A Family Affair: Fall

by Mary Campisi

  Why don’t I open the door so you can see for yourself? “I’m not sure. Probably.”

  “Such a sweet girl.” And then, “Do you have any more dinners planned? Maybe you could cook for her at her place, you know, in a more intimate environment?”

  Oh, he knew all right. Why didn’t Mimi just say, “So you can be alone and maybe cook something up in the bedroom after you finish in the kitchen?”

  “No more dinners planned.” His gaze slid from Gina’s face to her neck, lower still, in an attempt to get a reaction from her. It was useless; the woman had shut him out and there was no getting back in. Damn her. Not that he necessarily wanted to take whatever this was further, but she’d murdered the possibility with that cold stare and rigid stance. What pissed him was the way she fell into the kiss like she’d die if she didn’t have it, and then pushed him away, like she’d die if she had to remember it. Or repeat it. Right. There’d been a helluva lot of emotion arcing between them a few minutes ago and Ben wasn’t the only one sending or receiving the signals. Let her pretend she didn’t feel anything; let her try.

  “I definitely think you should have a follow-up dinner.” Mimi paused and a softness coated her words. “It’s nice to see Gina with a young man. She has so much to give, but…well, she tends to give the wrong impression.”

  “No kidding?” When did someone people referred to as a jalapeño pepper with a viper tongue give the right impression?

  “But it’s not because she doesn’t care,” Mimi said. “It’s because she cares too much.”

  Ben slid a look in Gina’s direction. Bad idea. The face that a few sentences ago had been the color of paste had turned red, the kissable lips transformed to a thin line, the bright eyes downshifting to soot. Not happy.

  “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.” He needed to end this conversation now, before Mimi shared more personal information about Gina. “Have a good night. See you in the morning.”

  “Will do. And, Ben,” her voice dipped, “Tell Gina she left her keys in the bridal suite.”

  Chapter 10

  People might say Nate Desantro was a tough sonofabitch, but if Harry had to pick one person to stand by his side and do battle for him, it would be Nate. Once you had the guy’s loyalty, you had it for life. Likewise, if you lost his trust, you were screwed. It didn’t matter how wealthy you were, how much influence you had, or even if you were family, if you lost Nate’s trust, you were done. No second chances on that one.

  Nate was a man of few words, but when he did speak, people listened, and a short while ago, Greta had been on the listening end. Thank God. The plan had been for Harry to vacate the house early in the morning before anyone noticed. That hadn’t been too hard, seeing as his wife barely spoke to him, and the kids still thought he had the flu and was off-limits. AJ was no fool, though: he’d been eyeing Harry these past few days as though he knew the flu story was buried three feet deep in bullshit.

  When Harry walked into Lina’s, she brought him his coffee and ordered up the special: two buttermilk pancakes, two sausage links, and two eggs, over easy. She brought him the paper, told him a few stories about the goings-on in town, and snapped her gum with each telling. There was something to be said for comfortable and easy-going that outweighed fancy silverware and waiters who scraped the crumbs from your tablecloth with a butter knife. He unfolded the Magdalena Press, spread it out on the Formica table, and perused the contents as he ate breakfast. Jack and Dolly Finnegan donate new tree for the Magdalena Elementary School. Honor Cummings, granddaughter of Samuel and Wanda Cummings, traveled to London on a scholarship where she will study Economics. Community fresh market this Saturday at the town square. Rex and Kathleen MacGregor vacation in South Dakota, home of Mount Rushmore.

  He’d just started the story about Webster Donahue celebrating his 101st birthday and what the man had done for more than a century when Nate called to say it was time to head home and talk to Greta. “She misses you, you big oaf,” he’d said. Those might have been some of the sweetest words he’d ever heard. Harry slapped a twenty on the table, waved to Lina, and was out the door before he remembered he still had his napkin tucked in his shirt like a damn bib. Pop Benito had got him doing that after the first time Harry spilled syrup on his silk shirt. He yanked it off and laughed. Life was good. Damn good.

