by Mary Campisi
Chapter 8
Pop would never forget this Christmas Eve, not if he lived another ten months or ten years, unless he really did get the Alzheimer’s his son had been so worried about. Who could ask for more than friends and family coming together despite half-cooked manicotti, cold meatballs, a ham and green bean casserole cooked on the grill, and marshmallows toasted in three separate fireplaces? Maybe they didn’t eat off the fancy china, but what was wrong with a paper plate? Some of Pop’s best meals had been eaten on them. Okay, so they’d needed to double up on the plates so the sauce didn’t seep through, but nobody seemed to care. Heck, nobody seemed to notice. Once the boys got the fires going and the furniture rearranged, couches and chairs scooted in from other rooms and pulled into a big circle, they were all set.
Nate Desantro even played Christmas carols on the piano as his wife and baby sat beside him, while Lily and Lizzie danced. Pop did a jig with them, too. Never too old for a dance with a pretty girl or two is what he always said. Harry Blacksworth must have thought the same thing because once Lizzie got him moving, the man twirled, dipped, and taught Lily to waltz. It was a sight to see and Pop had to blink hard a time or two before the dang emotions took over and spilled a tear. The teary eyes happened again when Ben Reed slow-danced with his new bride, circling the tiny spot of floor, his arms holding her close, her head resting on his strong chest. The sight reminded Pop of the dance they shared at Tess and Cash’s wedding, minus the baby and the love they’d added. Ah, but it was something to witness such love and devotion. He and Lucy had been the same way and only someone who’s never known that kind of love can say it dies with the person. Not true. That kind of love lives and breathes until the other half takes one final breath and joins his soul mate. And that’s what Ben and Gina Reed shared, and Nate and Christine Desantro, and Cash and Tess Casherdon. Harry and Greta Blacksworth, too. But not Brody and Bree Kinkaid, and certainly not Tony and his ex-wife.
Maybe one day Lucy would find her soul mate and then she’d know, too. And maybe Tony would have a second chance at finding happiness with the right person, but before that happened, the boy had to take a long look at the road he was on and see where he was headed. If he didn’t like the direction, he’d better darn well change it or he’d end somewhere he didn’t want to be. Like miserable. Speaking of miserable, had he seen Ramona Casherdon almost smiling? Why, he could have sworn he had, right about the time Nate started playing “Jingle Bells” and Harry serenaded them with a few lines. The woman was a looker when she smiled and relaxed the frown lines around her mouth and eyes. Yes, indeed she was. He’d have to congratulate Harry for including Ramona in the Christmas Eve dinner. Sitting on the outside of life was a dang lonely place to be, even if a person said that’s where he wanted to be and made sure everybody knew it. After a while, people believed the words, even if they weren’t true, and the person who said them got caught in his own trap. And what’s that get him but hour after hour of aloneness that eventually twists and churns into a black hole of loneliness. Maybe Ramona was on her way out of that hole, and maybe she’d found a friend in Miriam Desantro to help pull her out.
Harry said they’d been cooking and prepping together most of the day and Pop had spotted them talking a while ago. A good sign, but not surprising; they were strong women, hard workers, great cooks. Pop would bet his prize basil supply the cooking was what brought them together, but he’d guess heartache had something to do with it as well. Miriam had lost a child, a husband, and Charlie Blacksworth. Ramona hadn’t lost a child or a husband so far as Pop knew, and she’d never been seen with a man, but heartache was written on the sternness of her face and the clipped words that spilled from those lips when she did choose to talk. But heartache from what? The sister and brother-in-law who dumped Cash and took off? The husband and child she never had? Nobody really knew Ramona Casherdon and that’s exactly the way she liked it. Oh, but he hoped Cash and Tess would have a baby soon, whether their own, adopted, or fostered didn’t matter, but it sure would do them all a world of good.
