by Mary Campisi
“Uh, sure.”
Gina hid a smile as they walked toward the house. There was nothing sure about the tone in the man’s voice. What did he think she wanted to talk to him about? Did he even remember or had he merely been goading her? She imagined too many drinks and an “every woman wants me” attitude could muddy the clearest memory. Well, too many months had passed with unanswered questions. She wanted the truth and darn it all, he was the only one who could tell her.
The kitchen was a jumble of clutter, paper products, and crockpots, but Gina found an open space on the kitchen counter and plopped the watermelon on a cutting board. It would be easier to work and talk; that way she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. How many lectures had she received growing up about the correlation between direct eye contact and the truth? Look someone in the eye, her mother had said. It makes you appear trustworthy. Dart those eyes around the room like a fly refusing to land and that’s a sure sign of dishonesty. Her mother had been wrong about that, but she’d been wrong about a lot of things. People could look you right in the eye and lie to you, even people who said they loved you. She grabbed a knife from the drawer but Ben Reed held out his hand and said, “I’ll cut the watermelon. You talk.”
Maybe he didn’t like the idea of eye-to-eye contact either. She handed him the knife and positioned a large plastic bowl decorated with sunflowers next to the cutting board. “Cut it into wedges.”
“I know.” He whacked into the melon and split it in half on the first try. “Because that’s how the kids like them.”
“Right.” His hands moved with grace and precision as he cut, sliced, and created wedges out of the juicy melon. Gina arranged the pieces in the bowl, eyeballing the shape of the wedges, betting each one was within a quarter inch of the others. He certainly had an eye for measurement.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” He continued to slice the melon, his gaze intent on his work.
“What happened at the reception?”
His lips twitched. “You mean the after part, right?”
“Yes. Did Gino put you up to it?”
“What?” He stopped slicing and turned to her.
He looked like he had no idea what she was talking about, but men lied all the time, and she’d bet Ben Reed had a bag of lies for every occasion, especially when it came to women. Well, she wasn’t playing his game, or any game. She wanted the truth and one way or another she’d get it from him. “Did my cousin Gino put you up to the kiss?”
Those blue eyes narrowed on her. “No.” And then, “Why would he do that?”
She ignored the question and pushed on. “Anthony then? He’s Gino’s younger brother. Did he do it?” Before he could answer, she said, “He likes to wager six-packs. Is that what he did? Bet a six-pack on me?”
The left side of Ben Reed’s jaw twitched and his lips flattened. “I didn’t bet anything.”
She studied his face, tried to pick out the sincerity of his words. She’d never possessed the ability to read a person’s expression or body language, and they had better say what they meant, because she was what people called a “literal” person. No making statements like It’ll be a year before I figure this out if it wasn’t really going to be a year.
“Then why’d you kiss me?”
Even with her less-than-acute interpretive skills, she could tell by his expression that he thought she was a bit crazy. “What kind of question is that?”
Now they were getting into her comfort zone. “I think it’s a very logical one and I’ve spent quite a bit of time trying to analyze the reason behind your actions. I really thought my cousins were somehow involved, though they didn’t act with the normal excitement they use after such tricks.”
“They’ve bet on you before?”
She settled her gaze on his hands and tried to ignore the heat creeping from her neck to her cheeks. Strong hands. Capable hands. Hands covered in sticky, watermelon sweetness. “A time or two.”
“I don’t play those kinds of games.”
There was an air of quiet anger in his voice. That, she heard and interpreted. “Well, unfortunately, they do.” She glanced at him and shrugged. “And since they haven’t, I’m left to conclude you were attempting to punish me for telling you I was an aeronautical engineer.”
Those eyes sparked a second before his mouth worked into a slow smile. “You were very convincing. I pictured you working on a jet, even asked Cash about it. I’ll admit, I was ticked when I learned you’d made a fool of me, but that wasn’t why I kissed you.”