  How had he spent so many years fighting commitment and love, hell, fighting anything close to an emotion? None of that had made any sense until Greta. She’d changed everything, opened his heart, his soul, his world to what it could be like to love a person, the pure joy of it. Oh, there were times when it wasn’t so joyful, but if you put the good and bad side by side, the good outweighed the bad every single time. It had to be with the right person, though, or you might as well forget it; the bad would smother you. That happened a lot; it had happened to poor Charlie. The man got sucked dry by a leech of a woman who wouldn’t let go, long after the marriage was over. At least Charlie had found Miriam, and she’d given him moments of true happiness, even if only four days a month.

  Harry pulled up the circular drive of his house, parked the car, and jumped out. The kids were inside with Mrs. Wright, the part-time sitter and cleaning woman. Greta said she didn’t need a cleaning woman, that she was more than capable of scrubbing out a tub or two. But eight? That was a bit much. And getting the grit out of ten bathrooms, especially when Lizzie and AJ insisted on trying out a different one every day? Yeah, it hadn’t taken much to convince Greta that she might need two cleaning women. He made his way to the sliding glass door and peered outside.

  Greta was at the other end of the pool, picking up the kids’ toys and beach towels. She wore a blue and white cover-up, her golden hair pulled back in a long braid, her feet in those ridiculous flip-flops she insisted on wearing. How could they be comfortable? Still, he must be the only person breathing air who felt this way because kids and adults wore them to his pool: pink, green striped, polka dot—even Pop had on a pair when he visited. Harry opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the deck, shielding his eyes from the morning sun.

  “Harry?” A smile burst onto Greta’s face as she waved and ran toward him. “Harr—!” She tripped and fell, hard and fast, her head hitting the edge of the pool seconds before her body rolled into the water with a dull thunk. And then she disappeared under the water.

  “Greta!” Harry tore down the steps, dove into the pool, fully clothed, shoes still on. Dear God, please no. He swam under the water, scooped her lifeless body into his arms, and carried her out of the pool. “Greta. Greta!” Her eyes were closed, her mouth open. Was she breathing? Harry eased her onto the cement, turned her head. What to do, what to do? What the hell to do? He laid a hand on her chest but, damn it, he couldn’t tell if she was breathing. She must need CPR. Oh, no, he had no idea how to do it. He tried to mimic what he’d seen in the movies, fumbled with his hand placement, and managed a few awkward attempts. “Breathe, Greta. Dear God, breathe.” The tears started then, his tears, scalding his face, falling onto his wife’s soggy clothing.

  He didn’t know when the EMTs arrived or who had called them. Later, he would learn that AJ, his nine-year-old stepson, had been the one to maintain his wits and save his mother after Harry fell apart. The rest of what happened was a blur and again, it was AJ who remained calm, called Christine, and asked for a ride to the hospital. Harry hadn’t considered that; he’d had his keys in his hand when AJ stopped him. If the boy hadn’t, Harry might have ended up like Charlie.

  The hospital wait was painful. Bells, buzzers, beeping. How did people work here every day amidst the chaos and adrenaline-fueled activities, and then take lunch breaks, read the newspaper, call their kids? How did they lead a normal life? How did they turn it all off? He and AJ sat side by side, silent, as the drama of the emergency room played out before them. If he weren’t panicked before, the activity and worry had him on his way to a full-blown attack. It was coming. Soon.

  “You okay, Harry?”

&nb
sp; Harry slid his stepson a glance and managed a word. “Sure.”

  “Just take deep breaths, not real fast, though.” AJ looked at him, his dark eyes bright. “You gotta be strong for Mom, okay?”

  “Right.” I’m scared shitless.

  “It’s going to be all right.” AJ’s smile wobbled. “You’ll see.”

  Harry didn’t see anything but Greta in the pool, and then lying on the cement, eyes closed, a blackish-purple swelling on her right temple. Dear God, help her, help all of them.

  “Mr. Blacksworth?” A young doctor with wire-rimmed glasses and a shock of curly black hair and a beard nodded at him, maybe even smiled, hard to tell with the beard covering so much of his mouth. “I’m Dr. Whitlow.”

  Harry stood, held out his hand. Above all, even in the face of possible misery, he knew his manners. “Dr. Whitlow. How is she?”

