A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (10 page)

How could she stop when her mother thrived on the outings, planning each excursion with the thoroughness she’d given to her husband’s coming-home dinners? When they were shopping or dining out, Gloria didn’t complain of pain, though she discreetly downed her little white pill at 5:30
 
p.m
. every day, usually with a glass of Chardonnay.

It was the busyness that Christine embraced most, the exhaustive outings that ate up chunks of time, left no hours for remembering what she wished most to forget: Magdalena.

Connor was more available, too, and she wondered if her mother had spoken with him about finalizing the merger with her daughter. He sent flowers to the office, red roses and calla lilies—whose mere name brought back memories she was trying to forget—and scheduled evenings at the theater. An attentive Connor was hard to ignore. When he told her he’d planned a weekend in New York City to see a show, she’d been hopeful they might be heading toward a new plateau. She didn’t stop to question why she’d never wanted this before, refused to consider that this sudden urgency might have something to do with her recent trip.

But desire could not hold up to reality and the truth of what life with Connor Pendleton would be like. He was the descendant of a long line of business moguls, determined to conquer, restructure, merge, whichever might prove more beneficial to his particular interests. It didn’t surprise her when Niles Furband from Glen Systems showed up that first night and joined them for dinner, though Connor swore it was pure coincidence.

When she lay in his arms that night, the beat of his heart against her naked skin, his breath fanning her hair in calm, even exchange, she knew the true meaning of loneliness, knew, too, that she would never commit to this man.

Surprisingly, it was Uncle Harry who helped her acknowledge what needed to be done. He took her for sushi when she returned from New York and told her,
 
Connor Pendleton’s a jerk who wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit him in the ass.
 As for her mother, he was careful, dealing around the issues of Gloria Blacksworth instead of hammering her head on. 
Do you really want to spend your life riding escalators and dodging the perfume counters at Neiman Marcus? And pissing around with your hair? Leave it alone.

Then he shoved a drink toward her and asked her if she was more upset about her father’s girlfriend or the half sister.

When she didn’t answer, he’d let it go, but now, they were sitting in his living room, sipping sherry, and he’d put the question to her again, and this time he wanted an answer.

“I don’t know, Uncle Harry.” She looked away. “It’s really hard to talk about.”

“Most painful things are. Look at me.” He raised his glass, saluted her. “I’ve spent my whole goddamn life hiding a hurt that happened over thirty years ago, and I still can’t get over it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re not here to discuss me right now. You’re the one we need to talk about, so let’s do it, start talking.”

Was it the mistress or the daughter that bothered her most? Or was it the resentment she harbored against her father for not being
who he said he was?

“I think I never really knew him.”

“Charlie was a tough guy to know, never wanted to disappoint anybody, but in the end, he let himself down. He sold himself out so he could please everybody else.”

“What did he want?”

“Oh, now, there’s a damn sad question.”

“Tell me.”

He refilled her glass, then his own. “Charlie never wanted to run the business. He wanted to be a doctor, save the whole damn world. But you don’t tell Randolph Blacksworth you’re not going to follow the plan he’s laid out for you since the time you could walk, not unless you’re ready to tell him to go screw himself. It was never an issue with me, of course, because the old man never expected anything from me; it was always Charlie.”

“But a doctor’s a very respectable profession.”

“Didn’t matter. He’d even been accepted into medical school, Georgetown, I think. But once the old man put his foot down, that was it. When Charlie told me he was giving up on medical school, I told him he should tell the old man to go screw himself.”

“But he was excellent with the firm; he was a natural leader.”

“He was Charlie. But deep down, he’d have much rather been hunched over a microscope studying cancer cells than sitting in a boardroom.”

“Are you saying his whole life was a lie?”

“Hell no, I’m not saying that, but what I am saying is your father made choices, and he chose duty and responsibility to everyone but himself. And now we find out he was only human, just like the rest of us. If he found one little slice of happiness with that Desantro woman, then let it go, at least give him that.”

“You mean we were merely
 
his duty
, that Miriam Desantro and her daughter were the ones he really loved?”

“No. I’m saying maybe with them he could be himself, not always the one with the answers who makes everything right.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t.” His blue eyes studied her. “Neither do you.
At least not yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means there’s probably only one person who knew the real Charlie Blacksworth and unless you go back there, talk to her and try to understand, you’ll end up just like me, tormented and miserable for the rest of your damn life.”

She was coming today. Sometime in the next several hours, Christine Blacksworth would drive into Magdalena and knock on his mother’s door. And Miriam would let her in, welcome her actually. Wasn’t Christine the one who’d told them all she wanted nothing to do with them?

Why’d she have to come to Magdalena and screw everything up? What if she ran into Lily this time? His mother said Christine knew all about Lily, but Nate was more concerned that Lily not find out about Christine. What would she do if she knew the person she idolized had sat at her kitchen table, walked through her bedroom?

Lily would want to meet her. She had wanted to meet her since the day she found that damn picture of Christine on a horse, sitting there so proud...so damn untouchable. And if Lily did meet her, she’d like her, and she’d want to start inviting her to school, maybe church, and just when she’d begun counting on her, Christine would go back to her real home. Just like her old man.

