A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1

by Mary Campisi

  “Then tell the poor schlub before he buys the ring and orders the monogrammed towels.”

  She rubbed her temples. “I’ve tried.”

  “Remember what I was saying about giving hope where there isn’t any? If you’re done with the guy, you should give it to him straight up, no sugar.”

  “It’s not that easy.” He didn’t have to live with her mother’s disappointment.

  “It never is.”

  ***

  Miriam wiped her hands on an old towel crusted with color. She’d been working on this piece for months. It was an oil of Lily on a four-foot canvas. Charlie had been so excited about it, had sat beside her as she blended tans and pinks with off-white to find just the right hue for their daughter’s skin tone. He’d be pleased with the results, a pale ivory dusted on the cheeks with pink. And she’d gotten the eyes right, too, a vibrant sea-blue that changed with the seasons: Charlie’s eyes.

  God, but she missed him. She shook a cigarette out of its pack, lit it, and sucked in a deep pull of smoke. It had been seventy-seven days since she’d lost him. The pain remained sharp, the tears just below the surface though she tried to keep them hidden from Lily and Nate. What good would it do to let them see that sometimes she just wanted to curl up and disappear inside herself?

  They all depended on her: Lily, Nate, the town. Charlie had depended on her, too. The world didn’t know the real Charlie Blacksworth was riddled with self-doubt, tormented by guilt of decision and indecision, whether to choose love over duty, desire over expectation.

  She’d cried when he was gone from her, back to his other home, and she was alone in the queen-size bed, wrapped in the easy folds of the chenille spread. When they were together she hid her desperate longing to keep him there, instead waiting until he’d backed out of the drive to snatch a cigarette and two quick shots of Johnny Walker Red—to steady herself, which ultimately failed, and only made her feel worse.

  But then morning would come, and with it Lily and reminders of how bleak her life had been before. It was true that one could be more alone with someone than by oneself. She’d always thought the idea foolish, a poet’s version of love gone awry, but that was before her baby girl’s death, before marriage to Nick Desantro became nothing but a piece of paper blessed by St. Gertrude’s Church. That’s when she knew loneliness, sleeping beside a husband-turned-stranger, passing through the motions of polite existence day after day, speaking but saying nothing, meaning nothing, feeling nothing. Nate had been her only light, her salvation.

  The loneliness she’d felt with her husband and the one she’d known when Charlie was gone were different. With Nick, it was his presence that evoked the feeling; with Charlie, it was his absence. And then came the deaths. Nick’s brought relief, Charlie’s, sorrow. Both times, Nate was by her side.

  She loved her son, prayed for his happiness each Sunday at Mass and all the moments in between. If God would grant her one wish, it would be that Nate would bury the hatred he carried for Charlie once and for all with the anger that scarred his life and blotted out his ability to see goodness. Had that same hatred caused his breakup with Patrice? Had she felt the pain of his wounded soul and been unable or uninterested enough to pull him out?

  A mother knows her children’s weaknesses, even if she sometimes refuses to acknowledge them. When Nick died, perhaps it was guilt that prevented her from speaking up each time Nate immortalized his father, creating images and situations that were so much grander than the actual man had ever been. She’d believed that, given time, Nate’s misplaced loyalty would fade and replace itself with a future where Nick Desantro was a vague memory, loved, respected, but put in the past.

  But it had continued, molded, and changed until Nate decided the only way he could truly honor his father would be to carry on in the family business. It didn’t matter that Nate loved furniture making; ND Manufacturing was his duty.

  So, when Charlie Blacksworth came into her life, there was no chance Nate would approve. How could he when Charlie was everything his own father was not—educated, articulate, city-born, wealthy…caring? To welcome such a man into his life would be to disrespect his own father.

  She’d wanted to tell him hundreds of times just what kind of man his father had been. She’d practiced the words so many times that they sat in her subconscious, ready to spring to instant recall. Even the pauses and enunciations were well tuned. He couldn’t even face his baby daughter when she was dying. Did you know that? Anna died in my arms and he couldn’t face her. Do you know where he was? Another pause. In O’Reilly’s Bar, that’s where, all night. What kind of honor is that, Nathan?

