A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (9 page)

Christine moved from the mobile, to the mural, to the bedspread, even picked up the black stuffed dog on the bed, studied it, and gently placed it back on top of the pillow mountain.

Then she turned and spotted the photo album on Lily’s nightstand. On the cover was a picture of herself at seventeen dressed in a long, formal gown of shimmering pink, her hair piled on top of her head, tiny pink rosettes tucked in the curls. She was smiling, beautiful, and radiant...like the princess Lily thought she was. Miriam watched her flip through the pages, slowly, fingering one here and there, lingering, perhaps recalling the memory, the moment, the feeling. When she reached the last page, she closed the album, turned it over.

“These...are all of me.” She stared at the closed album.

“Yes.”

Christine turned toward Miriam, caught sight of the bulletin board near the door and the large glossy photograph of herself and her horse next to it. “I,” she began, her voice unsteady as she moved toward the pictures. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Miriam said softly.

Christine reached up, touched the muzzle of the horse in the framed picture. “No.” Her gaze met Miriam’s and there were tears in her eyes. “No.”

“She loves you, Christine. Lily loves you.”

“No,” she said again, shaking her head. “No.”

And then she ran past Miriam and was gone.

Harry shrugged out of his suit jacket and flung it on the back of a chair. There were three chairs and a couch in his office, plenty of room to spread out and no reason to worry he’d have to move it for a client or co-worker. The only people who’d ever ventured through this door were Charlie, Chrissie, and the Mexican cleaning lady, Gladys.

The rest of them were polite, even solicitous, but how else should an employee treat the man whose brother signed their checks? They asked about his weekend, his plans, current events,
the delicious veal scaloppini at The Presidio. And of course, when he lingered at the coffee station in the morning, telling his most recent off-color joke, they laughed, as expected.

Assholes.
 Harry pulled out his chair and sank into it. Lunch had been exceptional today; broiled whitefish with rice pilaf, broccoli florets, and a cup of clam chowder. His belly was full and his chest and shoulders were sore. He’d pushed himself on the machines today, spent an extra half-hour at the gym before lunch trying to work off some of the tension. He’d thought about just cutting the workout short, or skipping it altogether and heading to The Presidio and a double scotch, but his damn headache made him opt for the rowing machine instead.

Christine was the one causing him so much aggravation. Jesus, if this kept
up, the worrying alone would kill him long before the drink ever did. She’d left a message on his voicemail late yesterday morning to tell him she’d just finished up with a meeting and was on her way to the cabin to pack and then she was heading back to Chicago. She sounded hollowed out. The meeting was with the Desantro woman and he wondered if Charlie’s mistress had given her trouble.

He still couldn’t believe Charlie had set himself up like this. For all of his calm brilliance, hadn’t he guessed this could happen? Even Harry could figure this game out: married man screws around and fathers a child. He dies and leaves the woman a shitload of money, but now it’s not enough, and it’s not just about the money. So what does she want now?
Recognition? More money? A plot next to his in the cemetery?

He should’ve gone with Christine and seen for himself. Who knew what kind of loony the woman might be, after all; she’d been shacked up with Charlie for fourteen years, quiet as a mouse, with a kid, too. How the hell had that all worked? And what the hell was wrong with Charlie? If he wanted to be with her, maybe even had the unfortunate bad luck to have loved her,
why hadn’t he dumped Gloria, given her a truckload of tissues and a hefty settlement, and told her to kiss off? Hell, he could’ve even offered to pay for therapy sessions and thrown in a year’s worth of free prescriptions.

Maybe the timing was off. Or maybe he’d been getting ready to do just that, or at least getting ready to think about doing it. Charlie was a methodical man, big on responsibility.
But fourteen years?

And what about the kid?
Did she have the Blacksworth eyes, the black hair? It must have blown Chrissie’s mind when she found out about her. This was one major screw-up and now Charlie was gone and Harry was left to clean up the mess. That in itself was scary or hysterical, depending on how you looked at it. He’d done good though; he’d actually paid Gloria a visit, twice, stretched out long enough to fulfill his duty and polish off two scotch neats. And the last time, he’d pulled up a chair and sat in the kitchen, talking to Greta while she stuffed a turkey. Who the hell ate all that food she fixed, anyway?