“Of course it was. It had to be.”
“Gina?” His voice gentled, smoothed out. “A kiss really can be just a kiss. It doesn’t have to be analyzed and put under a microscope. It doesn’t mean we should be picking out china patterns or matching monogrammed towels. It could mean just what it was—a simple kiss.”
Maybe that would be true if she were someone else, but nobody just kissed her for no reason. There was always a reason, and usually not a good one, and never for the pure sake of wanting to kiss her. That had ended years ago with the man who had broken her heart. “Did Tess or Bree put you up to it?”
He shook his head. “No. My brain and too many bourbons put me up to it.”
“That is a horrible excuse.”
He grinned at her. “Sorry, it’s the truth. One minute we’re catching a breath from the heat inside and the next, I’m looking at your lips. The moonlight hit them a certain way and I don’t know; for a minute I forgot how much sarcasm spilled from them like a gusher, and thought about how soft and kissable they looked.” He shrugged. “Like I said, my brain wasn’t working and the booze got me.”
“Obviously.” If she erased bits and pieces of those last sentences, having to do with sarcasm and booze, she might actually find a compliment in there.
Ben Reed’s grin faded. “Some guy really did you wrong, didn’t he?”
“Why do you say that?” The words spilled out too quickly, with too much emotion. She tried again, this time stretching her syllables and scrubbing the emotion from them. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you can’t take a compliment. Because you aren’t comfortable with the opposite sex. Because when we danced at the reception, all you could talk about was personal space. Because you are hell-bent on insisting that if I kissed you, it had to be tied into a sick wager or a punishment. Because—”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” She hefted a sigh and looked away. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Code for some guy did you wrong.”
“I could say the same about you, couldn’t I? You walk around like you’re a gift to every breathing female. You say all the right things, but you don’t really say anything. Do you actually have more than a ten-line playbook?”
Darn if he didn’t laugh. “I have fifteen or twenty lines and they haven’t failed me yet.” He studied her and said, “But something tells me they wouldn’t work on you, not even if I had fifteen hundred lines.”
She smiled. “The man possesses intuitive capabilities.”
He nodded. “And he even knows how to use them on occasion.”
Her smile spread. He was actually half human and somewhat entertaining when he forgot to be so full of himself. Ben Reed turned back to the task of watermelon cutting and for the next few minutes, Gina watched him and listened to tales of how he grew a nineteen-pound watermelon when he was ten.
“I wanted to enter it in the fair, but my grandmother didn’t want me to look like a braggart, so we cut it open and shared it with the neighbors.” He shrugged. “I could have won that darn ribbon.”
“No doubt, but maybe your grandma was trying to teach you a lesson in humility.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He tossed the last piece of watermelon in the bowl and slid her a smile. “I’d say she failed; what do you think?”
Chapter 3
If anyone had told Harry Blacksworth that he’d find himself sipping coffee from a two-story deck connected to a
gigantic house in the middle of Nowhere, USA, with a couple of kids and a wife, he’d have saluted them with his scotch and laughed. Not happening, as in ever. But, here he was, stretched out on a patio chair with The Wall Street Journal folded at his side and the Magdalena Press open on his lap. And the kids? They were inside, probably trying to teach the baby some new trick, like the kid was a wind-up toy. And the wife? She’d be whipping up a batch of his favorite pancakes: banana walnut smothered in real maple syrup. Any minute now, she’d bring him a plate, perch on the edge of his chair, and if he were real lucky, feed him the first bite, followed by a nice, long kiss.
He sighed and glanced at the expanse of land that stretched three lots and included a swing set, treehouse, mini putting green, enough flowers and bushes for a greenhouse, and, of course, the biggest story in town—the big-ass pool with four lanes and a diving board. All that was missing now was the damn water. The building inspector cancelled on him twice: once because his wife went into labor with their sixth kid, and then last week, when his mother-in-law tripped over one of the kids’ toys and twisted her ankle. What a mess. Harry had been two steps away from calling the guy’s supervisor but Greta pitched a fit and told him he’d better find some compassion in that heart of his, because a man without compassion was not one bit attractive.
