by Mary Campisi
“Does the whole town know about that?” He’d sent the damn things three days ago. Bad enough everybody was talking about it except the one person who should be talking about it, the one who hadn’t answered his phone calls or his visit last night. Gina Servetti was avoiding him, but sooner or later, he’d catch up with her and find out why. And damn it, she was going to tell him.
“This is Magdalena,” Mimi said. “If it has to do with a relationship, a fight, or a baby, this town wants to know about it. And, the fact that the recipient of those flowers is Gina Servetti has everyone’s interest piqued.”
“Why?” Because according to Jeremy, the men in town thought of her as a jalapeño pepper and a viper?
“Gina is a lovely girl—intelligent, nice to look at, loyal—but she’s wearing armor that’s stronger than an armadillo’s. The girl’s petrified of getting hurt and she’s not going to let any man close enough to do that.”
That sounded like the Gina he knew. “Did some guy hurt her?” He didn’t like to think about that, but it would explain a lot.
“Not that I know of, but it’s hard to tell. When you’re raised in a house where looks and fitting into a size 2 are held in higher regard than brains and compassion, it can mess with a young girl’s head, not to mention her self-esteem. By the time that poor girl headed to college, she’d buried her unhappiness with food and an attitude that said, ‘I don’t give a darn what you think about me,’ even when she cared very much what people thought.” Her voice softened. “She wanted to be accepted for who she was and that darn family of hers just would not do it.”
“What about the cousin? Natalie? Did Gina’s family accept her?”
Mimi’s lips pulled into a serious frown. “Stay away from that girl. She’s nothing but trouble and she’s caused her share of it.”
Ben set his napkin on the table and leaned in. “I’m guessing man trouble.”
“Oh, you guessed right.” Her gaze narrowed. “Almost broke up Nate and Christine. Horrible mess.”
“Nate and Christine Desantro?” Mr. and Mrs. Perfect?
Mimi nodded her salt-and-pepper head. “The very ones. Could have had a tragic ending if the town hadn’t gotten involved.” She tapped her chin and said, “Pop Benito led the crusade to get them back together. And poor Christine was pregnant…and to think her own mother was behind it all.” She sighed and made a quick sign of the cross. “I know it’s not right to speak of the dead, but that woman was pure evil.”
“Are you saying her mother tried to keep them apart?”
“Keep them apart? The woman paid Natalie Servetti to drug Nate and pretend to seduce him. Even hired a man to take pictures and had Natalie deliver them to Christine. Can you imagine?”
No, he really couldn’t. Nate Desantro, pillar of the community, caught up in a scandal involving photos, seduction, and his mother-in-law? This was worse than the mess with Melissa. “What did the mother-in-law have against him?” The man might act like a tough guy but his own mother-in-law plotting to do him in was like a bad soap opera.
“Ohhhh.” Mimi lowered her voice, glanced toward the closed door that led to the hallway and kitchen. “That is another story altogether. Nate’s one of the finest men I’ve ever known, but there was a time a few years back when he was angry, resentful, and pure miserable.” She stopped, spread her hands on the table, and leaned forward. “You do know Christine was a Blacksworth, don’t you?”
“You mean she’s related to the guy in the mansion?”
Mimi nodded. “That’s Harry. Came from Chicago. Christine’s from there, too.”
“I didn’t think she was from around here.” There’d been something about Christine Desantro that breathed class, which made the fact that she was married to Nate Desantro very interesting.
“She came here when her father died. Bad accident. It was all so tragic.” Mimi cleared her throat and met him with a head-on, no-nonsense gaze. “He had a secret life here with Nate’s mother. Visited them four days every month, and he’d been doing it for fourteen years. They even had a daughter together.”
“Lily.” The girl with Down syndrome.
“Yes, Lily. The light of this entire town. When Christine first came here, Nate wanted to boot her out, tried to do it, too, but in the end, well, he realized he wanted her at his side.”
Ben rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Mimi, that is seriously messed up.”
“I only told you so you know that no matter how you start out, it’s how you end up that counts.”
“Meaning?”