Had he seen Ramona hand Lucy a piece of pumpkin roll just now? Pop sat up in his overstuffed chair and leaned forward, squinting to get a better look. Dang, but the woman had given his granddaughter not one, but two slices of pumpkin roll! How about that? Ramona was softening up. Pop smiled and watched Lucy munch on the pumpkin roll as Ramona pointed to it like she was giving instructions and making recommendations, which she probably was. A good cook and baker was never 100 percent satisfied with their product; he knew that from his pizzelle making. Watching Lucy scarf the pumpkin roll made him hungry for his own piece. Pop patted his belly, eased out of the chair, and made his way into the dining room. There was a fireplace in this room, too, so he didn’t need one of the flashlights AJ had found. Oh, but there was a lot of food here, enough to add an extra pound or two around his middle if he just went for the sweets, or pretended he hadn’t eaten an hour ago and started all over again. If his Lucy were here to see this, she’d have a thing or three to say about his food choices. As Pop worked his way around the table, forking two meatballs, a hunk of ham, and a slice of pumpkin roll, he thought of something that would disturb his wife even more, tear her up like a hot pepper sandwich—the sad and lonely look on their son’s face tonight, like he didn’t belong here, or anywhere.
***
Anthony stared out the window at the snow, mounds of it, some fresh, some tromped on, rolled into snowmen or forts. There’d been a time when he’d loved snow, loved watching his breath come out in puffs of cold. But that was a lifetime ago, and right now, Anthony wished he could have that lifetime back.
The people in this house belonged. They were not outsiders like he was. Even Ben Reed, the newest addition to Magdalena, fell into the group with ease and camaraderie, like he really wanted to be here. Maybe it was the pregnant wife or the friends, or maybe it was the man’s ability to blend and give. And what about Cash? He’d left town with a grievous offense pinned to his back, so dark it seemed he’d never lift the weight of it, and yet, not only had he returned, but he’d been welcomed and he got the girl. Go figure. A person had to have real heart and forgiveness in their soul to get through what that boy did.
In a few days, Anthony would head back to California, resume his old life, minus a child and a wife. There would be no father to fill up his time with stories and doctor appointments. He’d be alone in a house cramped with lukewarm memories of family life. Oh, he could search out his business associates whom he considered “friends” in the broadest of terms, but after the pleasantries and surface “shop talk,” what then? They didn’t care about him any more than he cared about them. Nobody would look at him the way people in this town looked at or looked up to his father. And they certainly weren’t going to stand up for Anthony if someone attempted to barrel in and take over like he’d tried to do with Pop. There’d be no Nate or Lily Desantro coming to his rescue, no Harry Blacksworth throwing back shots and telling him what a great man he was. There certainly wouldn’t be a woman like Ramona Casherdon, warning him in a bold and no-nonsense fashion that he was in danger of losing his relationship with his daughter.
People cared about Pop and now they cared about Lucy. But who cared about him? Anyone? No one? Maybe he would always be an outsider no matter where he went. He stared at the snow. Pure. Mesmerizing. A beacon of redemption, lit by a sliver of moon. Before he stopped to consider the reasons for his actions or the wisdom of them, he flicked on his flashlight and made his way to the back hallway where he yanked on his jacket and hat. Damn, but he should have worn boots. He eyed a large pair, Nate Desantro’s no doubt. Anthony slipped out of his loafers, pulled on the boots, and tied the laces. When he opened the door, a rush of cold air slapped his face. Snow glistened from the ground, offering up bits of illumination as he clomped down the stairs.
The faint strains of piano chords blended with “O Come All Ye Faithful” reached him from the house. How did this group find joy in their circumstances desp
ite no power, no feast, and no way to make it to their own beds tonight? Weren’t they annoyed? Why hadn’t they complained, other than to voice their disappointment that they couldn’t sample the manicotti? Not a peep from the pregnant woman, Gina Reed, or her husband, Ben, who made it his mission to see to his wife’s comfort: a pillow, shoulder rub, extra blanket, cup of fruit, and lots of handholding. Anthony had never acted that way when Rosalyn was pregnant with Lucy, but would his ex-wife have wanted it? Or rather, permitted it? Probably not. Anthony supposed if he had to be stuck in a stranded location, having Nate Desantro in charge wasn’t a bad thing either.
“Mr. Anthony? Why are you out here all by yourself?”
