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

by Mary Campisi

  “You have to forget everything she said.”

  Nate turned and looked at her, his dark gaze burrowing straight to her soul. “She was right about one thing.” His voice dipped lower. “You do deserve better than me.” He swept a hand around the room. “Better than this.”

  Panic swirled through her, settled in her chest. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why? A log cabin that’s probably smaller than your mother’s foyer? A town that likes you but hasn’t decided if you’re worthy of their trust?”

  “Nate—”

  “A husband who will never be able to buy you what you’re used to, what you deserve?”

  Now he sounded like the old Nate, the one who didn’t want to need anyone.

  “That’s absolutely not true. We’re meant for each other.” She placed a soft kiss on his mouth. When he didn’t respond, she pulled back and thrust her disappointment at him. “You’re going to let the words of a bitter woman come between us?”

  The left side of his jaw twitched. “The bitter woman is your mother, and while I knew she was a tough lady, I didn’t expect her to have the ability to make me feel like a hillbilly piece of scum.”

  “It’s what she does and why everyone always scurried around so they wouldn’t upset her. Heaven forbid if Dad was a second late for his welcome-home dinner. I went on shopping trips with her and bought clothes I knew I’d never wear again because I didn’t want to disappoint her. Even poor Uncle Harry tried to keep his mouth shut so she wouldn’t throw a tantrum. Appease, appease, appease. I was even going to marry a man I didn’t love, just so I wouldn’t upset her.” The anger she’d held inside for so many months burst forth, coated her next words. “But guess what? It wouldn’t have been enough. She would have continued to insinuate her disappointments on everyone around her, especially me, until I had the number of children she wanted, named them the names she selected, even signed them up for her preferred schools. And I would have ended up just like her: drinking and self-medicating while I stumbled through a designer-clad life, disconnected from my husband and children, disconnected from myself.”

  Christine swiped at her eyes. “I am not my mother and I will not be defined by her.” Her voice turned cold, challenging. “And if you think so little of me, so little of us, that you would believe her sick words, then maybe I am too good for you.”

  Anger flashed across his face, but he remained silent, assessing her words, drawing his own conclusions. Nate was a hard man to love, and an even harder one to convince he was wrong. She waited for him to say something, anything, even a nod so they could start to talk about it. But he didn’t, or maybe he couldn’t. The anger on his face smoothed and shifted into something altogether different: fear. Was he afraid she’d leave him?

  “I’m not going anywhere. For better, for worse, right?” She offered him a smile, touched his arm. “I’ll be here for you, even when you’re a thick-headed idiot who doesn’t recognize commitment when it hits you in the face.”

  His lips twitched, his dark eyes grew bright. “Now that’s a phrase that will win me over every time.” He pulled her to him, framed her face with his large hands and kissed her. “I guess I can be an idiot once in a while,” he murmured, nipping her bottom lip.

  Christine sighed and pressed her body against his. This conversation wasn’t over, even if her husband thought it was. Time and patience would show him there was no need to worry; she wasn’t leaving him. “I said a thick-headed idiot.”

  He laughed and slid a hand up her thigh. “Do you think this thick-headed idiot can entice you to bed?”

  “Hmm. Let me think.” She traced the zipper of his jeans. “Oh, I absolutely think he can.”

  ***

  Harry stood outside of Greta’s tiny house and studied his list. Who knew spilling your guts could be confined to a 3x5 lined note card? Not him, that was for sure. But here he was, a fool in a gray suit and a lavender tie, squinting at the card because he’d left his readers in the car and dusk was settling in. Oh hell, he’d practiced the damn speech so many times he didn’t need the card to prompt him. He’d come here because the last eighteen days had been a mix of torture and agony, with Greta in the middle of it all. From that fatal luncheon when she’d witnessed Bridgett purring and pouring herself all over him, Greta hadn’t spoken one personal word to him. What do you think about adding portobello mushrooms stuffed with zucchini and topped with Parmesan cheese to the menu was not a conversation starter. He’d attempted a few jokes, even recycled ones that had once made her burst out laughing, but he got nothing. Dead stare, pinched lips, nose in the air. She could do a good impression of Gloria without even trying.

