by Mary Campisi
“I don’t know, Connor. I don’t know why he had to go there. He just did.”
“Okay, don’t get all testy.” He smiled at her, white on white against his tanned skin. “Just trying to figure it out, that’s all.” Connor James Pendleton, age thirty-two, fourth-generation graduate of Princeton and heir to Pendleton Securities, Inc. The Pendletons believed in the stock market, Ivy League educations, and first class. Christine and Connor had been together almost two years, had sunbathed side by side in Hawaii, snorkeled in Cancun, skied in Aspen, and taken a trip to Italy. Twice. With Connor, it was only the best, always: the hotels, the restaurants, the theaters, the people. The only part that lacked was their relationship. It was third rate, maybe less, and no matter how she tried to dress it up with pearls or diamonds or a package deal to Trinidad, it was still just that, third rate.
Being with Connor was like investing in blue chip stocks; they might be a safe bet and look good in a portfolio, but they’d never give you the ride a tech stock would. Weeks could pass without making love and it didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice. But then, neither did she. That wasn’t exactly true; she did notice; it just didn’t bother her. How sad was that?
Some days, she’d catch herself listening to her assistant, Elena, talk to her husband about inconsequential things like what he would like for dinner and could he pick their daughter up at daycare. It wasn’t what Elena said, but how she said it, soft, caring. Christine had tried that once with Connor, called him for no reason just to chat and tell him she was thinking about him. He’d put her on Hold, just for a minute so he could talk to Tokyo, and five minutes later, Bette, his secretary, came on the line and told her Connor would be tied up longer than expected, “closing a deal you know,” and then asked if there was a message. There was no message, none that he would understand anyway.
People expected them to get married—her mother, Connor’s parents, everyone who saw them together. You make a beautiful couple, her mother had told her. You with your fair skin and black hair and Connor with his classic good looks; everyone notices the two of you. Connor’s father was more straightforward. Great gene pool, can’t wait to see the kids. Her own father had been polite with Connor but there’d been no “join our family” sentiment in his words or his behavior and certainly no references to extending the family with Connor’s gene pool.
“Christine? Are you listening? Do you think you’ll be back on the twenty-third? I have to go to New York and I thought you might want to go with me, do a little business, take in a show.”
“I don’t know.” Perhaps, deep down, her father’s lack of acceptance had kept her from committing to Connor.
“I know how you love the city.” He paused and smiled at her. “Besides, I’m meeting with Niles Furband and I was hoping you could work your magic on him again.”
“All I did was talk to the man, for heaven’s sake.”
“That’s just it, Christine. You talked to the man. Nobody talks to Niles Furband, the man. They talk to Niles Furband, CEO of Glen Systems, or Niles Furband, heir to the Furband fortune, or Niles Furband, Chairman of the Board for St. Catherine’s Hospital. They ask his opinion on variable loans in the current market and leveraged buy-outs, or how many zeros they can add to whatever donation they’re seeking. Or, and Jesus, this is so lame, the names of his kids, as if they cared.”
“I cared.”
“That’s my point. You cared. The rest of them are just blowing smoke.”
She tucked several pairs of underwear into the side pocket of her suitcase. “Like you, maybe? Bring me along so you seem more credible when you hold out your hand?”
He did have the good grace to turn a very dull shade of red. “I’ve got a good deal for him. It’s not bullshit.”
“Are you asking me to go to New York to spend time with you or are you asking me to go to set up a deal for you?”
“I want to be with you.” He sat up, reached for her hand and stroked her thumb. “You love New York. I just thought”—he squeezed the soft flesh of her palm—“this could be a huge deal; you have no idea how big.” The stroking started up again, then the white smile. “Just think about it, okay?”
“I’ll see.” She stood there, the touch of his fingers on her skin, the steady movement brushing back and forth, slow, methodical, and felt nothing.
***
Christine loaded the BMW the next morning at 6:15 and began the long haul to the cabin in the Catskills. Snow pelted the windshield in thick, wet chunks as she maneuvered through the dark, untamed landscape before her. How many more miles until she reached his cabin? His other home? Was this where he took her? Was this where they shared a glass of wine, a meal...a bed?