Ah, hell, he’d backed down and not only that, he’d invited the inspector and his brood to swim in the pool, if and when the friggin’ thing ever got inspected. He’d left that last part out, because Greta would not have appreciated the side comment, and what she thought of him mattered a helluva lot more than he liked to admit.
“Harry?”
The screen door slid open and Greta stepped onto the deck carrying a plate of pancakes and a carafe of coffee. When she smiled at him, he forgot how much he didn’t deserve her and thanked the good Lord for the second chance He’d given him with Greta. She’d taught him how to love, not only her, but himself. After too many years of denial, he could finally accept the battered, bruised, and far-less-than-perfect excuse for a human being he was, and sometimes, he even liked the guy. Today was one of those days. Greta and the kids thought he was some kind of hero and who was he to argue with that? In fact, it made him want to do better, made him want to be better. For them. Maybe even for himself. Harry eyed the plate, heaped with three pancakes slathered in maple syrup and served beside two slices of Canadian bacon. He grinned at Greta and said, “You’re the sexiest cook I’ve ever met. Even in a T-shirt and shorts—” he planted a kiss on her lips “—but I wouldn’t mind seeing you in one of those little French maid outfits. What do you think? Maybe you can model it for me next Saturday when the kids stay at Christine’s.”
She blushed and set the plate in front of him. “Oh, Harry. You are the silliest man.” She shook her head and golden curls tumbled over her shoulders. “I am not a young woman anymore. I have carried three babies and worked hard for many years. This body tells its own story and it is not a sexy one.”
“Oh, you’re sexy, Greta. You’ll be sexy at eighty, trust me on that.” He’d caught the landscapers staring after her last week when she brought them lemonade. And when the crew installed the pool, hadn’t they glanced up every time she stepped onto the deck? Hell yes, they had. Harry had seen them, but he couldn’t blame them for admiring a beautiful woman, even if the woman was his wife.
“Lily called this morning,” Greta said, sliding into the chair next to him. “She wants to know if you talked to the building inspector yet.”
Maybe he should give Lily the man’s number and she could talk to him herself. If anybody could persuade a person to get the job done, it was Lily Desantro. “What did you tell her?”
Greta’s voice dipped with humor. “The same thing I tell her every morning. That if all goes well, she’ll be swimming in the pool before school starts.”
Harry laughed at that. “Did she ask for specifics? I can’t imagine Lily accepting an answer as vague as that.”
“She wanted to talk to you about the building inspector. Apparently, she thinks if the man had help with his expanding family, he could concentrate on his job.” Greta paused and laid a hand on his forearm. “She offered to dust and help babysit the kids so the man could get his work done.”
“You don’t say?” Harry forked another piece of pancake. The kid was a born salesperson. “What did Miriam say to that?”
“She thinks Pop Benito is behind the idea and she said he better stop filling her head or she was going to call his son in California and tell him Pop was still driving even when he promised not to, and she knows he’s not locking his door when he goes to the garden club meetings because Christine told her.”
Harry set down his fork and settled back in his chair. This town was like a regular soap opera; you could tune in to the shenanigans of this person or that one and it was always entertaining. He knew what Pop was doing because they were buddies, but damn it, the man promised he wouldn’t drive until his eye checkup. “And how in the hell does Christine know?”
“She gives him a ride home most times, and she said he walks right up the steps, turns the knob, and in he goes. No pauses to pull out a key.” She shook her head and sighed. “Christine said she thought he lost it, but when she asked him about it, he marched inside and returned with two keys. He said nobody’s going to steal from him because he doesn’t have anything worth stealing except for his pizzelle maker and the new T-shirt his son sent him.”