  But she couldn’t strip the image her son had so carefully created, year after year, layer upon layer of beliefs, wrapped in supposition, most of them groundless, all of them untrue.

  And so she said nothing.

  ***

  Lily was almost asleep when she smelled it: sweet, flowery, familiar. She lay very still, sniffing into the half-darkness. Was she dreaming? Was her mind playing tricks again like it sometimes did, making her wonder if what she saw or smelled or heard was in a dream?

  She turned just a little, lifted her nose in the air, sniffed again. The scent grew stronger, heavier, filling both nostrils. It wasn’t a dream! She was wide-awake and still she smelled it.

  “Christine?” Lily whispered into the darkness. “Christine?” Please, please, please, let it be you.

  “Lily?”

  “Christine!” She jumped up, scrunched her eyes to see. Someone stood next to her, same size, same shape as Christine but fuzzy. Lily swiped a hand over the nightstand, found her glasses, and shoved them on her face.

  “Christine!” It was her! Even in the half-dark, she could tell it was her.

  “Your mom said you went to bed a little while ago, but sometimes it takes a bit for you to fall asleep.” Christine sat on the edge of the bed. Her hair was long and fluffy tonight. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  Lily giggled. “I smelled you.” She giggled again, moved closer to Christine and grabbed her sister’s hand. “Like flowers.”

  “Oh, my perfume.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You like it?”

  “Hmm-hmm.” She touched her sister’s hair, so smooth, so soft.

  “I’ll put some on you tomorrow if you want.”

  “Okay.”...the best sister in the whole world.

  “Okay.”

  ”Is your Mom better?”

  “Yes, she’s doing better.”

  Lily stroked her hair again. “You are so beautiful.”

  “You are so beautiful, too.”

  Lily threw her arms around Christine’s neck. “I love you.” She squeezed tight, burying her nose in Christine’s hair, inhaling the flower perfume. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  Chapter 17

  March in Magdalena was brutal. Rain and hail pelted the town on and off for the better part of three hours, bombarding rooftops, ripping immature branches from their fragile frames, filling the streets, forcing man and animal alike to seek shelter.

  Christine peered through the slat of the white wooden blind. She was in Miriam’s living room, having her second cup of green tea and her third slice of poppy seed bread. The rain had settled to a steady drizzle, much less threatening than the earlier downpour. The winds had diminished, too, fizzling to sporadic mini-gusts that swirled and then died.

  It was her second night in Magdalena. Lily had gone to bed an hour ago but her presence still circled the room. They’d spent the day inside, playing checkers, Go Fish, Ker Plunk, making play dough spaghetti, smearing Crayola paint on a white sheet of paper, and coloring in a My Little Pony coloring book. Lily had chattered nonstop about everything: her new red shoes, the blue jay in the bird feeder outside, the loud horn in Nate’s truck, the wind and rain, but she always circled back to the same subject.

  Christine? I want to ride a horse like yours.

  Lady Annabelle?

  Uh
-huh.

  Maybe someday you will.

  Dad promised for my fourteenth birthday. I want to wear a hat like yours, too.

  The one in the picture? The black riding hat?

  Yup. Just like you.

  Maybe for your birthday.

  Yup. Giggle. Maybe for my birthday.

  Lady Annabelle was a very gentle horse. You would have liked her.

  Yup. Lily’s lips curved into a big smile. On my birthday, Christine, I’m gonna ride a horse just like yours and wear a hat, too, just like yours. She poked Christine in the arm, giggled. Yup, just like yours.

  On her birthday...Lily was wriggling her way into Christine’s thoughts more than she liked to admit, making her wonder, just for the briefest of seconds, if her father hadn’t spent hour after hour wishing he were here in this town, in this house. Away from Chicago and Christine and her mother, away from everything that reminded him of his other life.