At 1:35
 
p.m.
, Christine still wasn’t in her office, hadn’t phoned in, either. Where was she? The jolt to his gut started then, a quick nauseous pain that kicked into a slow burn. He called her house, counted four, five rings.

“Hello?”

“Jesus, Chrissie, are you okay? You sound like shit.”

“I was sleeping.”

“What the hell’s going on? Why didn’t you call last night?”

“I’m sorry. It was late; I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You bothered me by not calling.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong, Chrissie?” He gentled his tone. “What happened?”

“She’s got Down syndrome, Uncle Harry.”

“Who? The girl?”

“Her name is Lily.”

“Jesus.” 
Jesus.

“I’m really tired. I’ll talk to you later. Okay?”

“Sure, get some rest. We’ll talk later.” He hung up the phone, stared at the receiver. No wonder she’d been in a hurry to get out of that damn town. He opened his bottom desk drawer, pulled out a half empty bottle of Crown Royal and the glass he kept with it.

The phone rang and he considered letting it go into voicemail, decided against it, thinking it might be Christine calling him back.

“Harry Blacksworth.”

“Mr. Blacksworth, this is Belinda at the front desk. I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I have a client on hold who says he needs to speak with someone about his investment right away.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“I didn’t know what else to do. Everyone else is in a meeting and he said it was urgent.”

“Belinda, you did say that was your name, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you new here?”

“Yes, sir.
I started last week.”

“Ah.” He twirled the phone cord around his finger, watched it suck the blood from the tip of it. “Well, Belinda, let me tell you how it is around here. I’m a very busy man and I don’t talk to other associates’ clients; I don’t care if the bottom just fell out of their 401K and they’re ready to jump out the window.” He unraveled the phone cord, studied his finger, which was now blue. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

“Have a good day, Belinda,” he said and hung up the phone.

Then he reached for the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured a drink. Busy, friggin’ indeed.

***

Gloria pierced a scallop, lifted it to her mouth. She’d have to compliment Greta on the meal tonight. The scallops were meaty, a golden opaque with just a hint of garlic. Charles had always loved scallops. “So, dear, tell me about your trip.”

“It was fine.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. Peace and state of mind; isn’t that why you went to the cabin?”

“Yes. Yes, it was.”

“So?” She forked another scallop. “Tell me about it.”

Christine set down her fork, took a sip of wine. “Well, the cabin was on the outskirts of town. There wasn’t much there, just a grocery store, if you want to call it that, and I think a thrift shop of some sort.”

“How quaint.”

“But the people were very nice, actually, quite friendly.”

“I can imagine the type.” And she could—old men with dentures in their pockets and women wearing their husbands’ overalls and snow boots. Why anyone could even consider living in a town like that, where the butcher and the funeral director, if they had one, were the same person, was beyond her comprehension. Uncivilized, that’s what it was.

“They really were nice.”

“But what did you do all that time?”

Christine’s gaze dropped to her plate. She’d barely touched her food.

“Christine? Is everything all right?”

“Yes.
Fine. Just tired, I guess.”

“You know, going there may have harmed more than helped. All those hours alone in that cabin, traveling the same road...did you see where the accident happened?”

“I saw one spot that might have been it.”

“Oh, Christine.”
She covered her daughter’s hand with her own and said, “This was too much for you. It’s bad enough to know it happened; you don’t need to stick your face in it.”

“I had to see...”

“No, you didn’t. If someone gets hit by a train, you don’t have to touch the blood splattered on the tracks or witness the smashed body to accept the death. That only makes it worse, places a vision in your head that will never go away.” She stroked her daughter’s hand, lowered her voice. “I would never want to see the guardrail he hit or his car. I wouldn’t even want to travel the same road he was on that night. Doing those things, gathering those details, can destroy a person.”

“I know. It probably wasn’t the best idea.”

“Now, you have to try to forget it, busy yourself so the images fade.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Good.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“He loved you.”

“Yes, he did.” There was such certainty in her words, but it was her heart that held the doubt.