Anthony turned to find Lily Desantro a few feet behind him, bundled up like a snowman. “Lily. What are you doing out here?”
“I looked out the window and saw you.” She moved closer. “You looked like you didn’t know what to do.” She paused. “Do you want to make an angel?”
“An angel?” He’d avoided direct conversations with the child because she made him uncomfortable. There was something about her that saw through the layers of niceties and got right to the core of the issue. How did she do it? She couldn’t possibly know what she was doing and yet he’d witnessed it more than once—from her comments to Lucy about the baby who was going to need a lot of love, to Pop about the car he might want to hand over to Lucy, to Harry and the one or two lessons he needed to learn for when the power went out. The child zeroed in on a pain, addressed it, and moved on, leaving the other person to ponder and evaluate.
“So, do you want me to show you how to make an angel?” She smiled at him, a big smile that spread across her small face. “Daddy said there weren’t enough on this earth and we could always use more.”
Daddy? She meant Christine Desantro’s father, Harry Blacksworth’s brother. Miriam told him the truth the other day, not that she was hiding it, but she wasn’t the type to reveal secrets either, unless required. Not that it was exactly a secret, but the man had been married, and apparently the daughter hadn’t known about Miriam or Lily. If he’d looked at Lily closer, he would have tied together the unique blue eyes and black hair and marked her a Blacksworth. But he hadn’t looked, and now she wanted to teach him to make angels? He shrugged and said, “Sure. Teach me to make an angel.”
Lily dropped to her knees, then rolled onto her back, arms stretched, a smile on her face. “You move your arms and legs back and forth, real wide, like this—” she demonstrated the motion with her arms and legs, spreading them in a great arc in the snow “—and that’s how you make an angel. Now, you try.”
Anthony knelt and rolled onto his back, facing the night sky. As he moved his arms and legs, Lily clapped and let out a small squeal. “You did it, Mr. Anthony. You made a perfect angel.” Pause. “Mr. Anthony?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sad that you don’t live closer to Pop?”
Had she heard someone talking about how he wanted to take Pop back with him? “Why do you ask?” If he knew her angle, he’d know how to answer the question.
“Because you hardly ever get to see him.” Her voice dipped. “You must live really, really far away.”
A plane ride. And not a long one either. Guilt pinged him but he pushed it away. “It is far,” he said. “And Pop doesn’t like to visit.”
“And you don’t like to visit either, do you, Mr. Anthony?”
“Huh?” Who told her that? Had she overheard a conversation?
“You don’t like to visit because it’s really, really far away and then you miss your home.”
“Right.” The home that didn’t feel like a home at all, but a structure of beams and glass and marble. A place to sleep, shower, change clothes, and have an occasional meal.
“Yeah, and you miss all of your friends, too.”
Friends. He bet Lily Desantro’s definition of friends was a lot different from his.
She blew out a soft sigh and lifted a mittened hand in the air. “Hi, Daddy. This is Mr. Anthony. He’s my friend, Pop’s son. We’re making angels. Did you see we lost the power and everything went black?” She giggled. “Nate got a frowny face when he found out Uncle Harry forgot to order the machine that gives you heat and works the oven. Nate said Uncle Harry was too busy matching his socks and ties to remember.” Giggle, giggle. “I like Uncle Harry’s socks and ties. He has purple with blue…and pink and green…” she went on and on in a sing-song voice, talking to a dead Charles Blacksworth.
No wonder Lily got along so well with Pop; they both talked to dead people like they were sitting next to them.
“Mr. Anthony lives in California and that’s really, really far away and he hardly ever gets to see his father. Isn’t that sad?” She sniffed. “And now his daughter is going to have a baby and she’s staying here, so he probably won’t get to see her either. Or the baby. We’ll have to send him pictures, because if we don’t, the baby will grow up and he won’t know what she looks like.” Her voice turned gentle. “I think it’s a girl, but Pop says it’s a boy. He only says that because he wants the boy to look like Mr. Anthony did when he was a baby.” She giggled. “Pop says a child is like a flower and you have to take very special care of it so it will bloom.” She giggled again. “Kids don’t bloom, do they, Daddy?”
