A Family Affair: Spring: Truth in Lies, Book 2

by Mary Campisi

  “Harry? Baby. Can you check the sheets?” Bridgett laughed, low and sultry, a sound filled with promises of sensual escapades. “Maybe it slipped to the bottom of the sheets when we were,” she paused, ran her tongue over her glossed lips and said, “pleasing each other.”

  On a usual day the lips and tongue and voice could get him going, especially if he pictured the aforementioned coming from a feisty German woman. But today was different; today was nothing but an exposure of his sick mind, with Greta as witness of his debauchery. He thought of her standing before him in shock and pain. Strings of curses bombarded his brain, big and bold and crude, plastering themselves all over his psyche, festering until they poured out. Unfortunately, Bridgett was the recipient of the curse-laden barrage.

  “Harry? What did I do?” She eased her hand from his and pushed back her chair. “Why are you so angry?”

  “I need a drink. A double.”

  “In a minute. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  Okay, she wanted him to talk, he’d talk. “You’ve got a master’s in psychology, right?”

  She smiled, her eyes lighting up. “I do.”

  “Next up is the Ph.D. so you can discuss Freud and all that other crap in a college classroom, right?”

  The smile brightened, the lip gloss shimmered. “You do listen.”

  “So, why are you with me?”

  She laughed. “I like you.”

  Right. “You like me or my money?” Now there was the question.

  She spread her hands flat on the table, leaned forward until her boobs squeezed into the opening in her shirt and she murmured, “Is there a difference?”

  “There should be.” What the hell kind of psycho-bullshit answer was that? Greta would never spit out that kind of twisted garbage.

  “I don’t see the difference. You’re a fun guy, handsome, entertaining.” She paused, licked those damn lips again, and said, “Sexy as hell.”

  “And you’re half my age.”

  “Doesn’t feel that way when we’re in bed.”

  Had he really fallen for such bullshit? Of course he had. Men thought with the wrong head most of the time and then wondered how they ended up getting screwed by someone like Bridgett. Not that she’d tried to screw him over yet, but she would. Eventually. They always did. At some point, she’d want him to put her up in a condo, visit her every night, or maybe she’d expect a drawer at his house—even a bottom drawer would do as long as she had her scent there. And little by little, the expectations would mount and if Harry didn’t deliver accordingly, sexual favors would be withheld, and then the pouting would start. What man didn’t recognize pouting for what it was, especially if delivered after a firm No, you cannot put your stuff in the bottom drawer. No razor either. Nothing but the bag you come in with every night and leave with every morning.

  “And you take care of yourself.” She fluffed her hair over her shoulders, studied him. “You could pass for thirty.”

  “You are so full of bullshit.”

  She smiled. “Okay, thirty-five.”

  “Are you sleeping with anybody else?” He’d never have to ask that with Greta.

  “No.” She lifted her chin in what might be defiance or challenge. “Are you?”

  Only in my head. “No.”

  She let out a breath and clutched his hand. “Something’s bugging you, Harry. I can always tell.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Beginning and ending with women who tried to turn him into a saint.

  “I can take your mind off of your problems. Why don’t we go to your place?”

  He shook his head. “No time.”

  “Your office then? You can sit in your chair and do your work while I climb under the desk…”

  “Uh, no. But thanks.”

  “Well.” The tone said pissed, even if she served it with a smile. “You’ve never been one to turn down that offer before.”

  Over the past few months, Bridgett’s offers had been increasingly difficult to accept. It didn’t matter the time, the position, the location; he’d not been as interested or as engaged, which often led to other issues of a very personal nature. Dammit, he was not taking that pill, not yet, at least not until he determined which head was causing the real problem. Somewhere in the mix of all of this was a blonde-haired woman with a bun and a German accent.

  “You’re really turning me down?” When he didn’t respond, she sniffed and said, “Can I at least have lunch with you?”

  “Sure.” Damn, now he couldn’t confront Greta and tell her to stop thinking whatever it was she was thinking.

