A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 (14 page)

“Lily, stop.”

“I’ve been waiting twenty-seven days.”

“I know, dear.”

“She promised!” Her small chest heaved up and down as the tears started. “She promised.”

Miriam pulled her into her arms. “I know.” She smoothed her thick hair, stroked her back. “Christine’s mother is hurt, Lily. She’s in the hospital and Christine can’t leave her alone right now.”
More stroking. “You wouldn’t leave me if I were in the hospital, would you?”

“No.” It was a small word, muffled by tears and the cloth of their mother’s shirt.

“I know you wouldn’t. If Christine could be here, she would be.” She ignored Nate’s hard stare and went on. “I know she’d be here.”

He watched the tears pool in his sister’s eyes. Dammit, why had their mother ever agreed to let that woman come to Magdalena?

“I got all dressed,” Lily murmured, “all by myself. I just wanted her to come back.”

“I know.”

This was what happened when you trusted a Blacksworth
. The crying went on and on, Lily’s small body trembling with sobs.

“I’ll bet Christine’s really scared.” Lily stilled, inched away. Her eyes grew bright beneath her thick lenses. “I’ll make her a card.”

“That’s a good idea. But, you know we can’t send it, Lily.”

“I know. I’m just going to keep it for when she comes back.”

Harry let himself in the front door. He could hear Greta moving around in the kitchen, cupboards, drawers, opening and closing, water running. She’d made bread today or maybe it was rolls he smelled, the sourdough kind with butter smothered on top. What would it be like to come home just once to real apple pie filling his senses, not the manufactured aroma of an apple air freshener? He’d never know, of course. His women didn’t cook and hiring someone like Greta, or even hiring Greta herself, was out of the question. How could he screw Bridgett on the kitchen table with Greta mashing potatoes next to him?

He could never hire Greta as a cook or housekeeper or whatever in the hell she was. How long would it take before he forgot she was a decent woman with two kids and tried to bang her? One day?
Two? He just had to picture her bending over the oven, that nice ass full and tight against the white of her uniform and 
bam
, he’d be after her.

He heard her humming some soft little tune that made him picture her lips, teeth, tongue. Jesus, he was sick. He shrugged out of his coat and headed for the staircase. It was midafternoon and Chrissie was still at work, which was why he’d decided to make the trip now. The poor kid looked worn out—popping in to visit her mother every morning and every night, squeezing a few hours of work in between, then running around the city picking up magazines, books, lotions, anything that might speed Gloria’s recovery. The damn bitch was wringing the life from Chrissie, one damned aromatherapy candle at a time.

But that was all about to end.

The bedroom stood at the top of the stairs to the right. Harry eased the double doors open and stepped inside. It was different from what he remembered; no crimson and gold walls with matching curtains and bedspread poured out in lavish excess, smothered in heat and sensuality. Even the carpeting was gone, a dark red that later he thought of as blood-red, seeping betrayal, harboring secret remnants of sweat and lust within its thick piles. The new carpet was a palest blue, the color of an ice pond.

This new décor suited Gloria. He bet she’d picked it from a showroom window, down to the stuffed white cat sitting on the rocker. Or she could have gotten the idea from a 
House Beautiful
 cover. There were blue stripes, some pale, some almost white, and peach; at least he thought it was peach, covering the walls, the curtains, a few pillows. And then she’d gone and mixed a flower pattern, peach and blue with white, on the rest of the pillows and the bedspread, or was the technical term 
comforter
? He guessed 
House Beautiful
 would consider the room elegant, but Harry had one word for it—
dead
.

He took a step toward the bed. She lay on her side with her back facing him, two pillows wedged between her legs to elevate the cast on her right ankle. He struggled for air; the goddamn stripes were closing in on him. He took another step, tried to suck in a clean breath, and inhaled the heavy scent of her perfume.

The years rolled away and she was on the bed, straddling him, head thrown back, long blonde hair brushing his thighs. She was moaning over and over and over, and he was pumping into her, harder and harder and harder...

Jesus Christ, he was going to puke. Harry breathed in through his mouth, once, twice, three times.

