turning back to him. His words might be coarse, but they were true.

“No? Really? You came out of the generosity of your heart, to do right by my mother and sister?”

“I came to do what needed to be done.”

“That I believe.”

There was hatred in his voice. He had always held such animosity toward Charlie, made horrible vindictive accusations against him that had destroyed any chance of a relationship between the two men. He’d spent years comparing Charlie to his own father, disregarding one, eulogizing the other.
If he only knew.

And yet Nathan let a soft side of himself spill over into his feelings for Lily as he became brother, friend, protector. It was all three of these that fought now to keep what he deemed the only truly good person in the world safe.

“I have a right to see her.”

“Right?
You want to talk about rights? Your father didn’t think about my mother’s rights or Lily’s rights when he left them every month, did he? He didn’t care about Lily’s right to have her father there on Christmas morning to watch her open gifts, or her right to have him in the audience with all of the other fathers while she and her class put on their annual Easter special. And what about the right to carry her father’s name; didn’t she deserve that?”

“I—”

“Do not talk to me about rights.” His breathing came hard, fast. “I have stood by and watched my mother give up every right she ever possessed and whether she did so willingly or not is not the point. Your father was the reason, and he should have been man enough to make a choice.”

“Nathan, please.
Stop.” A sharp pain throbbed along the right side of Miriam’s temple, a full-blown migraine threatening to explode. She massaged the pounding with two fingers, all the while keeping her eyes on Charlie’s daughter.

When Christine spoke, she directed her words at Miriam. “All I want to do is disburse the money and gain your assurance that you won’t contact my family.”

Miriam nodded, the sharpness of the headache piercing her brain. She would not be offended that Christine might think her capable of such duplicity. After all, what could she expect?

“If my mother wants to accept the money for Lily, that’s her business.” Nathan moved closer, stopped within a few feet of Christine. “And maybe that will ease your conscience, knowing you’ve paid money for your father’s indiscretions. I’ll accept that, but then I want you to leave Magdalena and forget you ever heard the name Lily Desantro.”

***

She had a nice ass. Face wasn’t bad either. Harry leaned against the counter, watching Greta Servensen bend, turn, stoop, and reach as she prepared the evening meal. Lamb with sage, party of four, he wasn’t invited. He’d only stopped by because he’d promised Chrissie he’d check in on her mother. Gloria was busy “exfoliating,” Greta told him, and wouldn’t be available for another twenty minutes.

He reached over the counter and grabbed a mushroom stuffed with crabmeat. Damn, Greta was a good cook, pretty, too, in a scrubbed-clean sort of way, no frills, no makeup. Was this her preference or was it a prerequisite to work for Gloria Blacksworth? Couldn’t permit the hired help to be more beautiful than the boss now, could she?

Harry didn’t have much occasion to see a pretty woman sans makeup and every other beauty product known to the cosmetic world. The women he entertained—about town and in bed—wore full armor: mascara, lipstick, eye-shadow, bronzers, fake nails, fake hair, dyed and extended, fake boobs, too. But Greta looked natural, fresh, and for some insane reason this turned him on. She was a nice woman. He reminded himself that she had kids, a 1992 Toyota Corolla with a dented front fender, and a mother who lived with her. He downed the rest of his scotch in one swallow.

“Mr. Blacksworth, would you like a piece of Black Forest cake?” She was bent at the waist, all curves and hip, one hand clutching the refrigerator door as she looked at him.

He shook his head, tried to ignore the panty line under her white uniform. “No. And my name is Harry, not Mr. Blacksworth.”

She nodded, her smile slipping.

Was she afraid of him? Why? Could she see inside his sick mind, tell that he was having perverted fantasies about her?

“Harry?” His name sounded soft and breathy on her lips, her accent giving it a sensual bounce. “Mrs. Blacksworth will be a while yet. Can I get you anything?”

Oh, yeah, Greta, how about that tongue to start?
 “No.” He lifted his glass, saluted her. “This is all I want but I’ll get it myself.” Harry pushed away from the counter and hurried out of the kitchen, straight to the liquor cabinet. He poured a drink, swallowed, and squeezed his eyes shut. Another three and he’d be ready to face Gloria.

