by Mary Campisi
“Good stuff, isn’t it?”
More chewing. Lester nodded, swallowed. “Never had that before.”
Harry’s blue eyes lit up. “See? I told you it was good. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.” He slung an arm around Lester’s shoulders, motioned to another table covered with food. “Now I want to introduce you to escargots.”
The “introductions” continued as Harry led him around the room, stopping to chat with well-wishers and ply Lester with Kalamata olives, Caprese salad, more escargots, carpaccio, flatbreads smothered with creamy parmesan cheese and basil. And garlic. Lots of garlic. Some were good, some not, but Lester kept eating and chewing and Harry kept talking and loading up Lester’s plate. How did the man stay in shape if he ate all this food? Was it the wife and kids? The fitness center in the basement? The restaurant? The go-go-go attitude? The man sure was different from his brother, who’d been quiet, reserved, and not given to extremes.
When Harry excused himself to check on the entrees, Lester made his way to Nate and Christine Desantro who were eating a bread-and-tomato-garlic concoction Harry had called bruschetta. The couple wasn’t devouring or piling their plates with three inches of food. They were eating like normal people. Lester turned to them, smiled. “I’d like to thank you both for coming, and I’d like to apologize that your names got dragged into church today.”
Nate Desantro eyed him like he had a thought or two on the subject but clamped his mouth shut when his wife placed a hand on his arm. “Any time our names are mentioned in church is fine with us, right, Nate?”
“Right.”
She didn’t seem concerned by her husband’s obvious annoyance and went right on chatting. “Thank you very much for helping Cash and Tess. They’re our close friends and if you hadn’t gotten involved, who knows how things would have ended up?” She turned to her husband. “Right, Nate?”
“Right.” Those dark eyes narrowed on him. “It’s nice to see you can do some good with the information you gather.” He paused, the left side of his jaw twitching. “Rather than using it for destruction.”
“Nate.” Christine threw her husband a disapproving look and tried to smooth out the insult. “That’s not what he meant.”
“Sure it is.” Lester nodded at Nate, raised his glass. “I like a man who speaks his mind, no matter if it’s politically correct or not. I respect that.” Dang it if the man didn’t actually smile. Not a big, teeth-showing smile, but those lips tilted in an upward direction. In other words, a smile.
The pink smearing Christine Desantro’s cheeks said her high-class upbringing wouldn’t let her deliver the truth straight up. Nope, she’d need to dole out a healthy dose of fancy words and bury the truth, or what look like it, deep inside. Not Nate Desantro. He was a straight-up-take-it-or-leave-it kind of guy and, in Lester’s book, that got respect. Too bad Charlie Blacksworth hadn’t been a little more like him. His life could have been different and if the end had to happen the way it did, at least the poor guy would have been at peace with himself.
“Edith Finnegan was an interesting addition to the service.”
Nate Desantro spoke the words with just the right hint of curiosity and humor that could mean he knew the reason behind it, guessed it, or was fishing with a long pole and had no clue. There’d been too many people flitting around for Lester to ask Phyllis about the woman and she hadn’t seemed anxious to fess up either. Phyllis wasn’t one to share secrets, especially ones about herself, and if she did, the mousy creature seemed a curious choice. Yup, there was a lot more to this than an attempt to bust up a wedding. Lester eyed Christine’s husband, pushed back the pang of guilt he felt every time he thought of the man, and said, “Believe it or don’t; that wasn’t planned.” This time the man actually laughed.
“Yeah. I gathered that.”
“What a way to start a marriage, huh?” He glanced at Phyllis, who stood in the middle of a circle of women, drink raised in a toast, expression serious. “I’ll get to the bottom of it, as soon as I get a second with my wife, that is. But from the looks of that group, it could be awhile.” He rubbed his jaw, settled his gaze on Nate. “Maybe you can help me with something I’ve been wondering about. I know Jack Finnegan works for you and I also know he’s a darn private man.” He’d found this out from the early days of investigating Charlie Blacksworth when he’d made a list of who in the town might talk and who wouldn’t. Jack Finnegan was in the wouldn’t-open-my-mouth-if-my-life-depended-on-it category.