Lily would never understand; she believed people did what they said they’d do. She didn’t know about the hidden agendas, the lies.

But his mother hadn’t wanted to hear any of it. She’d told him Christine was reaching out to her and she wasn’t going to turn her away.

The money from the will had come the other day, the first of three installments. Nate called it guilt money, but Miriam said it was merely Charlie’s way of taking care of his responsibilities. She’d mentioned the possibility of paying off Nate’s business loan with some of it—there was more than enough—but he’d told her he’d torch the place before he accepted anything that belonged to Charles Blacksworth.

So he’d sit here and he’d wait. There was a six-pack of Michelob in the refrigerator and a stack of wood by the fireplace.

He was ready.

***

Christine thought about turning the rental car around and heading back to the airport at least once every twenty miles, but the desire to know pushed her forward. Miriam hadn’t sounded surprised to hear from her. In fact, she’d spoken as though she’d been expecting the call. When the subject of meeting Lily surfaced, she told her they’d have to “see how things went.”

Her mother wasn’t pleased with her decision to return to the cabin for a few days.

Again?
Why? Why do you have to go?

I…just need a little time.

I thought
, pause, 
this was our time. We were having a grand time together, you and I.
 Pause. 
Weren’t we?

Of course, Mother. But I need to do this. It’s only for a few days.

I hope this isn’t going to become a habit, like with your father.

No!

When will you be back?

A few days.

Four?

Yes.

Good. I’ll fix you dinner. Seven o’clock.

Okay. Invite Uncle Harry, too.

Oh, that damn man.

Please?

All right. What about Connor?

No.

But—

No.

Pause. 
Don’t be late. The meal will be ruined if you’re late.

And that was that. Unspoken words slid between them.
 
I want you here, I want you here, I want you here.
 Four days, that’s all the time she had to piece together years of questions that would take a lifetime to understand.

It was early afternoon when she reached Magdalena, its streets a dirty mix of snow and slush. Plows had created mini-boulders along common areas; perfect for children playing King of the Hill. Christine parked along the curb of 1167 Artisdale Street. There was an old station wagon with wood panels and a black F150 pickup parked in the driveway. She guessed Nate Desantro was standing guard over his mother.

She made her way up the steps, the snowman and Christmas tree chimes tinkling on either side of her, and rang the bell. Nate Desantro opened the door. She hadn’t remembered him quite this large—the massive shoulders stuffed into a blue and black flannel shirt, the muscular forearms exposed beneath rolled up sleeves, the thick neck.

“My mother’s been expecting you,” he said.

“Thank you.” She nodded and shrugged out of her coat.

He stood in front of her, blocking the hallway that led to the living room. “For some insane reason, she wants to get to know you,” he said, lowering his voice. “She thinks it will help you come to terms with your old man. But don’t you dare demean her or I’ll kick your ass out of here. And if she decides to let you meet Lily, I want you to keep in mind that the child worships you. She’ll believe everything you tell her, understand? So don’t be like your old man and make promises you can’t keep.”

She didn’t know what her father had told Lily, didn’t know anything about the man who lived here four days a month. And so she simply nodded and said nothing.

“My mother’s in the living room.” He turned his back to her and headed down the hallway.

Miriam sat in a rocker, knitting. Her fingers stilled when she saw Christine. “Christine. Hello.” A smile spread across her face, accentuating the lines around her eyes and mouth.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“I’m glad you called. Please—” She stood up, clutched the burgundy piece she was knitting in her right hand. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Well, then, something to eat. You must be hungry.” She turned to her son who was leaning against the doorway. “Nathan, would you mind, dear? I’ve got pumpkin roll sliced in the fridge. And put on the water for tea, too, just in case Christine changes her mind.” When he’d disappeared, Miriam sat down, motioned to her. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

Christine sat in the stuffed flowered chair, the same one as last time.

“What are you making?” She couldn’t open the conversation with “Tell me everything about my father so I can think of him without this hate that’s been ripping me up.”

Miriam lifted the burgundy material in front of her. It looked like a half-finished sweater, with the neck and better part of the torso completed. “I was making this sweater for Charlie.” She let it slip to her lap, her hands gripping the material in tight bunches. “He was always cold. I made him a new one every year.” She shook her head and the loose bun at the nape of her neck wobbled back and forth. “I don’t know why I’m still knitting it. It’s... just that it makes me feel
close to him, almost like he’s still here.” She looked up. “But you haven’t come to listen to me ramble on about how I miss Charlie. Tell me what you want to know and I’ll try to help.”

“I’m struggling to understand this—” Christine made a sweeping gesture “—all of this; not only his death, but you, this place...Lily.”

“It must be very painful and confusing for you.” Miriam’s fingers moved over the burgundy material resting in her lap, once, twice, three times, in an absent-minded caress. “Charlie worried about it all the time, how to tell you, when, even 
if
. He used to say that of all the people who’d counted on him, you were the one he’d let down the most...and you didn’t even know it.” She sighed, clutched the gold cross around her neck. “He tortured himself with that every day for fourteen years.”