  The mouth moved, opened an inch. “Your wife suffered a concussion. She took a pretty nasty fall and we want to keep her tonight for observation.”

  “But she’s okay?” He glued his eyes to the mouth, waited.

  “The preliminary tests were fine, but we want to keep an eye on her. Of course, Mrs. Blacksworth will have a pretty big bump on her head and she’ll be banged up from the fall, bruises on her side and hip, but if there are no issues tonight, we’ll release her tomorrow.”

  He glanced at AJ. “Can we see her?”

  Dr. Whitlow opened his mouth and this time, Harry spotted the smile. “She’s been asking for you.”

  Harry followed the doctor to the fourth cubicle where Greta lay on the bed, IV in one arm, lump the size of a cherry tomato on her right temple. She tried to smile, but the effort proved difficult. “Harry,” she breathed.

  “I’m right here, Greta.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Right where I belong.”

  “I’m sorry, Harry. So sorry.” Pause. “Nate paid me a visit.”

  “I know.”

  “Mom?” AJ moved to the side of the bed so his mother could see him. “I came with Harry so he wouldn’t be alone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your boy saved your life,” Harry said. “If it hadn’t been for him…” The words clogged his throat and he couldn’t push them out. If it hadn’t been for him, you could have died.

  AJ shrugged. “All I did was call 9-1-1 like you taught us. You were unconscious. When the paramedics got there, they did the rest.”

  Harry had been so turned around and frantic he hadn’t even thought about 9-1-1. No, AJ had saved his mother’s life and Harry would never forget it. And tomorrow, he’d find a CPR class and sign up.

  “I can’t wait to come home.” Greta squeezed his hand, smiled at him. “Back to our family.”

  “Damn straight.” He leaned forward, placed a gentle kiss on her mouth and said, “Damn straight indeed.”

  Later that night, as Harry sat on the deck drinking bourbon and contemplating the events of the day, he wasn’t so sure he could just move on and forget what happened. In fact, he was certain he couldn’t do it. Greta was the heart and soul of this family and yet, he’d put her life in jeopardy today. Why the hell had he thought he needed a pool? He’d never stopped to consider the dangers, because that’s not how he worked; if he wanted it, he got it. Bigger, better, faster. What else had he insisted on that might bring misery to this family? The sauna in the basement? One of the kids could turn it on and get trapped in there, die from the heat. He didn’t know how, but it could happen. That’s why they were called accidents. He could pick apart the whole house, starting with the ceramic tile—a good fall and a conk on the head could do you in—and ending with the fireplaces, five of them. Fire was always bad and what if the flue got clogged by a squirrel’s nest and asphyxiated all of them? Mrs. Wright would find them dead in their beds and then she’d know Harry Blacksworth slept in the buff.

  By the time Harry finished his third bourbon, he’d convinced himself they were all doomed and it was because of him.

  “Don’t you know it’s unhealthy to drink alone?”

  Harry swung around and spotted the man standing on the other side of the sliding glass door. “Nate?”

  Nate Desantro stepped onto the deck and handed Harry a glass. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  “You’ll have to drink fast to catch up.” He filled Nate’s glass, then his own.

  “To family,” Nate said, holding up his glass.

  “To family.” Harry took a healthy swallow and enjoyed the burn. “I owe you another case of this stuff after what you did for me.”

  Nate shrugged. “Not necessary, but I won’t turn it down. How’s Greta?”

  “Left her at the hospital a few hours ago. I would’ve stayed but she made me come home, said I had to get a good night’s sleep.” He dragged a hand over his face, sighed. “How am I supposed to sleep with her in the hospital and me responsible for it?”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Not true. I’m the cause of it, me and those damnable flip-flops. I was watching her before she saw me, thinking how beautiful she was and how I hated those flip-flops that half the world seemed to love. She looked up and saw me, called my name and started running…”

  “Harry. Don’t.”

  “I’m not good for her, Nate. I love her more than my own breath, but I don’t deserve her. She’s an angel, and I’m nothing but the devil.”

  “She loves you.”

