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

by Mary Campisi

  “I can’t.” And besides, she didn’t love him.

  “I don’t understand.” His hand slipped away; he ran it through his perfect, wavy hair.

  “I can’t, Connor,” she said again, this time meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  “Christine, you can’t just walk away like this. What have we been building these past two years? What was that all about?”

  He’d never understand, so she merely said, “Consider it a due diligence of sorts.”

  “Oh, I see; you being the acquiring party who’s decided not to do the deal?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “I don’t understand you. Ever since your father died and you started taking off to that damn cabin, things haven’t been the same. What the hell’s going on up there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then what’s the attraction and why does it have to be the same days every month? Have you got somebody waiting for you up there? A mountain man, maybe?” He let out a harsh laugh.

  “Why can’t you just accept the fact that I don’t want to marry you? Why does there have to be another person involved?”

  “Is there?”

  “No.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Christine.”

  “I’m sorry, Connor. I never meant to hurt you.”

  He snapped the velvet box shut and stood. “I’m not used to disappointment, but I’ll deal with it.” He shrugged into his trench coat, stuffed the ring in his pants pocket. “But I’m not so sure about your mother.”

  “My mother? Does she know about this?”

  “Of course. Doesn’t Gloria know everything?”

  ***

  “You’re late.”

  “Just settle down, Gloria, twenty minutes is fashionable where I come from.”

  She glanced at the tall, thin man with the slight stoop. She’d thought he was the epitome of a cowboy the first time she saw him, brown and leathery in cowboy boots and a black Stetson. But fourteen years had weathered him even more, toughened his skin like the hides on his granddaddy’s Hereford farm he liked to tell her about. Lester Conroy was a Texan, born and bred, and no matter that he’d lived in Chicago these past eighteen years, he would go to his grave a Texan.

  “Well, Gloria, what you got for me this time?” He hitched up his jeans, rested his bony fingers on his belt.

  “It’s my daughter. Christine.” The man might look like a backwoods hillbilly with manure on his boots but he was the best private investigator in the state of Illinois. He’d been setting traps for unsuspecting victims since his early days tracking fox and coyote on his granddaddy’s ranch. The only difference between then and now according to Lester was that this prey walked on two feet and the reward was a hell of a lot sweeter.

  “Beautiful girl.”

  “She’s been taking off every month, says she’s going to her father’s cabin in the Catskills.”

  Lester let out a low whistle. “You think she’s going somewhere else?”

  “It’s a possibility.” God, but she hated to admit it.

  “I’ll check it out.”

  She nodded, not meeting his gaze.

  “You want me to let you know all the details, same as before?”

  “Yes. I want to know everything.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Good.” She sucked in a deep breath, forced a smile. “Pour us a drink, Lester.”

  “You still drinking Crown Royal, straight up?”

  “For times like these, it’s the only thing that works.”

  “I hear you, Gloria.” He started toward the bar, paused. “Damn shame about your husband. After all this time, I felt like I knew him.”

  “Nobody knew Charles, Lester, nobody.”

  ***

  Christine turned the rented Saab off the interstate and headed toward Magdalena. Sixteen more miles and she’d be back in the town that was becoming more like home with each passing month. Beside her in a flat wooden box were the ribbons she and Lady Annabelle had won over the years: twelve first places, six seconds, and four thirds. She planned to give them to Lily, detail the events, and how she’d won or lost each. Next month was Lily’s fourteenth birthday and with it came her most anticipated present of all: a ride on a white horse, just like Christine’s.

  Lily had been waiting a whole year for this gift, a promise made by their father on her thirteenth birthday. Miriam had told Christine how she’d hesitated at first, pulled under by fear for her daughter’s safety, but after Charlie’s death, she’d realized she had to let Lily ride her horse. It was Charlie’s last gift to her, the one she’d remember the rest of her life.