  Her own life was a mess; she wanted to delve into the existence her father had shared with these people, dissect it, piece it back together, and yet, there was that other part of her that considered running back to Chicago, sinking into her work, and pretending she’d never heard of Magdalena or the Desantros.

  Uncle Harry thought she’d only come back because of the watch. That was part of it, but not the whole reason. She pictured it lying in Lily’s pink jewelry case beside the fold-up ballerina with the net tutu. She’d had a case like that when she was about six or seven. It wound up from the back and played Some Day My Prince Will Come, just like Lily’s. But it hadn’t had Randolph Blacksworth’s pocket watch resting on the pink velvet lining.

  “Christine?” It was Miriam, calling her from across the room.

  Why? Why didn’t you love me enough, Dad? Why did you give what was mine to someone else? You had no right...

  “Christine?”

  “Yes?” You had no right...damn you...

  “That was Nathan on the phone.” Miriam sat down on the flowered chair, reached for her tea. “He sounds horrible; his cold is going into his chest.”

  When had the phone rung?

  “And he’s got a horrible cough.”

  Christine moved away from the window and turned to Miriam. “Is he taking anything?”

  “He either takes nothing, which is what he’s doing right now, or he takes a double dose of everything.” She sipped her tea, breathed out a long sigh. Tonight she wore a salmon-colored sweater and jeans with gray hunting socks and moccasins. She looked absurdly elegant. “I’ve got a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove.” She pointed a work-roughened hand toward the kitchen. “That’s what he needs to open him up. A bowl of chicken soup and good old-fashioned Vick’s VapoRub, just like when he was a boy.” She paused, rubbed her cheek. “Some things never change. Have you ever noticed that, Christine? Think about it; you grow up, move out, and still, some things just never change?”

  Yes, she’d noticed.

  “Don’t you think we all tend to revert back to our childhood roles when our parents are around?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I know so.” Miriam slid a piece of poppy seed bread onto a napkin. “I’ve done it myself. I can be a successful, independent woman three hundred and sixty-three days out of the year and then, the two days my parents come to visit me, bam! I revert back to the shy little girl who used to trip over a one-inch rug and fall flat on her face.” She let out a small laugh. “I’m no longer a well-respected artist; I’m the little girl sitting at the kitchen table smearing finger paint on a piece of freezer paper and waiting for my mother to tell me it’s beautiful.”

  Christine said nothing. How many times had she looked to her father for approval, tolerated her mother’s critical evaluation of her looks, her lifestyle? How many times had she been the little girl in the corner waiting?

  “Nate’s a fighter, though. He hates it when I hover; that’s what he calls it, hovering. He’d never let me take care of him, not since his father died, said it was his duty to care for me. Can you imagine a twelve-year-old saying that? I remember…” Her voice drifted, stilled. When she spoke again, a sadness clung to her words, filling in the gaps. “He just needs somebody to care about him, not for him. Anybody can iron a shirt, wash a few clothes, and cook a meal. For heaven’s sake, a cleaning lady can do that. Nate needs somebody who’ll stand beside him, maybe even stand up to him if need be.” She sighed, rubbed her eyes. “Not those silly women either, the ones who flit in and out of his life like butterflies. He shoos them away before they can light.”

  “I’m sure he’ll find someone.”

  “I just hope he’s not too headstrong to admit it when he does. Love doesn’t always come according to plan.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Sometimes there is no plan; it just appears. And if we’re very lucky, we see it and we seize it quickly, because once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

  Is that what you and my father did, seized it quickly?

  “Don’t close yourself off to possibilities or people, no matter how absurd they might seem.” She tilted her head to study Christine and a dangle-bead earring brushed her neck. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Since Nate will probably lie there and be miserable all night, the least he can do is try some soup. I was thinking about taking a container over to him.”

  “You can’t go outside in this weather. I’ll take it to him.”

  “If you don’t mind...” Her smile deepened, spread to her eyes.

  “No, not at all.” She followed Miriam into the kitchen, wondering if the woman had ever had any intention of going to her son’s.