Images rolled over her, seeping from her brain into every part of her body, organs, tissues, cells. What did she look like? Young? Oh, God, please not someone Christine’s own age, or worse, younger. Older? How much older? How had they met? Did she know he had a wife and daughter? Another life that had nothing to do with her?
The guessing drove her mad. She’d know soon enough, and then she’d probably wish she didn’t, because once she saw with her own eyes, heard with her own ears, the image and the sound would imbed itself in her memory, and nothing, no amount of denial or drugs or therapy would erase it. But still, she had to know.
She’d spent hours trying to imagine the confrontation. Faces, inflections in speech, odd little nuances, even something as unassuming as educational background or socioeconomic condition could help determine what should be said or how. Yet all she knew about this woman was her name.
Hadn’t her father ever thought about what might happen if his family found out? Had he been so consumed with love, desire, lust, that it hadn’t occurred to him or if it had, the longing was so overpowering that he discarded the needs of his family? She hated this faceless woman. As for her father, his lies had turned her whole life on its axis, and it would take time to sort out truth from lie, love from hate.
She stopped only twice during the trip—once to refuel and grab a bag of pretzels and a Coke, and the second time to use the restroom and buy a large, black coffee. Hours and miles fell behind her in a white haze of nameless highway, her brain consumed with her destination, filled with both anxiety and dread. By early afternoon, she’d reached the New York state line and when dusk seeped down from the mountains, she knew she was in the Catskills. The cabin was located on the outskirts in Tristan, a tiny dot on the map, smaller than the head of a straight pin, and if she’d calculated correctly, about eighty miles from Magdalena, Lily Desantro’s home.
The road that led to the cabin was little more than a single lane, covered with snow, and dipping off at the edges, no guard rails or posts to guide or protect. What if she slid off to the right over the embankment and rolled the car? No one would find her for days. She gripped the wheel tighter, inched toward the middle of the road. There were trees all around, thick, ominous, pushing her along the slick road, forcing the BMW through a vortex of dense brush and overhang.
She slowed to a crawl. The snow had started again, huge, wet splotches beating the windshield. Christine rounded another bend and spotted a mailbox off to the right draped in white. The driveway lay tucked between a copse of evergreen and she passed by it, then had to back up to find the turnoff. The cabin stood straight ahead, a small log structure surrounded by evergreen and thick-waisted, naked trees whose coverings had long since fallen. Snow lay in pure scalloped drifts along the perimeter of the cabin, edging its way to the front door.
Christine shifted the car into Park, fished the key to the cabin from her coat pocket, and stepped outside. She left the headlights on to carve a path through the gray of dusk that enveloped her. She fumbled with the key and forced it into the lock. The door opened with a slight push, then a grudging creak. She stepped inside, reached for a light, and flipped it on. There was a couch done in blue and cream plaid, a navy-blue chair, a rocker, matching blue and cream plaid cushions, worn and
slightly faded, and a small coffee table. A single hurricane lamp rested on the coffee table alongside a ceramic ashtray. This would be the living room. The kitchen snaked to the right, a tiny oblong packed along the edges with a gas stove, a white refrigerator, a stainless-steel sink and countertop, a single wicker chair, and a set of four TV trays with sailboats on the front.
There were two doors past the short half-hallway that butted up to the kitchen. She opened one, flipped on the light, and found a double-faucet sink that was dingy white with rust around the silver fixtures, a white commode, and a porcelain tub with claw feet and a plug dangling on a chain that had been wrapped around the cold faucet. A cracked bar of soap sat in a white plastic tray. No toothbrush, no shaving cream, no sign that anyone had been here a week ago.
She turned away and opened the door on the opposite end of the hall. This was the bedroom. She stood in the semidarkness, staring at the bed. It was a double, covered with a light chenille spread, no accent pillows or fancy afghans draped at the foot like her mother preferred. Was this the bed? Christine turned away and closed the door.