  “I do like spending time with you, Harry.” She paused, lowered her voice. “Even out of bed.”

  The rest of the lunch followed the same rhetoric. Harry spoke, Bridgett answered with a sexual innuendo. Maybe he was just tired or needed a good workout to relieve the stress pulsing at the back of his neck and temples, but he wasn’t interested in her or what she had to say. About anything. He eyed her plate, tried to determine how long it would take her to eat the rest of her angel hair pasta. There’d only been about twelve strands and she’d been playing with them for a good ten minutes. No wonder she was so thin, except for the boobs and that had more to do with a good plastic surgeon than a good diet. She could use a few more curves…soft and supple…like Greta…whom he hadn’t seen since she pulled the disappearing act into the kitchen.

  “Okay.” Bridgett pushed back her plate, which still had three strands of pasta on it, and stood. “You’re preoccupied and I’ve got class.” She leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his temple. “Call me.” She straightened and flung her designer bag over her shoulder. “And let me know if you find the earring.”

  Then she was gone, leaving Harry with a half-eaten bowl of penne with spinach and garbanzos and a stomach full of regret. He should just leave and to hell with Greta’s sensitivity. What did she really expect from him, and worse, why did it bother him so much? He wiped his mouth, tossed his napkin on the table, and headed for the kitchen. “Where’s Greta?”

  “On the patio.” There were three people in the kitchen, Jimmy, Leo, and Rocco. Jimmy was the one who spoke. Short, wiry, a ball of energy with a wife, four kids, and the face of a rock star, he was fiercely loyal to Greta. She’d given him a chance when all he had as a reference was a short stint at an Italian restaurant chain and two wedding receptions. But he’d had a shitload of confidence that stretched from Chicago to Los Angeles, his hometown. He’d come into the kitchen and nailed three of Harry’s favorite dishes: penne with spinach and garbanzos, veal saltimbocca, and mushroom ravioli. How could you argue with that? The kid was a genius in the kitchen. Success didn’t always follow a straight line, littered with advanced studies and fancy résumés. Sometimes success grew from a burn in the gut and determination. Hell, in Harry’s dim estimation, the ones walking the tightrope without a net below—no family money, no bailout plan—were the ones who refused to accept defeat.

  He worked his way past the aroma of garlic and marinara, and through the door leading onto a fenced-in patio with stucco walls, terra cotta pots, and six wrought-iron tables with matching chairs and a removable umbrella. In a few weeks the place would be crammed with urban professionals sipping daily specials. But not today. The square of stone and stucco was empty, except for Greta, who sat at the farthest table, head bent, hands folded. She didn’t move as he approached. “Are you sleeping or praying?” She inched her head up and he wished she hadn’t. Damn but she’d been crying and he didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know he was the cause. Harry moved a step closer, remained standing. “What’s wrong?” It was a conciliatory question, not one he particularly wanted answered.

  The blue eyes watered. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend?”

  “What?” Girlfriend?

  “Why didn’t you just tell me, Harry?” She straightened in her chair, her voice growing stronger. “Instead, you let me act like a fool.”

  “Are you talking
about Bridgett? She’s not my girlfriend.” Her eyes narrowed, the eyebrows shot up. “She’s not.”

  “Then you should tell her.”

  That made him laugh. “She knows. I’ve never pretended to be anyone other than who I am, and she gets that.” Unlike you, who believe I’m some other person: better, honest, trustworthy.

  Greta’s next words pinched his crotch. “If she’s not your girlfriend, what is she?”

  A sex partner. A call at three in the morning to ease my needs. A substitute for a woman I have no business wanting… “A good time.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and planted his feet like a soldier readying for battle.

  “A good time who lost a diamond earring in your bed.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I thought if I gave you time, you’d trust me enough to give me a chance. I see the way you look at me, the way you watch me cross a room or eat a bite of food. You want me, Harry Blacksworth, and you’ve wanted me for a very long time. You’re just too much of a coward to do something about it.”