“Christine?” Gloria’s voice sounded groggy with sleep, or Vicodin, or booze, probably all three. “Is that you, Christine?”

Harry took one more open-mouthed breath. “No. It’s not Christine.”

She swung around, winced from the sudden movement. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t get up for me. I’ll just come around to the other side of the bed so you don’t hurt your, ah,” he paused, “injury.”
 
Okay, okay, I can do this.

“I want you to leave.” She rolled onto her back, eased into a half-sitting position.

“In a minute.”

“What do you want?”

She was still beautiful, her skin smooth, unwrinkled, no lines around her neck or eyes. Her features were small and delicate, the nose, chin, cheeks, lips, all flawless, the blonde hair fluffed and shiny. She wore a peach lounging outfit made of silk or perhaps it was satin? She could pass for a full ten years younger than fifty-four, but then why shouldn’t she when she spent her existence perfecting herself, escaping the reality of life, denying the inevitability of death?

In some ways, he and Gloria were very much alike.

The thought sickened him. He would do this for Chrissie and now for himself, to prove that he and Gloria weren’t the same.

“I said, what do you want?”

Harry sank into a blue-striped chair by the bed, kicked his feet out in front of him. “Do you get Botox injections?”

She stared at him.

“I mean, really, do you? You’re a beautiful woman, I’ll give you that, but you’re fifty-four, Gloria, you realize that, don’t you, and not a line, no wrinkles, nothing? How can that be?” He crossed his arms over his chest, watched her tiny nostrils flair, her jaw clench. “You do, don’t you?”

“What do you want?”

She wasn’t taking the bait. Why the hell was he doing this anyway; what did he care if she injected her whole goddamn body with Botox? He’d grabbed the first thought that crossed his mind, anything to blot out the memories of her young body working him, slick, hot. She’d had a birthmark on the inside of her thigh, strawberry, shaped like a heart...Jesus Christ!

“I know your game, Gloria”—he forced himself to meet her gaze—“I’ve always known your game.”

“I had an accident, for God’s sake. I broke my ankle.” She pointed to her right leg. “Even you, limited intelligence that you possess, can see that.”

“I know you broke your ankle. I saw you break it,
I and fifty or so other people saw you break it. Witnesses, right? That’s what we were.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Witnesses to the accident,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “It was a brilliant idea, and for just a second you almost had me. But then I thought why would Gloria request, or rather demand, as I recall, that we dine at The Presidio the night before Chrissie plans to leave? And why in God’s name would she make a point to invite me when we both know we hate each other’s guts? The answer came to me as I watched you lying on the floor, and all the people around you, the witnesses, and Chrissie, right by your side. Then I knew; you’d staged the whole fall to keep her from leaving.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “You threw yourself down those stairs so your daughter would cancel her trip.”

“The Crown Royal’s pickling your brain, Harry.”

“And you knew she’d cancel it because that’s the kind of person she is.”

“You’re crazy. You need professional help.”

“You think so? Maybe we should check into rehab together. I’ll go for the booze, you go for the pills.”

“I broke my ankle.”

“I know. You also did something else. It’s called manipulation.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Leave Chrissie alone. No more of this guilt trip stay-with-mama shit. If she wants to go away, to the cabin or goddamn Alaska, you let her go. If you think about pulling this shit again, you better throw yourself in front of a semi because when I’m through, you’ll wish you had.”

“Is that meant to instill fear?”

“Goddamn right it is. You try this again; I’m telling her. You got it?”

“Even you’re not that big a fool.”

“I mean it, Gloria. I’ll spill it all, how you and I used to screw right here in this room while Charlie was in London earning a goddamn living to keep you decked out in diamonds and a Mercedes.”

She pulled her lips together tightly, keeping whatever words she meant to say inside.

If he thought he could get away with it, he’d reach over and squeeze that goddamn unlined neck she was so proud of until he’d choked the last pulse out of her. He clenched his fists and fixed his gaze on her neck. He could do it—he could kill her right now for her part in all this. But what about Chrissie? It would kill her, too. Harry unclenched his fists, forced his gaze from the smooth, unlined silkiness of her neck. She was talking again; was that nervousness or fear in her voice?