“Jack doesn’t gossip and he doesn’t like to be gossiped about.” Nate Desantro burned him with those dark eyes. “Neither do I.”
“Fair enough.” Lester polished off his drink, then asked the question he’d been wondering since Edith Finnegan walked out of St. Gertrude’s with her brother. “But who the heck called him? That’s what I can’t figure out.”
The harsh lines around the man’s mouth softened. “Now that’s something I can venture a guess at and don’t mind sharing.” His gaze flitted to the circle of women surrounding Phyllis. “See the woman next to your wife with the cat’s-eye glasses and curly hair? That’s Betty Rafferty, the receptionist at work. She knows everything about everybody and doesn’t mind sharing.” He slid Lester a look, lowered his voice. “She might know a thing or two about you, too. My money says she’s the one who called Jack.”
Lester didn’t have a chance to be alone with his wife until after dinner—more food he couldn’t identify, covered with handfuls of garlic, tomatoes, and cheese. His belly was about to burst and he’d had to loosen his belt a notch, but how could he refuse the generosity of such a kind couple? Harry and Greta Blacksworth were good people and the least he could do was show his appreciation with good manners. He and Phyllis found a quiet spot near Harry’s back office and sat next to each other on a wooden bench. “Tell me about Edith.” Phyllis blew out a quiet sigh and eyed him like she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer his question. Or if she did answer, what she might tell him. Lester touched her arm. “I’d really like to know.”
“Edith and I have known each other for years. I’m probably the only friend she has.” She shrugged, looked away. “She’s a difficult person and doesn’t let too many people get close to her. I guess we’re alike in that way. Don’t want to trust anybody, especially those who can hurt us.”
He swirled the scotch in his glass, sipped it. “I figured by the shocked looks on the faces of the congregation that Edith doesn’t socialize much, and it looked as if they were surprised you and she had a connection.” Lester rubbed his jaw, studied his bride. “I don’t think Pop even knew about the two of you and that man seems to know everything that goes on in this town.”
“Pop didn’t know.” She blinked hard, swiped at her eyes. “Nobody did until today. Edith is a sad soul who’s still torturing herself for an error in judgment she made years ago. I helped her through a rough time and later she helped me. That’s how we became friends.”
“Care to tell me about it?”
“Not really.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. “I might be your wife but I’m not going to share my friends’ secrets. Edith trusts me and I won’t break that trust.”
“I’m not asking you to do that, but the woman tried to stop our wedding. I’m no psychologist but your friend’s carrying a lot of baggage around and I want to make sure it’s not going to end up causing problems between us.”
“Oh, no, she’s not going to do that.” Phyllis smiled up at him. “Edith was trying to protect me and she tends to judge people and situations based on what happened in her past.” She blinked, swallowed hard. “She trusted someone—a man—and he hurt her real bad. She’s never recovered, and what happened at church today is her way to try and protect me. It’s very sad, but I won’t desert her.” Phyllis’s voice hardened. “I can’t.”
“Okay. If you trust her, I’ll respect that.” Lester stroked her cheek, cupped her chin with his fingertips. “But if she tries to interfere with this marriage again, we’re
going to have a problem.”
“She won’t.” Her smile made him forget about Edith Finnegan and bad choices, made him forget everything but his new bride and the years ahead.
Mimi Pendergrass was the one person who’d avoided him all night. She hadn’t said anything to him since the ceremony and Edith Finnegan’s revelation other than “good luck and best wishes.” Standard wedding jargon. Lester had expected something from her, even a cocked brow or pinched lips. What about a frown that said she wasn’t happy with his lies? Nope. Not even that. He followed her outside into the blustery night air, held the collar of his coat closed with one hand to keep the chill out. Mimi stood twenty feet from the entrance to Harry’s Folly, snuggled in a red parka, a strange match for the silky pants and tiny heels she wore. “Mimi?”
She turned, eyed him like he was a copperhead. “So, you’re an investigator.”