  And forget the Sunday dinners. She’d shut those down so hard and fast, he’d have better luck getting a seat at Gloria’s table. The whole thing didn’t sit well. He’d told her he wasn’t the commitment kind, and she’d gone and spouted off about what a good man he was, yada, yada… But she’d changed her tune when Bridgett strolled in with her skin-tight dress and five-inch heels. He might have been able to pass her off as his assistant, though probably not, but once she started on about the missing earring—in his bed—he was cooked. It’s not that he wanted to lie to Greta, but he hadn’t wanted to throw his depravity at her. He’d done more than that; he’d dunked her in the stench of his deeds and held her there until she’d emerged filled with repulsion and disbelief. And that had given him more to think about than he cared to admit.

  Maybe it was time to change his act, grow up, become a caring human being. Hell, maybe even attempt an adult relationship that started and continued past the bedroom. He wouldn’t be pushed, though, not by Greta’s disappointment or her expectations. He scanned the note card once again. Your absence has caused me to reconsider my actions, which were a grievous offense against you. What the hell did that mean? He must have been kicked when he wrote it. Can we start again, fresh? See where it takes us? See where it takes us? That sounded like code for heading down the aisle. How had that snuck in there? Harry yanked at his tie and vowed to scratch it from the list. I miss you. Nope. Why don’t we spend some time together, start slow? Argh. How about we take the kids to the zoo on Sunday and then out for pizza? Okay, now he was going to puke. He could not picture himself on the best of days taking a kid to the zoo to watch a bunch of stinky animals fornicate and crap.

  He crammed the note card in his pants pocket and turned to leave, pissed that he’d let an errant emotion like loneliness slip through and land him on Greta’s doorstep. Just because he’d broken off his sleepovers with Bridgett didn’t mean he’d done it for Greta or that he wanted her to invite him in for coffee and conversation.

  “Harry?”

  Damn. He swung around and there she was, the thorn in his conscience; blonde, curvy, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and looking more delectable than a golden pound cake topped with blueberries and cream. “Hello, Greta.” Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and moved toward her as though he were out for a stroll and had just happened upon her street. “Looks like another nice day.”

  She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. Her feet were bare, her toenails a bright pink. Dainty. Sexy as hell. “Harry? What are you doing here?”

  “Me?” Trying not to look like a jerk. “Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve always liked driving this time of year, seeing the landscape turn green, the flowers popping, you know. Kind of picks you up.” What kind of bullshit just fell out of his mouth? She looked at him like she thought he was a whack job. Damn, but she had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. He could get lost in them, float around like he was in the Caribbean…

  “Harry? Harry!”

  “What?” He cleared his throat and pretended he’d been deep in concentration, not daydreaming about her like some schoolboy imbecile.

  “Is something wrong at the restaurant?” Her eyebrows knitted together and she bit her lower lip. “I hired a new waitress. Did you meet her? Was she not acceptable?” Before he could think of a
n answer, she barreled on. “I know she’s young but I’ll work with her. She needs this job, Harry. Please don’t be harsh on her. Everyone deserves a chance.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t come here about a waitress.” He rubbed his temples and sighed. “If you say she’ll learn, then she’ll learn. Just make sure she knows the difference between Pecorino Romano and Parmesan cheese.”

  Greta offered a faint smile. “I will. Thank you.” And then, “Why are you here?”

  Her voice was soft, close to a caress if he had to categorize it. Damn tempting. That was the problem with Greta Servensen: Everything about the woman was too damn tempting. Oh, what the hell? A tiny bit of honesty wasn’t going to kill him. “I came because I missed you.”