  Christine was excited to see Lily on a horse. She’d already ordered a riding habit, the same cream jodhpurs, black jacket, and black hat she’d worn in the picture Lily had hanging in her room. That was Lily’s favorite picture; it had been their father’s favorite, too. She no longer thought of him as my father, Lily’s father; he was their father. Lily was her sister.

  When she pulled up in front of 1167 Artisdale, the front door flew open and Lily ran out, her thick black pigtails bouncing, arms flying in front of her, face shining. “Christine! Christine!”

  “Lily!”

  “I missed you! I missed you!” She flung her arms around Christine’s waist, hugged tight.

  Christine buried her face in her sister’s hair and whispered, “I missed you, too.”

  “Come inside.” Lily grabbed her hand. “We have a surprise.”

  “Wait a second.” She opened the car door, reached for the wooden box. “I have a surprise for you, too.”

  Lily’s gaze slid over the box and her blue eyes grew wide. “You first,” she said, squeezing Christine’s hand and pulling her toward the house.

  Miriam was waiting for them in the kitchen, wearing a bright yellow T-shirt and jeans, hair hanging down her back in a loose braid. She was humming under her breath, sprinkling coconut on top of a two-layer cake. “Hello, Christine.”

  “Hello, Miriam.” She walked over and hugged her.

  “It’s good to see you, dear.”

  “You, too.” The fact that she meant it had stopped surprising her two months ago.

  “Can I tell her now, Mom?” Lily pressed her hands together, squeezing them with impatience and excitement.

  “Now’s as good a time as any.” Miriam set the knife down and moved the cake to the center of the table.

  Lily let out a squeal, reached behind her and pulled out two gifts. “Happy birthday, Christine!”

  “How did you know?” Her twenty-eighth birthday had been last Thursday. She’d gotten a silk shawl and a Louis Vuitton handbag from her mother and a diamond pendant necklace from Uncle Harry. From Connor, fortunately, she’d received nothing, not even a phone call.

  “I know your birthday,” Lily said. “May fifteenth. You’re twenty-eight.”

  “That’s an old lady, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, very old.” Lily giggled. “Here. Open mine first.” She shoved the smaller package into Christine’s hands.

  “Thank you, Lily.” The gift was taped several times, the paper crumpled at the corners. She tore the wrapping, slid the plain white box out, and lifted the top. Nestled on a fluff of pressed cotton was a clear shiny stone in the shape of a heart attached to a silver chain. “It’s beautiful.” She fingered the heart, carefully lifted it out of the box.

  “Lily picked it out herself,” Miriam said.

  Christine unclasped the necklace, placed it around her neck. “Miriam, will you help me with it?”

  “Certainly.” She hooked the glass necklace and moved toward Lily. “What do you think?”

  Lily beamed, her blue eyes shiny through her thick glasses. “Now she has two necklaces. Mine and the other sparkly one,” she said, pointing to Uncle Harry’s birthday gift.

  “I love them both because they’re from two very special people.”

  “Me,” Lily said.

  �
�Yes, you.”

  “Who gave you the other one?”

  “My”—she started, corrected herself—“our Uncle Harry. Did Dad tell you anything about him?”

  “I know Uncle Harry.” Her smile spread. “He was the baby in the family. Like me.”

  “That’s right.”

  Lily beamed. “Uncle Harry,” she murmured.

  “He’s not a baby though.”

  “Nope. I’m not a baby either.”

  “No, you aren’t. Twenty-two more days and you’ll be fourteen. I brought you an early gift.”

  “You finish opening yours first.”

  “I won’t argue with that.” Christine tore the wrapping from the square package, pushed aside swirls of tissue paper to get to the gift, a dark bowl nestled in bubble wrap. It was one of Miriam’s bowls, black cherry with a smooth finish. “Miriam.” She ran her fingers along the fine grain. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Put your cheek against it,” Lily said. “Feel how soft it is.”

  She did. It felt like satin.

  Lily eyed the box on the table. “My turn, okay, Christine?”