If he hadn’t promised Chrissie, he’d be sitting in his hot tub at home with Bridgett. But Chrissie had fallen apart on the phone last night, going on and on about a half sister.
A thirteen-year-old kid? What the hell was Charlie thinking?

“Hello, Harry.”

Gloria entered the room in a sweep of peach silk and heavy perfume. He hated that stuff she wore. It clogged his sinuses, gave him a damned headache. He’d told her before, several times, but she said it was a Neiman Marcus exclusive, and it was Charles’s favorite.

“Well, if it isn’t the grieving widow.”

“You said you had something to tell me about Christine.” She walked to the liquor cabinet, poured herself a scotch, no ice.

Harry straightened, swirled the liquid in his glass, and said, “She’s having a tough time.”

Gloria sipped her scotch, two healthy sips, one right after the other. “We’re all having a tough time right now.”

He sat down at one end of the couch, wondered how Charlie had tolerated all the florals and stiffness of this furniture for so many years. What was wrong with honest-to-God leather? You could sink into it, let it mold itself to your body, surround you. Or even some fabric with pillows, the soft, squishy kind that reshaped itself with a person’s body.
But this? Chintz or whatever the hell it was, no pillows, no extra padding, nothing but a designer label and a hard frame? Kind of like Gloria.

“Tell me about Christine.” She lounged across from him on a pink-and-cream flowered chair. He watched as she flipped open a small black case and pulled out a cigarette.

“Ah, what would Charlie say?”

“Go to hell.”

He laughed. “Glad we can be so familiar with each other.”

She sucked in a long drag, blew it out through pursed lips, her pink-tipped fingers resting on the arms of the chair, cigarette dangling.

“You know how she felt about Charlie,” he said, suddenly not interested in baiting her, wanting to be done so he could get out of the house, breathe in fresh air.

“I expected it would be difficult for her.”

“He was like God to her
.” He shouldn’t have let her go there alone.

“He was still just a man.” She took a quick puff on her cigarette and said, “He wasn’t God. He was human, subject to human frailties, just like the rest of us.”

Human frailties. Is that what shacking up with a mistress for fourteen years and having a child with her was called?

“I tried to tell her for years that her father disappointed and let people down, just like the rest of us. But she never saw that; no, all she could see was her father in his three-piece suit with his briefcase and his fancy words. He never scolded her, never once told her no, not even the time she brought those four girls home from college at Easter break when she knew we had plans for
Florida. I’d been waiting for months to get out of the cold, and then, Charles cancelled the trip”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that. He said we’d take a long weekend after they left.” She lifted her glass, took a quick sip, the words slipping through her lips faster, spilling into the air, as though she were incapable of stopping them. “Of course, we never did.”

“Oh, but Charles thought it was fine for the girls to stay with us, invited them to church and Easter dinner, even took them to the office and introduced them around. And not once did he apologize for canceling our trip.” She tapped the ashes of her cigarette in a blue glass ashtray. “He said we should be grateful our daughter still wanted to come home and if she brought a few friends, then it only meant she was comfortable with our home and…”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And?” So she’d finally realized she’d revealed shades of a marriage she hadn’t wanted to reveal.

“Nothing.”
She straightened in her chair, snubbed out the cigarette. “Do I need to call Christine?”

“No. She’ll be fine.”
 
How the hell could he say that with a straight face?

Gloria nodded. “I just want her to know, eventually, that if I was,” she paused, “firm at times, there was a reason for it.”

Harry swirled the scotch in his glass, said nothing.

“I just want her to know that,” she repeated.

What did she expect him to do, agree with her, take sides and say, 
Yes, Gloria, you were firm because Charlie couldn’t be; he was a sap when it came to discipline.
 Did she think he would actually go against his brother? He’d done that once in his life and he’d paid for it, was still paying for it. She could go straight to hell if she thought he’d ever say anything against his brother again.

“Chrissie’s worried about you,” he said, changing the subject. “She made me promise to stop over and make sure you were okay.”

“Oh.” She sank back in the uncomfortable flowered chair, put a hand to her throat, the skin smooth and tanned, the diamonds on her left finger glistening. “Well, I’m managing.”

He wanted to laugh in her face, tell her he knew she was managing; he’d witnessed that the other night at the benefit when she was parading around the floor, wearing Charlie’s death like a cloak to gain sympathy and attention.