  He coughed, waited for her to smile or maybe slug him in the gut. She did neither. Merely stared, her expression as closed as a poker player’s. Harry shifted from one foot to the other, dug around in his pants pocket, and pulled out the crumpled note card. “I figured you’d give me that look, you know the one that says you think I’m full of bullshit. I made a few notes so I could keep it all straight in my head: the reason I came, what I wanted to say, why I wanted to say it.” He stopped, scanned the other sentences he’d written and determined they were equally ridiculous. “Oh, hell, I don’t know why I’m here. I want things to be the way they were.” He gestured toward the house. “The dinners, the late-night snacks.” He paused, his voice gentling. “Talking to you. I miss that. Can’t we get that back?” She squared her shoulders and studied him, her bottom lip quivering the tiniest bit. What was wrong? Had he frightened her? Said too much? Maybe he should have—

  “I think you should bring your appetite and your talks to the young woman who lost her earring in your bed.”

  So much for Greta being afraid of him. He’d mistaken the quivering for fear when it was anger disguised behind those full lips. She was still pissed about Bridgett. Maybe he could cajole her into a good mood. “Bridgett isn’t much in the kitchen or in conversation.”

  She snorted. “Obviously.”

  Obviously? What was he supposed to do with that comment? It was pure sarcasm, filled with female venom. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.” Was he, Harry Blacksworth, actually confessing this? She raised a brow that implied he was lying. “I’m done with her.” There. Read between the lines. I’m interested in you. Can’t you see that?

  She sniffed. “And what on earth does that piece of information have to do with me?”

  Okay, that was enough. This was why he avoided long-term relationships and female entanglements that led to comments like Greta’s. She knew exactly what it had to do with her and yet she expected him to sit down, pat her hand, recite a sonnet or two, and tell her exactly what it had to do with her. In great detail. Repeatedly. Harry met her stare and said, “You’re right. It has nothing to do with you. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll see you around.” He turned and started for his car, anxious to get the hell out of here. Who said a man couldn’t be comforted by a drink and a stranger? He planned to do both tonight, anything to not think of Greta Serevensen.

  “Harry.” She was beside him, close enough for him to smell her honeysuckle scent.

  “What?” He would not notice the wispy strands of blond hair trailing along her neck, or the flush of her cheeks, and certainly not the timid smile hovering about her lips. Full lips. Pink lips. Lips that could take him to heaven.

  “May I see your card?”

  “What?” He stared at her, confused.

  She pointed to the crumpled note card in his hand. “The card. May I see the notes you wrote for me?”

  “I didn’t write notes for you.” Damn straight on that. “I wrote them for myself.” He paused, stumbled around, and ended with, “So I could keep my head together, but it was all bullshit anyway.” He laughed, folded the card in half, then half again. “You know me, Harry the bullshitter. You deserved better.”

  She ignored his attempt at humor, kept her gaze glued on his. “May I read what you wrote?”

  No. If she read it, she might notice how desperate he’d become and how it all started and ended with her. “It’s nonsense.”

  She held out her hand, small, efficient. “Please?”

  It was the please that did it, coupled with the sincerity in her voice and the honesty on her face. This was about trust and Harry hadn’t seen much of that in his life aside from what he shared with Christine. Still, for some bizarre and totally unfathomable reason, he wanted to trust her. He placed the crumpled-up, folded card in her hand and looked away. “It’s just bullshit,” he muttered.

  She unfolded the note card and attempted to smooth it out. “Sometimes, if you look hard enough, you can pick out bits of truth from the, uh,” she paused and finished with an uncharacteristic, “bullshit.”

  “Or sometimes it’s just straight bullshit.” He vowed to keep his thoughts in his head from now on, not in any written or verbal format, which could then be retrieved and misinterpreted or properly interpreted by someone else. Namely, someone who was not meant to see or hear what was going on in Harry’s messed-up head. He slid a glance her way. What the hell was taking her so long? Was she memorizing every word? Damn. They were only notes, nine of them, and most weren’t even complete sentences. “Can’t understand my writing, can you? Mrs. Gimball flunked me for penmanship and Mr. Torpin told me I did not possess the proper skill set to create a sentence, let alone a story.” His attempt at a laugh fizzled. He couldn’t take it any longer. “I lied to you,” he said.

  That stopped her. She glanced up, brows pinched, eyes wide. “About what?”