  “Your turn.” She handed her sister the box, watched her slide her bottom lip over her teeth as she opened it. “Ribbons! Ribbons!” Lily reached in and pulled out a fistful, waving them in the air.

  “These are the ribbons Lady Annabelle and I won.”

  “They’re mine?” Awe spread through her voice, as though she’d been gifted a great treasure, and perhaps in some way she had; Christine had given her a glimpse into her own childhood, a journey with a horse and rider Lily had long loved and admired. But she’d offered forth another gift as well: acceptance.

  Miriam turned away, cleared her throat. “Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday’ so we can eat this cake.” Her voice cracked on the last word and when her gaze swept over Lily who was clutching the ribbons against her chest, there were tears in her eyes.

  Chapter 23

  Dammit, he was not going to feel guilty. So what if they were all celebrating her birthday? So what if she’d casually asked his mother if he were coming?

  Nate pulled a beer out of the refrigerator, twisted the cap open. Damned if he’d feel guilty, he wouldn’t. He knew it was going to be like this, knew there’d be the phone calls, even if they were from his mother, wondering where, when, why? Shit, hadn’t they both said they were making a big mistake, insanity was the word he’d used, wasn’t it? Or had she said it? It didn’t matter either way; they’d been right.

  They never should have slept together, never in five million years. But deep down he knew he’d do it all over again, given half a chance. And that’s what was driving him insane. He shouldn’t want to be with her again, taste her, bury himself deep inside that heat. They were enemies or as close to enemies as civilized people could get. He had no right thinking about her and she had no right expecting him to come to her goddamn birthday party.

  He took a long pull on his beer. Three more days, then she’d be gone. He could get through it, probably wouldn’t even have to see her if she’d just take the hint and stay away from his place. Or he could shack up with Natalie Servetti for the next few days; big tits but she talked too much. Damn, he didn’t want Natalie. All he wanted was to stay in his own house, in his own bed, and he wanted Christine Blacksworth in it with him. That’s why he knew he was screwed up, why he knew he couldn’t trust himself to be alone with her.

  Halfway through his second beer he decided to load the truck and head up to Boone’s Peak to fish and finish off his six-pack in peace. By the time he stopped at Mertha’s Kettle for a chili dog and fries, it would be dark. So he was a chickenshit? So he’d thought of this whole scheme in less than two minutes as a way to avoid seeing her?

  He was on his way to get the cooler from the garage when he heard the car door. Damn. Ten more minutes and he would have been gone. Now he’d have to deal with it, with her. Nate opened the door before Christine had a chance to knock.

  “People usually wait for invitations before they come barging into other people’s homes.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “This isn’t a good time.” He was blocking the doorway, forcing her to remain below him on the wooden steps.

  “Oh.” Her gaze moved over his half-opened shirt, took in the unfastened belt buckle.

  Let her think he was screwing somebody, it was better that way. “Like I said, I’m busy.”

  Her face turned a dull red, the color of the tulips in his mother’s front flower bed. He watched her stumble to pull herself together. Jesus, she was beautiful: the eyes, a brilliant blue; the skin, perfect; the lips, full, pink. He cleared his throat, crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Good to see you again, Christine. Hope you had a nice trip down here.” Civil, ordinary words, relegating their night together as incidental, unimportant, a body filling a need, nothing more, certainly nothing that might be misunderstood as the beginnings of a relationship.

  She backed away from him, one step, two, then three, her gaze never leaving his. “I thought...” Bewilderment seeped into those beautiful eyes, and pain, yes, pain. “Never mind.” She turned and walked to her car, head high, movements slow, purposeful. Not once did she look back.

  He didn’t take his eyes off her until the Saab had rounded a bend and was out of sight. He stood in the doorway listening to the fading hum of the car’s motor, picturing the exact stretch of road the tires would be hitting. When the sound disappeared, he was left once again, alone.