  Her accusations blasted him back a step. “Yeah, I want you, but so what? Nothing can happen.”

  “Why not?” She stood, hands on hips.

  “Because you’ll want more than a romp in bed. Dammit, you’ll want a friggin’ profession of love and until death do us part.”

  She opened her mouth and spit fire. “Did I ever once say that?”

  Who was she kidding? They all wanted a ring, even the ones who said they didn’t. Actually, especially the ones who said they didn’t. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Apparently I did.” She moved toward him until she was close enough for him to smell her honeysuckle scent. “I don’t want to marry you. I don’t want to marry anyone. But I have needs too, Harry. Physical ones.”

  He took another step back, trying to block out her words. “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Why not? I’m a woman, I have needs, just like you do.” Her voice turned hard. “Just like your Bridgett and all of the ‘Bridgetts’ before.”

  He stared at her. Where was the mild-mannered cook who drove a dented Toyota and couldn’t look him straight in the eye? He wanted her back. Now. Not this she-wolf who wanted to have sex with him for the pure sake of ….well, sex. That was like hearing your mother say she liked sex. “You want sex? That’s it?”

  She sighed and her voice dipped, deflated and sad, as though she’d used up all of her oxygen with her sex rant. “I wanted you to be honest with me and let yourself want me. Be a man. Make love—”

  “I don’t ‘make love’. I have sex.”

  Her lips flattened. “Of course you do. Excuse me, I wanted to have sex with you.” For a half second, he shut down his brain and enjoyed what she’d just said. Sex with Greta. It would be passionate and pure and …. “But not anymore.”

  “What does that mean?” He was still stuck in the passionate and pure mode.

  “You’re never going to give us a chance. And I’m tired of living moment to moment, hoping, waiting, praying even, that you’ll look at me and say ‘What the heck? I’m going to stop being afraid of this thing between us.’ But you won’t and it took that woman and her missing diamond, which I’m sure you bought for her, to open my eyes.”

  His chest tightened, squeezed hard until it hurt. He wasn’t afraid of starting something with Greta, he was trying to protect her because he knew he’d only hurt her. Didn’t she see that? Dammit, he was not afraid. But there was a tiny piece of him that knew she was dead-on; he was scared shitless of caring about her. And if he showed her, then what? He knew what—he’d find himself picking out china patterns and buying an SUV and ten years later he’d wonder how the hell he’d ever gotten into this mess.

  “Don’t answer, because there’s no need.” She cleared her throat and continued, “I’d rather not see you unless it’s about business.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” What the hell did that mean?

  “No more Sunday dinners. No drop-ins to bring Arnold a DVD or Elizabeth toy ponies. I’ll meet with you about menu changes or building issues.” Those blue eyes zeroed in on his, and her next words gutted him. “But I won’t sit with you and ask you about your day, make you pies, or wait for you to show up for lunch. I’m moving on with my life and you’re not going to be part of it.”

  Chapter 3

  Angelo Benito lived on the east side of town in a white shoebox-sized house with a white front porch and matching railing. The structure itself was quiet and unassuming, but the flowers and shrubs that surrounded it were not. They spoke of skill and patience, care and passion. Nate had told her Pop Benito had two green thumbs and a way with growing things that stumped the horticulturists. According to Nate, the old man didn’t subscribe to store-bought fertilizers or expert recommendations on grafting, pruning, or deadheading. He did his own thing and while he shared a few tidbits, most practices he only shared with Lucy. His dead wife.

  At two minutes before three o’clock, the time Pop had instructed Nate that Christine should arrive, she parked her car alongside the curb and got out. Why had he asked to meet with her? Did it have to do with her father? Her marriage to Nate? Or had he heard that despite her background, the townspeople were not willing to trust her with their money? None of the possibilities were good and each would foster its own brand of discomfort. Still, there was no avoiding The Godfather of Magdalena.