She smiled and he swore she winked at him. “Meaning, you and Gina. She’s a diamond in disguise and just needs the right man to unearth that sparkle.”
“Me? No. No. We’re just friends. Sort of.” Or would be if she stopped avoiding me.
“Friendship is important in a lasting relationship.” Damn, she did wink this time.
Ben pulled at the collar of his button-down shirt. It was too hot in here, almost roasting. “Mimi, you’ve got it all wrong. There’s nothing romantic going on between me and Gina.”
She threw him a knowing look and said, “Yet.”
“No. Ever.” He opened his mouth to tell her about the ex-wife he couldn’t forget, but the words fizzled on his tongue. She didn’t notice because she was too busy smiling and nodding.
“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. Not one word. Besides,” the smile spread, “the roses said it all.”
***
The grand opening of the Blacksworth pool occurred on a hot Saturday afternoon, two weeks before school started. As promised, Lily was first in line, dressed in a pink-and-blue-striped two piece and pink flip-flops with Lizzie and AJ right behind her.
Harry had hired four lifeguards from a neighboring town, a catering service to grill hot dogs, hamburgers, sausage, and serve soft pretzels, salads, cotton candy, and funnel cakes. A real belly upset, but what the hell. The kids had helped with the menu and they’d been so excited to add their picks to the list, he couldn’t say no. Greta had shaken her head and tsk-tsked him, but he didn’t miss the smile slipping past her lips. She was pleased. He’d build two pools to see that look on her face every day.
“Mr. Blacksworth, I mean, Harry, thank you for inviting us. The children and I are very excited to try out the new pool.”
Harry turned to find Haywood Abernathy, the building inspector, and five of his six kids. The man was half Harry’s size with thinning hair, glasses, and hands that were smaller than Greta’s. Six children? How did he keep them all straight? He shook the man’s small hand and threw a smile at the Abernathy clan, trying to calculate the age differences, but gave up and settled on “too exhaustingly close.”
“It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it?” Abernathy said. “Well worth the wait.”
No sense debating the fact that if not for the man’s personal situations, the pool would have been ready weeks ago. If Harry opened his mouth, Greta would be all over him, and an angry Greta was worse than three-days of heartburn. “Sure is.”
“Five minutes until pool time!”
Harry glanced at the lifeguard with the megaphone. There was a limit to the number of people allowed in the pool at one time, and those who had to wait stood behind a thick, corded rope, drinking slushies and eating soft pretzels. “Come with me,” Harry said. “I’ll move you to the head of the line.” Haywood Abernathy beamed and motioned for his clan to follow.
When Harry had them situated, he made his way to the drinks and grabbed an ice tea. In another life, he’d have splashed vodka in it, or more likely he’d have splashed tea in his vodka. Not now; now things were different. He had to stay alert and with three kids running around and a wife who looked like Greta, he needed all the energy he could muster.
“Harry?” He turned to find his wife smiling up at him, dressed in a white sundress splattered with poppies. “This is lovely. Everyone is so happy, and you made this possible. Thank you.” She leaned on tiptoe and kissed him softly on the mouth.
He stroked her cheek, cupped her chin, and kissed her again. “Anything for you, Mrs. Blacksworth, anything at all.”
When the whistle blew signaling pool time, children jumped into the crystal blue water, shouting and laughing as they splashed about. A disc jockey with a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses blared beach music from his setup under a giant oak tree. Smart man to pick the coolest location aside from the air-conditioned house. Harry slung an arm around Greta, pulled her against him, and watched the late-summer festivities. There would be a pack of kids heading home with sunburns and upset bellies. Greta had left sunscreen at all the lifeguard stations but Harry knew it was a wasted effort. Same with the signs she’d insisted placing at the food stations that read Eat responsibly and Don’t overeat. Kids were going to eat until they exploded and refuse anything that said protection. He should know; he’d done the same thing at that age. Hell, he’d done the same thing at fifty—before he met Greta.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Swimsuit himself.”
Greta shielded her eyes and looked toward the gate. “Pop came.” Her voice filled with delight and excitement. “Lily will be so pleased.”