“Huh.” He’d met Pop the first week they hit Magdalena. The old man was power-walking down the road wearing a designer jogging outfit, red high-top sneakers, and a Yankees baseball cap, and looking like an advertisement for athletic wear. Harry had slowed down to get a better look at the man and when Pop spotted him, he yanked out his earbuds, grinned, made his way to the car, and thrust out a bony hand, welcoming Harry to town. Apparently Pop Benito knew Harry, even if Harry didn’t know him. Later, he would learn that Lily had been the one to enlighten Pop about her “uncle” and from the raised brows and close-lipped comments, Lily had told him everything she knew, maybe more than she should.
That encounter began an interesting friendship between Harry and Pop that included Wednesday morning pancakes and eggs at Lina’s Café. At 8:00 a.m. every Wednesday, Harry picked up Pop from his house on the other side of town and drove to the café. Pop had insisted on driving the second time, but after running a stop sign and hitting a curb while parking, Harry flat-out told him that until he got his eyes and the car checked, nobody was going anywhere in the Crown Victoria, including Pop. The old man hadn’t argued, but he hadn’t looked like he agreed either. So, had he been driving again or not?
“Maybe we should invite Pop to dinner. What do you think, Harry? I could fix him penne pasta with spinach and garbanzo beans. And a tomato and cucumber salad with basil. Christine said he’s very proud of his basil, and it’s larger than anyone else’s in town.” Her lips twitched. “He says it’s because of a special secret that many think has to do with his wife, Lucy.”
Harry shot her a look. “Lucy. Right. The dead woman he talks to every day?”
“She might not be walking this earth, but she’s not dead, Harry.” Her voice dipped, gentled. “She lives in his heart.” Greta clutched his hand, placed it on her heart. “Just as you live in mine.”
Greta could say Harry lived in the tip of her toe and if it made her happy, he’d agree with her. Who would have thought he’d go so “New Age philosophical” since marrying Greta and taking on the role of husband and father? Sure as hell not him, but here he was, relaxed, happy, committed. In love. With one woman. How about that? This town and these people were good for them; he could feel it, even though they’d only been here a few months. No wonder Charlie couldn’t wait to get back here. Four days a month wouldn’t be enough; he could see that now. You’d just get comfortable and it would be time to pack up and head back to that other life, those other responsibilities, that other person, the one who sucked the heart from you, who d
espised you but would never in this lifetime, or any other, let you go.
Thank God Gloria Blacksworth was relegated to an urn in a locked storage unit in a Chicago suburb. Thank God indeed. The family home was gone, sold to a big insurance executive, who offered for the “contents of the dwelling,” which proved damn convenient for all parties concerned. Chrissie hadn’t been interested in many keepsakes, but she had wanted the photos and photo albums, as well as the urn housing her mother’s pulverized remains. And there had been the odds and ends of memorabilia she couldn’t quite part with—the desk where she’d first done her homework assignments, the chair in her father’s study where he’d spent hours of quiet reading time and that Harry had dubbed “the escape chair,” and the dining room set, though why in hell she’d want a reminder of those tormented dinners, he couldn’t even guess. The must-haves also included a few special glasses, dishes, and plaques; hardly big monetary catches in comparison to what she left behind. But Chrissie wasn’t interested in the money, hadn’t ever been interested in it. The things she took were about remembering a past she could tell her kids about. Or maybe if that past proved too painful, she’d re-create one. People did it all the time. Harry had even done it a time or three, before Greta walked into his miserable existence and made sense of it. He’d never been one to think much past his next pleasure, but life was different since Greta and the kids, richer, deeper, significant. Harry Blacksworth had a life that was significant. Think of that? Who knew what the next days and years would bring? He sure as hell didn’t, and right now he’d be happy with a pool full of water so Lily would stop squawking at him. But here’s what he did know: with Greta at his side, he could conquer anything, even a less-than-respectable past, and that’s exactly what he planned to do.