  Harry shook his head. “Greta doesn’t know any better; she’s too kind, too naïve. Hell, I can’t even work a damn riding lawn mower without putting it in a ditch. Not much with a screwdriver either, even a wireless one. Greta had to show me how to use it and then I stripped the screw.” He wouldn’t tell him about his second attempt, where he forgot to use a screwdriver bit. “What man can’t work a wireless screwdriver?”

  Nate cocked his head. “You mean a cordless screwdriver?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, I knew that. What the hell, I can’t even remember the name of the friggin’ tool, let alone how to use it.”

  “You don’t have to know how to do any of those things. You hire out, or at least you did, until you got it in that thick head of yours that you had to be Mr. Fix-it and Mr. Fashion. I bet Pop gave you his ‘you can do it all speech,’ didn’t he? You should have asked him if the duct tape he uses to repair everything qualifies him as Mr. Fix-it, or if the fancy sweats and high-top sneakers make him Mr. Fashion.”

  “How did you know Pop was behind it?” He wouldn’t tell him about the pizzelle maker the old man suggested.

  Nate shook his head. “Pop’s behind three quarters of what goes on in this town. I’ll bet he didn’t tell you Lucy was the one who did the repairs in that house, did he?”

  “Hell no, he didn’t. Not a peep.” Wait until he saw Pop again; the man would need those high tops to get away from Harry.

  “Didn’t think so. And I doubt he mentioned the son in California who probably pays to have his toilet paper rolls changed.”

  “Nope.” He’d give the old man a two-second start and then he was coming after him.

  “Right.” Nate folded his hands over his belly and leaned back in the chair. “The point is, we are who we are. You can put a tie on me, but I’m still the guy who’s going to open his mouth at the wrong time and say what’s on his mind. That doesn’t fly in corporate circles. And don’t ask me what gabardine is, or when to choose pleats versus plain-front slacks.” He paused, scratched his jaw. “I didn’t even realize it mattered until I met you.”

  “Don’t be an asshole. This is serious.”

  Nate laughed. “You’ve got to go with who you are, Harry. That’s who Greta fell in love with, not some hands-on craftsman like me.” His lips twitched. “She prefers the ‘smooth operator’ in a suit.”

  Harry scowled. “Yeah, now you are an asshole. Greta deserves better than me, a helluva lot better, but damn it, I can’t give her up.”

  “I know.” Nate turned serious. “You think you’re the only guy w
ho believes the woman he loves is too good for him? You think I don’t have those same thoughts about Christine?”

  “Nobody’s good enough for Christine, but she seems to want you around, so don’t screw it up.”

  “Not planning on it.”

  “She’s really happy here with you, Anna, this life. I never would’ve dreamed it, but I can see how this kind of place grows on you, and I can see why Charlie couldn’t give it up.”

  “Yeah…well…” Nate finished his drink, set the glass on the table.

  “He must’ve hated leaving here and having to go back to Gloria every month. That woman’s determined not to let us forget how powerful she can be, dead or alive.”

  Nate poured another bourbon for himself and Harry. “That ends now. We aren’t going to let her try to destroy any more lives.”

  “How the hell are we going to do that when she’s taking pot shots from the grave?” Harry sipped his bourbon, corrected, “Or should I say from the urn?”

  “You know the letter Gloria sent notifying Christine of her death? Well, she sent a notebook, too, one that apparently would enlighten the world and explain life before she became the miserable person we remembered. I’m sure it was full of tortured soul-searching and he-done-me-wrong garbage.”

  “You don’t know? Didn’t you read it?”

  Nate shook his head. “Nope. I hid it; figured that woman had just enough poison in her to try and kill us all with whatever was inside. You’ve seen her handiwork. A single sentence could take out a family.”

  “Don’t I know it?” He considered the notebook, the destruction it could cause. Did this woman never stop? Was she that evil that she would ruin a whole family, then a town, to seek vindication? Or did she realize she was beyond vindication and simply wanted to spread lies and treachery so no one would have peace, not even her own daughter? “What did you do with the notebook?”

  “Brought it to the office and stuck it in my desk drawer.”