He nodded. “I am. Sorry I wasn’t open about it with you the other day. I wanted to tell you, but Phyllis thought it would be better to let this particular sleeping dog alone.”
“Smart woman. People don’t take kindly to a stranger harming one of their own, especially if it puts a marriage in jeopardy. Nate and Christine Blacksworth are one of Magdalena’s favorite couples.” She tsk-tsked and shook her head until the red, dangle-ball earrings brushed her neck. “Poor Phyllis. After that husband of hers, she wouldn’t want the town to think she’d chosen badly again.” She reached in her coat pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out.
When she didn’t light it right away, Lester asked, “Want me to get you a light?”
“No.” Her thin lips curved into a smile. “I gave them up years ago, started smoking when my son died and stopped cold turkey the day my husband told me I was headed to the grave if I didn’t cut back.” She met his gaze, her blue eyes bright. “How does a person go from not smoking to inhaling almost two packs a day?” She didn’t seem to want an answer because she continued before he could respond. “I’ll tell you how. It’s called grief.” Mimi lifted the cigarette to her nose, inhaled. “I could start again, no doubt about it.” A long sigh, followed by another. “But then what? Before I know it, I’ll be smoking two packs a day and I can’t do that to the memory of my husband.”
“I’m real sorry I wasn’t up front with you before about my true line of work.” He dragged a hand over his face, tried to gauge her mood. “I had to keep my word to Phyllis.”
“Of course you did.” Those blue eyes narrowed on him, homed in. “Was it the investigator in you that was asking so many questions about my family?” Pause. “About my daughter?”
Lester shifted from one booted foot to the other. “It was the promise I made to Angelo that drove me to ask those questions.”
“Pop? What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s the one who came up with the idea to contact me about helping the Casherdons. Angelo and I became friends and I knew I had to do something to make up for my part in causing so much heartache in this town. He told me if I really wanted to do good, then I could find your daughter.”
Mimi clutched the cigarette between her fingers, squeezed until it crumpled. “He said that?”
Was she shocked, upset, or relieved? Hard to tell. “He also said I shouldn’t tell you about it.” Another pause. “Just in case.” Just in case we don’t like what we find. “But I thought I owed it to you, so I’m telling you straight up what I plan to do. And the questions I asked earlier were to gather information before I start the hunt.”
She nodded, cleared her throat. “It’s been almost ten years. My husband said if we left her alone, she’d come back. He said she’d realize the kind of man she’d gotten involved with, and she’d come back to Magdalena.” Her voice cracked, spilled with the pain of remembering and regret. “But she didn’t. She left and she never came back.”
Mimi Pendergrass was a proud woman who did not share her tears or misery with others. She tried to regain the composure that had split apart when he mentioned her daughter, but the attempt failed, and her expression crumbled. “Let me help you, Mimi. I’m good at my job and if your daughter’s out there, I’ll find her.”
The tears fell hard and fast, reminding him of a spring downpour. He laid a hand on Mimi’s shoulder, fixed his gaze on the light film of snow covering the sidewalk. Shows of emotion made him uncomfortable, but the woman deserved a good cry and he’d see she got it. If Mimi’s daughter were alive, he’d find her. If she weren’t, he’d find out why.
For years and stories to come, Pop would blame the “meltdown” he suffered the night of Phyllis and Lester’s wedding on Frank Sinatra. A man couldn’t listen to Frank and not think of the woman who owned his heart and soul, and if that woman weren’t still walking this earth, well, that was a true case for tears and more tears. Nate and Christine dropped him off that night, careful he didn’t slip on the fresh snow, and said their good-nights. Pop changed into his pajamas and thought of heading to bed, but there was too much commotion swirling in his brain. Or maybe it was Frank’s crooning that riled him up and wouldn’t let him settle down. A few minutes with his Lucy would calm him, just like it always did. He made his way to the living room, settled in his chair, and eased both feet onto the small stool in front of him.