  Christine climbed cement steps that had been gouged and cracked from one too many harsh winters and heavy applications of rock salt. She knocked on the weathered oak door with the scratched brass kick plate and matching knocker engraved with a bold B. A few minutes passed and she was about to knock again when the door creaked open. A small man with a shock of white hair and silver glasses that took up a third of his face stared back at her. His eyes were dark and intense, his eyebrows bushy, his mustache pencil-thin. She guessed him to be in his mid-seventies, but when he smiled, ten years washed away. Or maybe the confusion arose when she glanced at his attire: a football jersey, sweatpants, and high-top tennis shoes. Blue, black, and red. He wore a training wristwatch on his right wrist and a gold wedding band on his left finger.

  The Godfather of Magdalena thrust a bony hand at her, looking more like an aging sports advertisement than a spokesman of the community. “Angelo Benito. Good to meet you, Christine. Come on in. We’ll go sit out back.” He held the door open and ushered her into a room covered in roses: cream wallpaper scattered with crimson roses, couch and chairs in a subdued floral design with a cream backdrop. And more cream and roses, this time with end tables on either side of the couch. There were vases on the mantel stuffed with bunches of silk flowers; blood-red, whisper-white, soft peach. Hanging above the mantel was a portrait of a woman about Christine’s age, her long fiery curls a stark contrast against the whiteness of her dress, her smile bold and vibrant. But it was the woman’s eyes that pulled Christine in: a brilliant blue that followed the viewer about the room. At the woman’s feet lay a blanket of blood-red roses.

  “That’s my Lucy.” Angelo Benito spoke in a hushed tone of reverence and longing. “She’d just given birth to our son, Anthony. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  The woman’s almond-shaped eyes held Christine’s. “Yes, she is.”

  He motioned for her to follow him. “She was my angel. Loved roses, insisted we plant all different colors: red, orange, yellow, white, pink. Lucy said the food we grew filled our bellies, but the roses filled our souls.” The back door opened onto a small wooden deck with a green and white striped awning that provided protection from the sun. When Christine had settled into one of the rocking chairs, Angelo sat down next to her. “You’ve got your father’s eyes.”

  “Yes, I do.” She hadn’t planned on asking about the issues between him and her father until she’d enlisted his help with the townspeople. Apparently, Angelo Benito believed in dealing with unpleasantness straight up. Fine with her. “Nate said you knew him.”

  The look he gave her was d
irect, powerful. “Then that husband of yours must have also told you I didn’t like him.”

  “He did.” She fidgeted with her watch, wished she did not have to have this conversation. “Can you tell me why?”

  “I’ll be happy to. As a matter of fact, that’s why I called you here, Christine. I want you to know why your father and I never saw eye to eye, and why I’m going to see to it you don’t hurt Nate or Miriam, or God forbid, Lily.”

  “I would never hurt them.”

  “Hmph. That’s what everybody says, but it happens all the time. Give a person a chance to do the right thing or the easy thing, and they’ll pick the easy one most of the time. That’s what your father did.” He scratched his head and frowned. “He hid behind his good deeds, and maybe he did help the town with money, advice, and kindness. But that didn’t make up for the other family he had tucked away in Chicago, or the one he had here and kept from you. And what about Lily? Four days a month for a father?”

  “I don’t know why he did what he did. When I first found out, I hated him for destroying the memories of the father I thought he was.” Her voice dipped, softened. “And then I forgave him, because if I hadn’t, it would have destroyed me.”

  “He was a coward. Pure and simple.” Angelo gripped his rocker and sucked in air. “Miriam is a good woman. It wasn’t right what your father did, no matter the circumstances. He took the best of what he had in Chicago and mixed it with what he had here and it was wrong. Miriam didn’t see it that way, but why would she after being married to a bastard like Nick Desantro? I didn’t like hearing you and Nate got married. That’s a powder keg waiting to explode if you ask me, which nobody did.”