  ***

  He didn’t work on Saturdays unless they were short-handed or a machine went down. Then he’d spend the day, sleeves rolled up, alongside his men, doing what needed to be done to keep production going. The company supported eighty-nine families, and Nate felt responsible for all of them. If they were willing to work, he’d do his damnedest to give them jobs, the same way his father had. Nick Desantro had sweat blood for the company. There were still a handful of “lifers” around, men and women who’d been with ND Manufacturing thirty-five years or more.

  Jack Finnegan was a lifer; he was the one who taught Nate the business when his father died. Jack was the most trustworthy person Nate knew, a husband of forty-two years, father to five, grandfather to seventeen, and the best damn fly fisherman for fifty miles around. He lived two-and-a-half miles from the shop, worked every Saturday, no matter the weather or the occasion. When his youngest daughter, Sara Elizabeth got married two years ago, Jack worked the morning shift and made it to St. Gertrude’s by noon.

  It was Saturday; all machines were running, all jobs were on time, but Nate was at work, pouring over inventory sheets. It was a pain-in-the-ass job, but it was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home feeling like a shit for what he’d done to Christine yesterday. Stay busy, stay busy. Don’t think about it.

  The plan might have worked if Jack hadn’t meandered into his office, plunked his skinny ass in a chair, and said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Nate kept his eyes on the sheets in front of him. “Inventory.”

  “Inventory? Hell, you ain’t done inventory in ten years.”

  “That’s why I’m doing it, to get back on track.”

  “What’s her name, Nate?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “When a man does something he ain’t done in ten years, something everybody hates doin’, there’s a woman involved.”

  Nate shrugged. “No, just trying to find a way to tighten up inventory.”

  “If you say so.”

  The old man was no fool. He saw a hell of a lot more than he owned up to; most of the time he just kept it to himself unless Nate was involved; then he took it as his duty to point out the trouble spots.

  “There’s no woman,” he said again.

  “Not even that Blacksworth gal, Charlie’s daughter? What’s her name?”

  “Christine.”

  “That’s right. Christine. What about her?”

  “
What about her?”

  “Seems like I remember hearing your mother say something about the two of you—”

  He looked up, met the old man’s curious gaze. “There’s nothing there.”

  “Too bad. She sounds like a great gal, not bad to look at either.”

  “How would you know?”

  Jack’s gaze flickered. “I seen pictures of her. Charlie showed me lots of times. He was real proud of her.”

  Nate went back to his papers. The sooner he ended this conversation, the better. He’d come here so he wouldn’t have to think about her and now Jack was trying to open up a full-blown discussion. Christ, couldn’t people just mind their own business? And what was his mother doing, telling Jack about him and Christine? Was she going to tell all of her church friends, too? And the neighbors up and down Artisdale Street? Why not just place an ad in the Magdalena Press—Nate Desantro and Christine Blacksworth, new couple, mother rejoices?

  “Jack!” The door flew open and Betty Rafferty stood there, balancing eight reams of copy paper in front of her. “Oh, Nate. I’m sorry. What are you doing here?”

  “Inventory,” Jack said.

  “Inventory? You never—”

  “I know, I know. Today, I’m starting something new, okay?”

  She shrugged, set the boxes on the table in the corner. “I thought you were in here by yourself,” she said to Jack. “Reading the paper with your feet propped up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s me, the loafer.”

  Nate welcomed the disruption. Normally, he avoided Betty; her mindless chatter gave him a headache, but today, he was glad for anything to divert Jack and his fishing expedition.

  “Well, I’ll leave you two alone. Nate, if you’re hungry, there’s blueberry muffins and banana bread in the lunchroom, though I can’t say how much of the bread will be left if you don’t get to it soon. You know Ray loves my banana bread, says it’s just like his mother used to make.” She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. “The trick’s in the sour cream. I use a cup, not the fat-free kind, either, and I’ll tell you, it does make a difference.”