“No doubt that’s all we’ll hear about for the next three weeks.” He clasped her hand and said, “Let’s go greet our guest.”
He wouldn’t tell Greta that Pop almost hadn’t come and wouldn’t have if Harry hadn’t taken him out for pastrami on rye at Lina’s Café and convinced the man to come. Turns out the day of the pool party was also his deceased wife’s birthday. She’d been gone almost three years, but Pop still spent the day with her, talking, sharing memories and photographs. Before Greta, Harry would have said a revelation like that was the first step toward certifiable insanity. Talking to a dead wife? Most of the men he knew didn’t talk to their wives and they were alive. But since Greta, he got how losing someone like that would leave you empty, desperate, scrambling for a reconnection, anything to keep them close. And if it meant hanging a gigantic portrait of that person in the living room, chatting away as though she were seated next to him and engaged in the conversation, then so what? Harry noticed how Pop referred to Lucy in present tense; my Lucy loves truffles, or my Lucy loves summer. Who cared? They could learn a lesson or two on love, marriage, and relationships from Angelo Benito, and Harry would be first in line for the lessons.
“Hey, Pop, glad to see you here.” Harry thrust out his hand and grinned at his friend who wore a Hawaiian shirt and swim trunks more suited to a California surfer than a senior citizen. Harry had paid one of the caterers to pick him up, telling Pop it was a good idea, in case he wanted to drink. Right. They both knew that wasn’t the real reason, but this was about pride and saving face. It must be hell to live in a seventy-something-year-old body when your brain tells you that you’re still thirty-five.
“I had to come and see what all the ruckus was about.” He smiled at Greta and gave her a peck on the cheek. “How are you, my dear? This man treating you okay? Because if he isn’t, you let Pop know and I’ll give him a talking-to he won’t forget.”
Harry shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, you’ll suffocate me with all of your sayings is more like it.”
Greta laughed. “Thank you for asking, but you have no worries. My husband treats me like a queen.” She clasped Harry’s hand and smiled up at him as if he were a king, and damn if he didn’t feel like one when she looked at him that way.
Pop winked at her and said, “Glad to hear it.” He turned to Harry and pointed to his shirt and swim trunks. “So, what do you think? Pretty snazzy, huh? Tony says this is what the surfers wear.”
Tony was the son in California, the one who hadn’t returned to Magdalena since he left, except for his mother’s funeral. Something was definitely up there. Maybe the guy eased his guilt by sending his father designer sporting wear, and maybe Pop let himself believe these gifts actually replaced a visit.
“Well? What do you think?”
Harry blinked. What a thought that was. Neon orange trunks and a matching floral shirt with green flip-flops on a seventy-something-year-old man was just wrong. “You plan to light up the place tonight, Pop?”
“Nah.” He tapped his sandaled feet in a quick dance step and said, “Just trying to keep up with the latest fashion. Age doesn’t mean you have to hand in your style sense.” He scratched his jaw and adjusted his glasses, squinting at Harry. “I think you’d look good in blue trunks and a matching shirt. Match your eyes.”
That was not just no, but hell no. “Thanks, Pop, but I’m all set.”
“Suit yourself. And let me know if you want to borrow any of my music for your workouts. I don’t loan out Frank and Dean to just anybody, but I’m making an exception for you.”
“I told you, Pop, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin are not going to get my blood pumping. I can’t believe you can power-walk to them.”
Pop hoisted up his trunks and thrust his hands on his bony hips. “And why not? Who doesn’t love Frank and Dean? Huh?” He turned to Greta, his lips pinched. “What about you, Greta? You love Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, don’t you?”
She nodded her blond head, a bit too fast. Did she even know who these men were? He doubted it, probably never heard of the Rat Pack either. “Okay, Pop. Bring the CDs to breakfast this week and I’ll try them out, but only if you check out my exercise room.” He and Greta had transformed part of the basement into a full gym, complete with weights, exercise equipment, a sauna, even a juice bar. “I’ll put you on a machine that’s a helluva lot easier on your knees than the pavement.”