She let out a small laugh. “I met Charlie in Sal’s Market, in the pickle aisle. He was looking for kosher dills, and I told him they were in the refrigerated section, by the herring and cream cheese. That started a discussion on kosher refrigerated versus non-refrigerated, and twenty minutes later he’d told me about his sister dying and invited me for coffee. He needed to talk to somebody, and he seemed like a nice man, so I went.”

“He and Aunt Ellie were very close.” What else could she say? 
He shouldn’t have been talking to you about her, he should’ve been talking to my mother?

“Your father and Ellie were inseparable, from what I heard. But I always felt sorry for your Uncle Harry.”

Before Christine could ask why, Nate Desantro appeared carrying a tray with a teapot painted in sunflowers, two matching cups and saucers, cream, sugar, and a sunflower plate filled with sliced pumpkin roll.

“Thank you, dear.”

He set the tray down on the coffee table and said, “I’ll be in the garage if you need me.” He glanced a warning at Christine and left.

When the back door closed, Miriam poured the steaming tea into the cups, and said, “He’s not as mean as he sounds. He’s just very protective.”

“I gathered that.”

“His father died when he was only twelve and he felt as though he had to become the man of the family. He didn’t like it much when Charlie started coming around to talk, share a meal. But Nathan tolerated it because I think he figured Charlie would go back to Chicago and that would
be the end of it. But when Charlie returned, and then Nathan found out about you and your mother…well, he never forgave your father.”

Christine gripped the cup between her hands, felt the heat seep into her fingers.
 
Of course, he couldn’t forgive him, how could he?

“For all of his power, his responsibility to business and family, your father was not a strong man.” The words slipped out as though Miriam regretted saying them but knew they needed to be said. “He tried so hard to make everyone happy but he couldn’t choose between us, Christine. He just couldn’t.”

“What did he say when he found out you were pregnant with Lily?”

She looked away. “He didn’t know for a while. You see, Charlie had decided to break it off; the duplicity was killing him.” Her voice dipped, filled with pain. “I didn’t see him for three long, horrible months; by that time I knew I was pregnant. When he called to see how I was doing, I told him about the baby.” She turned to meet Christine’s gaze. “Don’t hate your father, hate me. He was trying to do the right thing, but I wouldn’t let him. And then, of course, when Lily was born with Down’s, he couldn’t leave.”

Miriam reached into her back pocket, pulled out a pack of Salem Lights. “Will it bother you if I smoke?”

Christine shook her head. “My father hated smoking. My mother hid her cigarettes and only smoked when he was here.”

Miriam lit her cigarette, took a long drag. “I only smoked when he wasn’t here and then only outside so he wouldn’t be able to smell it in the house.”

“Well, now nobody has to hide anymore.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“I want to know everything.”

“Charlie started coming to Magdalena once a month. Actually, he’d stay at his cabin, drive up here, and I’d cook for him.” She smiled, blew out a thin stream of smoke. “He loved vegetable beef soup with homemade rolls. And strawberry shortcake; those were his favorites, but then you knew that.”

No, she didn’t. What about veal piccata?
Chicken Oscar? Chateaubriand? Had her mother ever served them vegetable beef soup or strawberry shortcake?

“We used to talk for hours,” Miriam said. “He’d sit at the kitchen table, right where you sat the last time, and I’d be cooking or feeding him something, and before we knew it, three or four hours had passed. It’s the talking that keeps people together, Christine. Don’t let anybody tell you any different. A person’s got to know that somebody cares about what he has to say.”

What about talking to his wife?
 Even though her mother liked to keep her topics light, “table talk,” she called it, hadn’t there been a time when they’d shared issues that mattered?

“At first, Charlie was reserved; he didn’t talk much, mostly listened and asked a lot of questions. I could almost see his brain working, processing my answers, filtering out
his own questions.” There was a second’s hesitation before she added, “He was an amazing man, Christine. Truly amazing.”

Christine pretended not to see the tears in the older woman’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, so sorry that I hurt you.” The words fell out in soft penance. “But I will never be sorry that I loved him...or that he loved me.”

***

How long was she going to stay? One day, two days? Four? He let out a laugh, cursed under his breath. Wouldn’t it be ironic if she followed her old man’s footsteps and stayed four days? Nate didn’t want her staying at all; he wanted her out of here before Lily came home. But his mother had told him Christine could stay as long as she needed to.

As long as she needed to…what?
Needed to see how her old man played house in Magdalena? Needed to see how screwed up she could get trying to absorb it all? Needed to ferret out every detail of her old man’s secret life so she could forgive him? Or hate him?

He couldn’t hide out in the garage forever; it was friggin’ freezing out here. Besides, he could only check the oil and tire pressure on his mother’s station wagon so many times. He slammed the hood, wiped his hands on a cloth. Screw it. He was going to have to go back inside and face Christine Blacksworth, maybe even share a meal with her.

He zipped his jacket to just below his beard, moved to the small, scarred workbench where his father had spent many a night tinkering with one project or another, and pulled out a sketch pad. He flipped it open, grabbed a pencil and began drawing. He didn’t hear the garage door open, didn’t realize someone was standing behind him until she spoke.