  Chapter 18

  She should have been here by now. Nate coughed and pulled on a flannel shirt. His mother had called forty-five minutes ago to say Christine was on her way with chicken soup. So where was she? The back roads to his house were black and wet. What if she’d taken a wrong turn? Or ran into a ditch?

  It pissed him that they hadn’t just left him alone. He knew it wasn’t Christine’s idea to pay him a visit; his mother’s handiwork was written all over the chicken soup. He could just picture her, making the damn soup, worrying about him, insisting he take medicine, drink fluids, like he was a goddamn baby. So he felt like shit? He’d be fine once his head stopped pounding and he could quiet the damn cough. All he wanted was to be left alone.

  Now he had to go looking for Christine. Great, just what he wanted to do on this god-awful night. He pulled on his jacket, checked his watch again. No sense calling his mother; she’d worry herself sick if he told her Christine hadn’t showed. He’d drive around first, check her route. He hoped she wasn’t in a ditch somewhere. That would involve a tow truck and at least an hour to get her out. Shit. He was sweating to death one minute, freezing his ass off the next. He grabbed his cell phone, stuffed it in his jacket, and headed out the door.

  The rain started again, making it difficult to see more than a few feet past the windshield. He squinted into the darkness, trying to scour the sides of the road, searching for her car. What had she rented this time? It was a Saab, wasn’t it? Black? He’d only had a quick glimpse of it the first night when she came to see him. Damn, he should have paid closer attention, but hell, how could he have known he’d have to play investigator later on?

  The first mile and a half turned up nothing. The roads were slick, some parts pooled in water, forcing him to go slowly. His mother never should have let her out on these roads tonight. What did a city girl know about driving back roads in weather like this? All for some goddamn chicken soup? He coughed, coughed again. The hacking started then, hurting his lungs, making it hard to keep his eyes on the road. His mother’s damn soup was going to get him killed.

  Christ.

  A chill ran through his body. He reached over, flicked the heater on high. There was a bend in the road ahead, a slight curve that ended in a straight stretch and it was there, halfway into the bend, that he saw the faint stream of light in the ditch, noticed the c
rashed guardrails, and finally, the tail end of a dark car jutting out.

  He pulled the truck alongside the road and jumped out. Wind and rain battered his body, whipped around him, making it difficult to work his way down the ditch.

  “Christine!” he yelled into the storm. “Christine!” Was she lying inside bleeding or unconscious? He slipped and slid his way to the front of the Saab. “Christine!”

  She was huddled inside, unmoving. Nate tried to open the driver’s door but it was smashed in at the handle. He maneuvered to the other side and yanked the passenger door open.

  “Christine!” He reached in, touched her hair. “Are you all right?”

  She whimpered. Her face was streaked with blood, her right eye swollen shut. “Nate. Help me.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll get you out of here.” He reached for her shoulder, stopped. What if she’d hurt her neck? Or back? Then she wasn’t supposed to move, was she? He’d have to call 9-1-1 and they’d send out medics, lift her out on a board. Wasn’t that how it worked? He ran a hand over his forehead. Christ, he was burning up.

  “Nate. Help me.”

  He forced himself not to look at her right eye or the patches of blood drying on her face, smeared on her nose, chin, forehead. Instead, he concentrated on her left eye, staring into it in the faint light enveloping the front seat, trying to remember the blueness of it, ocean blue, like Lily’s.

  “I’m going to call 9-1-1, get you some help.”

  “No. Please.” She touched her face, felt the swelling around her right eye. “I’m okay.”

  “What about your neck? Your back?”

  She straightened against the seat, winced. “I’m okay, Nate. Please. Just get me out of here.”

  He stayed focused on her good eye. “You might need stitches.” His gaze slid sideways. There was too damn much blood. She should go to the hospital, shouldn’t she?

  “I need to get out of here.” She tried to open the driver’s door. “I need to get out of here,” she repeated, throwing her shoulder against the door, once, twice, three times. “I need to get out of here!”