“I love you, too.”

“And I, you. I’m hopeful,” Gloria began, keeping her voice calm, “that you and I can grow even closer.” She took a sip of wine, set the glass down. “It’s always been you and your father, ever since my accident, and as admirable as that was, it was lonely for me. I wanted so much to be a part of what you had, and yet, I was always on the outside.”

“I never meant—”

“But there was a time, when you were a baby and before the accident, when you and I did everything together. Your father was always busy traveling with work or at the office, and many a day, I was the first person you saw in the morning and the last one you kissed at night. Surely you remember?”

“It’s fuzzy, but I do remember bits and pieces.”

“Before the accident, it was always the two of us, but then, when I fell...I lost so much more than a healthy body...I lost you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I just want you to understand. We were so close once, as close as you and your father were. When I had the accident, I was in so much pain, he had to step in and take over. I still suffer every day, but I push on.”

“I know you do.”

“He’s gone, Christine. It’s just us now. I want that closeness again.”

“I want that, too, Mother.” Her eyes were wet.
“Very much.”

“Good.” Gloria smiled. “And maybe one day, you’ll widen the circle, include that man of yours?”

“Connor and I are...an interesting match.”

“You’re perfect for each other. His father can’t get within ten feet of either of you before he’s talking about genes and what beautiful children you’ll have.”

“I know.”

“So? You’ve been seeing each other almost two years. You’re twenty-seven, old enough to settle down, and he’s an excellent choice.” She took a sip of wine.
“Truly excellent.”

“I don’t know.” Christine pierced a scallop. “Sometimes, I think the chemistry just isn’t there, like we’d make better business partners than life partners.”

“Be careful what you wish for. Caring too much has its own dangers. No matter how far our society’s come, one partner is always more committed than the other, and that’s the one who’ll be more disappointed.”

“So you’re saying don’t care so much?”

“I’m saying don’t put such stock in chemistry and head over heels.” She studied the row of diamonds on her left finger. “It’s really more about considering the whole person, understanding his strengths, tolerating his weaknesses,” she paused, “and compromise.” The ring sparkled, brilliant under the light. “Compromise is perhaps the biggest part.”

“Well, of course it is. But you can only go so far. You can’t compromise yourself. Where would that leave you?
And what about love?”

Gloria let out a small laugh. “For all of your intelligence and sophistication, you sound like a schoolgirl. Do you know how many women who were head over heels in love when they got married ended up in divorce court fighting over the silverware? In the end, they got nothing but a large legal bill and a new street address in an overcrowded development. Or they stayed married and looked the other way.”

“Well, what about you and Dad? Didn’t you feel that way about him?” Christine pushed her plate aside and leaned forward, gaze fixed and waiting.

“Yes, I did. I loved your father with every ounce of my being.”
The sad, painful truth. “But all I’m saying is a woman’s got to be practical, too, have other considerations. For example, at some point, she’s got to decide if she can live with a man who’s slovenly, or remote, or gambles. Connor is attentive, handsome, intelligent, and very wealthy.” Gloria ticked his assets off on her fingers. “What more could a woman ask for? I think the two of you would make a wonderful couple.”

“I think he’s more interested in a merger than a marriage.”

“Well, isn’t that what marriage is anyway, a merger of sorts?”

“I guess.”

“Give it some thought. He adores you.” 
And you’ll never destroy yourself with loving him too much.

***

Christine turned out the light and fell into bed. She’d left work early to meet her mother at Mon Ami’s for a manicure, dinner, and shopping. While Lisette snipped, clipped, filed, and painted Christine’s nails, her mother had her eyebrows waxed and her lashes dyed. Dinner came next at a fancy little French restaurant on the north side of town that served a delicious shrimp and escargot dish. And after dinner, there was shopping at a string of boutiques nearby. Christine settled on a red wool shawl that she had absolutely no use for and no idea when she would ever wear it. She didn’t think she even liked it very much, but none of that had mattered at the time. She was caught up in the shopping frenzy that had sucked her in these past several weeks, buying for the sake of buying, the forty-second rush of owning something for the pure pleasure of ownership.