She worked her way back to the living room and sat in the rocking chair, coat still on. He’d come here every month for years and yet the place looked unused. Where were the copies of The Wall Street Journal, Forbes, James Michener’s Centennial, a gift she’d given him at Christmas? Hadn’t he told her he was taking it with him on his next trip? Where was anything that hinted a body moved about within these walls, lived a life, even if it was only four days a month?
The answer sat around the ring of rust in the bathroom sink, on the coffee table filmed with a fine layer of dust, in the shininess of the navy ceramic ashtray.
He’d told them all a great, fantastic story of the rejuvenating powers found in this cabin hundreds of miles away from everything, where he could think. It had all seemed so noble then, inconvenient, yes, but noble. How many other lies had he told? Tomorrow she’d have her answers.
She didn’t know how long she sat in the rocking chair, coat on, hands clenched together, staring into the blue emptiness of the ashtray perched on the edge of the coffee table. Eventually she got up, went to the refrigerator, and found it empty except for a box of Arm & Hammer baking soda. She quietly closed the door and made her way to the bedroom, kicked off her shoes, and lay down on the left side of the bed, the side her father always slept on. She didn’t pull down the chenille spread, not even to rest her head on the pillow. And then exhaustion took over and she slept.
***
Magdalena was exactly seventy-eight miles from Tristan. Christine woke to the predawn sounds of birds and some other unnamed wood creatures. Her back was stiff, her legs sore, her head pounding. And she was starving. Food wasn’t something she thought about much, not the way her mother did, arranging and presenting it with such dignity. Christine preferred ordering out or microwave-ready, the faster the better, easy cleanup, better yet.
She rolled off the bed, stared at the chenille spread, crumpled from sleep. The questions wouldn’t stop, not until she found the one woman who held the answers, and then, there might be hundreds more. She stripped off her coat, took a quick rinse in the porcelain tub, scrubbed her face, her teeth, pulled a comb through her thick hair and put on the same jeans she’d worn the day before. She reached into her suitcase and grabbed the first shirt she found, a black turtleneck. Ten minutes later she was on the road, stopping only at a 7-Eleven to grab a large coffee and a sweet roll.
She entered the outskirts of Magdalena seventy-eight miles later and began to wonder if she should have taken a bit more time preparing for this meeting. Perhaps she should have worn her pearls, a business suit, flipped her hair in a chignon. In business, the aura of “inapproachability” had served her well, gained access into boardrooms, earned invitations and introductions. Her personal life hadn’t reaped the same benefits, not that it had suffered, but it hadn’t thrived. Aside from Connor, who was a family friend, many men thought her too standoffish. She wasn’t, not really. It was more a cloak she donned to protect herself from overexposure, like sunscreen, a way to avoid the undesirable effects of undesirable people, men in particular.
From the moment she’d heard Lily Desantro’s name, she’d thought of the second when she’d see the woman and a name and a face would merge, one breathing life into the other to form a person, a memory, a past where all supposition would fade into features and voice and realness.
Christine followed the road to the edge of town, to the street on the back of the business card Thurman Jacobs had given her—1167 Artisdale Street. The houses on this street were older, larger, more dignified, with scattered roof peaks, high shuttered windows, and grand porches. They spoke of memories, family and tradition, some with sturdy pillars along the front porch, others boasting wide steps and wider walkways. She was drawn to one halfway down that had pillars and walkways, crisp white with black shutters, an expanse of window spreading up and out, covering first and second stories. The number above the door read 1167 Artisdale.
She parked the BMW and shut off the engine. Holly bushes filled the front beds, scatterings of evergreens clustered in between. To the right, blocking the tan house next door, stood a copse of pine trees, draped in white. Two wind chimes, one a Christmas tree painted bright red and green, the other a snowman plastered in white, hung from the porch, dangling rhythms of sound and sequence.