  Harry pointed at the note card in her hand. “That. It wasn’t for me. I was trying to help a friend.” Yeah, he liked the sound of that better, made him appear noble, strong, not a gutless wimp with poor penmanship and a bad case of the hots for a woman he shouldn’t want. Greta’s lips curved at the corner. Was that a smile? Why? She didn’t believe him? Thought he was making the friend story up? Give him a minute and he’d railroad her with his sweet talk. Before he could get a line out, she butted into his thoughts.

  “This friend, does he have a name?”

  Harry shrugged. She was a shrewd one. “Of course he has a name, but I can’t divulge it.” He paused, added, “You’ve met him.”

  “Ahh. From the restaurant?”

  She sounded intrigued. Good. He’d play along. “Right. He only came in a few times but he was having real problems with this one woman.” He shook his head, falling into the tale. “He had it bad, but he was not the settling down type.”

  Greta nodded. “Was she?”

  “Hell, yeah. She was the kind you took home to your mother.”

  “And that was a problem?” Her voice turned soft, encouraging.

  “For a guy who flunked relationships 101 and had women lining up for him since he was fifteen? Oh, that was a big problem.”

  “But he wanted to be with this woman?” Her eyes grew bright. “Maybe have a relationship with her?”

  “He never came out and said he did, but you don’t give up the twenty-five-year-olds and start and end your day thinking about this woman if you don’t want a relationship.” He paused, met her gaze. “Do you?”

  Her mouth opened and he honed in on her tongue. Pink, wet, tantalizing. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What?” Damn, he couldn’t think with her so close, talking in that soft voice, that tongue darting in and out around her words. And that honeysuckle scent grabbing at him…Harry loosened his tie. “Don’t you think it’s hot out here?”

  “I think it’s perfect.”

  The way she said it made it sound like she was talking about a lot more than the weather. Did he want what she might or might not be offering? Of course he did, but with a woman like Greta, it came with conditions. Lots of them.

  “‘I’m turning over a new leaf. Obviously, there was a misunderstanding. Let’s get coffee.’” Her lips twitched, but she kept on reading that damn note
card. “‘Trust me, this time for real. I miss the times we used to spend together, don’t you? I miss your pie.’” She looked up and said, “I miss your pie?”

  Heat rushed from Harry’s neck, splattered his face, made his eyes water. “What do I know about that kind of stuff? I told you I was helping a friend.” He let out a laugh. “He was so desperate, it was pathetic. What kind of guy gives up a steady bed partner who makes no demands on him other than an occasional piece of jewelry and dinner?”

  Greta’s lips pinched. “Someone who wants more in life than sex and penne with spinach and garbanzo beans.”

  “What?” That was his favorite dish and she knew it. “Are you talking about me?”

  She folded the note card and stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans. “Oh, I think we are talking about you. I think we’ve been talking about you, don’t you, Harry?”

  He stared at her, debating how to answer. Before he could convince himself that admitting anything resembling an emotional attachment spelled disaster, he sucked in a deep breath and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  When Greta smiled, her eyes lit up, her face turned pink, and she actually sparkled. She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed him softly on the mouth. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll go slow.” She spoke as if he hadn’t bedded hundreds of woman, as if she was the first one. Maybe in some ways, the important ways like honesty, trust, and fidelity, she was.

  “I like slow. I can do slow.”

  “I’m sure you can,” she said in a soft, sultry voice. “I’m sure you do it very well.”

  Was Greta making sexual innuendos? His Greta? She’d never done that before. He smiled. Maybe this relationship thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  Chapter 6

  Harry sat in Greta’s kitchen with a glass of iced tea and a ham and Swiss on rye. He’d tried to tell Greta he wasn’t hungry, but the woman had the sandwich ready for him two minutes after he walked through the door, so what choice did he have but to eat the damn thing? She’d been so pleased when he’d taken a bite and given her the thumbs-up. He guessed this was new territory in building a “relationship”. Thinking about the other person and wanting to please her, out of bed.