Pop scratched his head and eyed Harry. “I’ll try out the equipment if you try out the T-shirt and shorts Anthony sent me last week.” He grinned. “Neon blue with white stripes.”
Chapter 6
Harry’s life as he knew it ended six days after the grand pool opening. There’d been no warning, no sirens, nothing but the parched lawn crackling under his feet and the dry air sucking the moisture from his lungs as he made his way to the deck and his wife. The sprinkler system hadn’t worked in six days and it would be six more before the repairmen came. Life in the country had its drawbacks, but there were a lot of bonuses, too: early morning coffee on the deck with Greta, afternoon playtime with Lizzie on the jungle gym, helping AJ practice his golf swing, napping with Jackson crooked in his arm. Even sitting in the dark, listening to night sounds. Saying absolutely nothing. And peace. Pure, perfect peace, the kind he’d never known before. Hard to say if Greta and the kids were one hundred percent responsible for this newfound peace or if it was a combination of his new family and the move to Magdalena.
He didn’t know and he wasn’t about to analyze the hell out of it. What he did know was that he’d never slept better or felt healthier or happier in his life. And that was saying a lot for a man who had made a career of pursuing pleasure and personal satisfaction.
Harry fixed his gaze on his wife and bounded up the stairs, anxious to fill her in on his breakfast with Pop. The man had a bag of stories and Italian folklore to fit every occasion. This morning he’d told him about his granddaughter, Lucy, and how being a grandparent was so much different from being a parent. Less stressful. More joyful. And then he’d slid him a grin and said again, “Definitely less stressful.”
“How’s my bride?” She always blushed the palest pink when he called her that, but she wasn’t blushing now. As a matter of fact, she looked white, ghost-white, if he had to peg it. “You okay?” He placed a hand on her forehead and leaned close to get a better look. Greta didn’t get sick often and the thought of her in any kind of pain made him anxious and queasy.
“Stop.” She batted his hand away with her right hand and eased out of the chair to stand several feet away.
“What’s the matter?” He glanced at the envelope in her left hand. “What’s that?”
The question bleached out the color on her neck and shoulders and leached its way down her arms. “This?” She held up the envelope, glanced at it as though she couldn’t quite re
member what it was. But when she thrust it at him, her gaze seared him with fury, telling him she knew exactly what the envelope was about, and it had to do with him.
Slivers of panic climbed from his gut to his chest and inched up his throat, threatening to spill the pancakes and Canadian bacon he’d had for breakfast. “Greta?” She reminded him of a rabid animal, nostrils flaring, mouth clamped shut, eyes glazed. “Talk to me.”
“Talk to you.” Those perfect, full lips pulled into a scowl. “Talk to you,” she repeated, disgust dripping from each word. “Why don’t I show you what arrived in the mail today and then maybe you can talk to me?” She advanced on him, thrust the envelope at his chest, and stepped back before he could touch her.
Harry sucked in a deep breath and worked a hand through his hair. Whatever was in this envelope had to be bad. Was it a letter from Bridgett or a woman from his past informing him he was a father? Oh God, no. Please, not that. He’d been so careful for so many years, had always taken precautions, actually, until Greta… The more likely case was some woman claiming he’d fathered her child. He’d have to find an attorney, take a paternity test, head back to Chicago…
“Read the letter.” He glanced up. Greta stared at him, lips pinched, eyes narrowed. “Read it.”
The envelope was addressed to Greta Blacksworth and had a return address of Thurman Jacobs, Esquire. Why the hell was Charlie’s attorney sending Greta a letter? He opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
Dear Greta:
By now you will have settled into your new life. I imagine your husband has charmed you with his words and his wealth. When he puts his not-often-used brain to the task, he can be lethal. I should know; I once succumbed to that gilded tongue. During a dark and lonely period of my life, Harry persuaded me to believe my husband didn’t love me and that his trips to London were of a more personal than business nature. I didn’t want to believe the man I loved more than my own breath would betray me, but Harry insisted it was true, and I had no reason to doubt my husband’s brother and confidante. Surely, he would never lie about his own brother. But that is exactly what he did.