She should have sketched brief pointers for this meeting, a flow chart of sorts, similar to what she did when she analyzed stocks. Her stomach clenched, bits of sweet roll rising to the middle of her throat. What was there to analyze? Her father had kept a mistress named Lily Desantro at 1167 Artisdale, and this was most likely where he’d come during his monthly trips, not the cabin in Tristan with its ringed sink and empty refrigerator.
Maybe Uncle Harry had the right idea after all; never settle for one, just plow through them like a tractor in a field of hay, one after the other. Multiple, meaningless relationships.
She took a deep breath and opened the car door.
Chapter 4
Nate Desantro thought about ignoring the doorbell and would have if he thought his mother wouldn’t try to get out of bed and answer it herself. Why couldn’t everybody just leave them alone, mind their own business, not his family’s?
He couldn’t count the number of people who’d been here since the accident, well-wishers offering fresh baked rolls, wedding soup, baked ham with pineapple and cloves. What about peace and quiet? Did any of those do-gooders ever think about offering that? His mother needed rest, not a crowd of people hovering over her. He’d kicked them all out last night. Lily hadn’t liked that.
In another week or so, he’d be able to get back to his own place, back to seclusion, where the loudest noise at night was a flip between a screech owl and a log crackling on the fire. Just the way he liked it. The majority of the human species was nothing but an annoying intrusion on his state of mind and, other than the times when he had to interact with them, he preferred to be alone. Of course, family didn’t fit into that category, just everyone else. His mother said he was afraid to open up after what happened three years ago. She was wrong; he didn’t care about Patrice anymore, didn’t even think about her, not since the day the sheriff delivered the divorce papers. Nate heard she was remarried to some bank president in Palm Springs, drove a Lexus now. Probably silver; she’d always had a fondness for silver.
The doorbell rang again, twice, rapid staccato. “Hold on, hold on.” Damn intrusive busybodies. He reached the front door, preparing the same speech he told all the well-wishers. She’s fine... needs her rest... she’ll be in touch when she’s up to it. She’d be furious if she had an inkling that he was blowing off people like Father Reisanski and Judge Tommichelli, but hell, did she have to be best friends with half the town?
He opened the door.
It was her.
“Hello. I’m looking for...”
Her voice was softer than he’d imagined, more breathy.
..
“...this is a bit awkward...”
Her eyes were bluer than her picture...
“Lily Desantro. Is she here?”
That brought him around fast. “Who are you?” Stupid question, but damn if he’d let on he knew who she was.
She hesitated, a split-second extra air exchange. “Christine Blacksworth. I’m... are you Nate Desantro?”
He said nothing. Let her squirm.
“Is Lily here?”
“No.”
“May I come in?” She tried to look around him, into the house, into their lives.
He blocked the door. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You...you know who I am, don’t you?”
He stared at her, refusing to acknowledge the man or his daughter as hatred seeped through him, brought back the days, months, years, his mother spent alone, except for four damn days a month for fourteen years.
“You called my mother’s house...about my father.”
Her voice wobbled. Good, feel it, Christine Blacksworth, feel what I’ve felt for the past fourteen years every time I saw your father’s bathrobe hanging in my mother’s closet, saw his razor in her bathroom, his glasses on her nightstand. Let it strangle you...
“I have to speak with your mother.” The words were firmer, part congealed.
“She’s not available.”
“Can’t you work with me so we can get this over with?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Do you think I wanted to come here? Do you think I would be standing here if there’d been any other way?”
“I don’t know, would you? Maybe come to see for yourself?”
“This is just as hard on me as it is on you.” Her voice dipped, faltered. “At least you knew. I had no idea. All this time, and I had no idea.”
He almost felt sorry for her but years of living with Charles Blacksworth’s comings and goings wiped any pity from his soul. “You think so; you think we’re in the same boat, Christine? What do you think it’s like to see a man coming out of your mother’s bedroom in the morning, one who’s not her husband? And then the bastard leaves her, every month, goes back to his rich family in Chicago, his prestigious job, his three-piece suits. And he does it year after year after year and she cries when he leaves, every goddamn time.”