Lily’s words pierced his heart, made it bleed. He tried to block out her voice, but it slithered through him, showing him what he’d refused to see. “I miss you, Daddy.” Her voice wobbled. “Miss you so much. Mr. Anthony’s lucky, isn’t he, Daddy? He can see his father and his daughter and his grandbaby all at the same time. Lucky, lucky, lucky.”
***
It was after midnight when everyone settled down; couples snuggled in blankets on couches, sleeping bags, and mountains of pillows. Bodies paired up like matching socks. Pop insisted on the overstuffed chair but permitted Miriam to slide the ottoman under his legs. Harry’s three kids and Lily had crawled into sleeping bags, lined side by side. Nate and Christine Desantro slept on a couch, their baby in a pop-up playpen next to them. And the pregnant Reeds shared another couch, the handsome husband’s hand resting on his wife’s belly. The Blacksworths slept in a recliner, Harry’s head turned to the side, Greta’s resting on his shoulder. He’d have a damned stiff neck in the morning, but Anthony guessed he wouldn’t complain; maybe the guy wouldn’t even notice. Lucy, Ramona, and Miriam slept on another couch, longer and wider than the other ones, a beautiful cream leather with wide stitching. Designer quality, certainly not sleepover material. But Blacksworth didn’t seem to care. He’d laughed and said he only bought it because the color reminded him of his wife’s complexion.
What did a person say to that? Anthony had never thought of purchasing anything because it reminded him of Rosalyn, not even her diamond ring, which she’d preselected to ensure she got exactly what she wanted. He wondered if she did get what she wanted: the lifestyle, the marriage, the child? She might have done without the last, though he’d never breathe that truth out loud.
He made his way to the dining room, away from the sleeping crowd. The empty recliner next to Pop was meant for him, but Anthony couldn’t sleep, not yet, with Lily Desantro’s excitement over her gift-giving so fresh in his brain. Pressed flowers in frames with words like joy, love, hope, scrawled above them for her “family.” But that family didn’t just include blood relatives, it extended to Pop, the Reeds, and the Casherdons.
“Dad?” He turned to find Lucy standing next to him, a blanket flung over her shoulders, her body illuminated by the glow of the dining room fireplace.
“Lucy. Why are you still awake?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either.”
She gestured toward the doorway that led to the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I could make you a ham sandwich.”
He smiled. Food, the making of it, the sharing and eating of it, that was this town’s answer to catastrophes, natural and manmade. It had been this way when he was a boy and his moth
er sent him to Mrs. Mulldaney’s with fresh baked bread when her seventh child entered the world. And the year Arthur Lane broke his leg and was out of work for three months, didn’t the town send his family meals, and a birthday cake for his youngest? “I’m fine, but thank you.”
She bit her lower lip, shifting from one foot to the other and said, “How about a slice of pumpkin roll? It’s really good, not like store bought. There’s at least two inches of cream cheese mix in the roll.” She paused. “I had three slices.”
His gaze darted to her belly, then back to her face. “Three, huh?”
Her lips twitched and she said, “It has nothing to do with the baby. I love anything pumpkin.”
He’d thought she loved anything chocolate. “Good to know.” He tried to make out her expression but the fire cast a shadow over her face, making it difficult.
“I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to you,” she blurted out. “You must really hate me right now.”
“Don’t say that.” He touched her shoulder. “You’re my daughter. I love you.” Didn’t she know that? Couldn’t she tell that despite his screwed-up parenting skills, he loved her? Would always love her? She sniffed and shrugged. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said. “I should have been there for you, but I got so caught up in work and what I thought I should be doing for my family that I forgot about the people in that family.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, stroked her cheek. “I lost my way.”
She nodded. “I used to wish I was Julia’s daughter because then I’d have brothers and sisters and a father who came home every night.”
Lucy wanted to be the cook’s daughter? How sad that she’d wanted to be a servant’s child rather than his and Rosalyn’s. “I think I’m the one who should be apologizing.” He’d made years of wrong choices. Where did he begin to try and change so he could make things right? Was it even possible?