He’d done too much darn dancing tonight, but it was the jitterbug he and Lily did that sent him over the edge. Not that he couldn’t keep up with the young folks, but the keeping up was hard to do when he was wearing wing-tips instead of high-topped tennis shoes. That made all the difference. He folded his hands over his belly and stared at his wife’s portrait. “You would have liked this wedding, Lucy. Harry and Greta had the place all decked out. Dangly balls with glitter, twinkle lights, floating orchids in bowls of water…red and white tablecloths…poinsettias and miniature Christmas trees all over the place. And the food? Remember the ricotta pie your mother used to make? I hate to say it, but this one was better. Melted in your mouth.” His heart filled with longing and the sorrow of missing his Lucy. “There’s so much I wish we could have shared, so much we still had left to do. I thought there would be time.” His voice cracked, fell apart. “I never thought the end would come so fast.” He swiped at a tear. “But ten more years would have been too fast, wouldn’t it? We’re two halves of a whole; my heart beats with yours, and yours with mine.” Another tear fell, slipped down his cheek to his chin. “I miss you every single day, but tonight when they played ‘I Did It My Way,’ I wanted to glide along the dance floor with you in my arms like we used to, all alone in our own little world.” His voice shifted to a whisper. “Just the two of us, exactly where we wanted to be.” He closed his eyes and pictured him and Lucy dancing to Frank Sinatra, her red hair shimmering and swaying along her shoulders, those blue eyes sparkling as she smiled up at him. “Oh, Lucy. My soul aches for you.” There were more tears, lots of them, sobs and whimpers shaking his body until finally, he drifted to sleep.
His granddaughter found him close to midnight, her pale face worried, her voice soft, hesitant. “Grandpa? Are you okay?”
“Huh?” Pop squinted, straightened in his chair. “Must have fallen asleep.”
Lucy pointed to the ball of tissues in his lap and several more on the table next to him. “Did something spill?”
Something spilled all right—buckets of tears—but he wasn’t about to tell his granddaughter that every now and again, even he let sorrow get the better of him. Nope, no sense admitting that when she believed he was the guiding light for the community. Some truths were better left in a person’s heart rather than shared. That’s why he worked up a smile and pointed to the glass of water on the table. “Guess I was tired and got clumsy.”
That comment relaxed the worry lines on her forehead. “You probably wore yourself out from all the dancing. Jeremy said you should give dancing lessons.” Her eyes grew bright. “He said you could teach us how to jitterbug and do the foxtrot.”
“I could indeed.” Pop sat up straighter in his chair,
pushed back the last of the sadness that had smothered him earlier. Was it Frank Sinatra, the holidays, or the wine that had turned him maudlin and tearful? He guessed it was a combination of all three, but no matter, what good did it do to cry himself a river over his loss when he still had so much to be thankful for, including a family who loved him, friends who protected him, and a town that looked up to him?
“Dad will be here in a few days. Do you think he and Ramona know how to jitterbug?”
She kept her voice even and her expression curious, but Pop spotted the twitch of her lips that said she was teasing. Anthony Desantro could be a dance instructor and had competed back in the day. But Ramona? She’d be lucky if she knew the hokey-pokey. Pop rubbed his jaw, thought about his answer. “When your father convinces Ramona Casherdon to dance, then I’ll know I’ve seen everything.”
Lucy giggled. “I can’t see it either, but you never know. Dad says they talk every night and when he gets here, they have something to tell us.” She flung her curls over her shoulders and raised a brow. “Bet they’re going to get engaged. What do you think?”
Engaged? Now that would be interesting. He’d thought about the possibility a time or two, tried to get his son to open up about his relationship with the woman, but the boy wouldn’t do it. No sir; kept his mouth zipped tight. Well, it sounded like they’d find out soon enough. “What do I think?” Pop asked. “I think I’m not betting one way or the other. I’d say it’s a fifty-fifty chance that it could go either way.” He paused, met his granddaughter’s gaze. “Ramona Casherdon could become your stepmother or she could be the woman who drove your father from this town for good.”
“I’m going with stepmother.” She smiled, clasped his arm and whispered, “But Dad might need a little help because he’s not very good with relationships and feelings.”