“We both live in our private hells, Harry, God made certain of that. I haven’t looked at you once in the past twenty-eight years without remembering how we betrayed Charles. And yet I had to welcome you into our home, invite you to our table, engage in conversation with you, and pretend nothing had happened.”

“So you’ve got a conscience after all.”

“I hate you, Harry Blacksworth.” She reached for the cigarette case on her nightstand, flipped it open. “We were only together six times; many of the women I know have been far more indiscreet.”

“And were they screwing their husband’s brother?”

Her head jerked up. “You were no innocent, Harry. You were dying to take something that belonged to your brother.”

“And I’ve never stopped paying for it.”

She blew out a long thin line of smoke and studied her cigarette. “Neither have I.”

The striped walls began closing in on him, red seeping through palest blue, pulling him back, threatening to soak him in deceit. He shot out of his chair. “I just hope to God Charlie never knew.”

“Of course, he never knew. Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because if I thought he knew, I’d blow my brains out.”

“He didn’t know.”

The red was gone; the stripes were crisp and cold. “Leave Chrissie alone, lay off the guilt trips, and I’ll keep quiet. Start coming up with ailments or other reasons to keep her by your side, and I’ll tell her about us.”

Gloria puffed on her cigarette, muttered, “Bastard.”

“And then I’ll tell her the rest.”

“You wouldn’t do that to her.”

“If it were the only way I could save her from you, I would. I’d tell her the whole damn truth, every last detail.” He snatched the cigarette from her fingers, snubbed it out in the blue ashtray next to a small mountain of butts. “Charlie hated it when you smoked.”

“Charles is dead.”

He grabbed the pack of Salem Lights from the nightstand and threw it across the room. “Then dammit, show his memory a little respect.”

“Go to hell!”

Good. Harry turned and headed for the door, sucking in sips of air. 
Feel it, Gloria, feel the rage and let it strangle you.
 He closed the door behind him and drew in a clean breath of air, one free of perfume and memories.

***

It was an accident.

Gloria eased herself onto her side, moaned as the pillow slipped from between her knees, jarring her right ankle.

It had been two hours since Harry bombarded her bedroom, stealing first her slumber and then her peace of mind.

She let out a second moan that had nothing to do with her ankle. Why would he accuse her of manipulating her own accident?

People lost their footing every day, slipped, tripped, stumbled. That’s why these mishaps were called accidents, why engineers were continually designing new products such as nonskid surfaces and shoes with improved traction.

Did Christine believe she’d orchestrated the fall, too? Is that why she’d been so erratic lately? Surely, she must know her own mother would never do such a thing.

True, she hadn’t wanted her daughter to return to the cabin, had all but begged her not to go. But to fake her own accident to keep her here?

She never should’ve taken the Valium that day. It was one thing to self-medicate in familiar surroundings, but to pop Vicodin
 
and
 Valium, and then negotiate thirteen steps at The Presidio, down, not up, unassisted; well, that had proved disastrous.

If she could have avoided the steps, none of this would have happened. She knew how to balance her pills, move through her days in a shimmer of fuzziness that no one detected. And when sleep eluded her, an occasional Ambien got her through the night and much of the next morning.

It was talk of another trip that pushed her to the Valium. Christine had no business going back there.

It was an accident. Christine knew that, didn’t she? Damn Harry Blacksworth and his worthless existence. And he’d thought she had no remorse…Charles had been standing by their bed the day she realized he really had loved her, despite the missed anniversary, the remoteness, the constant travel. But by then, it was too late.

How could you, Gloria?
 She could still picture him in their bedroom, so handsome, so wounded, the small, foil packet in his outstretched hand. 
How could you?

She’d tried hard to be valiant, make him believe.
 
What is it?
 And then leaning closer, gasping, 
Where did that come from? Someone’s been in our bed! Oh my God, Charles!

And he, all the while watching her, the silver packet screaming infidelity in his outstretched palm…
My cuff link fell under the bed…I bent to pick it up…

I’ll speak to Anna. I hired her nephew and his girlfriend two weeks ago to clean the windows and chandeliers. They must’ve snuck in here…oh, my God, how disgusting.