by Mary Campisi
“We love each other and we are not our parents.”
He studied her long and hard, in a way that made her wish she were hidden in his garden and away from his scrutiny. “Love has nothing to do with it. It’s commitment and toughness when your world shatters around you. It’s losing babies and jobs and hope. It’s sickness and pain, and disillusionment and broken dreams.” He leaned forward until he was inches from her face. “Do you and Nate have that Because if you’re gonna survive, you’ll need it. He already sent one wife packing. You might be number two.”
“If you think that, Mr. Benito, then you have clearly underestimated me. I’m going to make this marriage work, and I don’t care what you think.” She stood and grabbed her handbag. “I mean you no disrespect, but you don’t know me. Nate said you’re The Godfather of this town and I needed your approval to get people to trust me with their money. Well, you know what? You’ve already made up your mind about me, so let’s not pretend whatever I do won’t be overshadowed by your issues with my father. Good-bye and thank you for your time.” She’d made it to the third step with the intent of rounding the house when Angelo Benito’s laugh reached her: full-bodied, loud, pleased. Christine swung around and faced him. “I wasn’t trying to be humorous.”
He stood and held out a hand, motioning her back. “Nobody but my Lucy ever gave me lip like that.” He laughed again. “She would have liked you. Maybe you will be good for Nate. Strong-willed, like him. Like me and Lucy. Come on, sit down, and we’ll agree to disagree about your father.”
Christine made her way back up the steps and sat in the rocking chair she’d vacated moments before. Angelo pointed to the garden in front of him. It was a 12x15 raised bed surrounded by small wire fencing with random tin pans dangling from the top of the fence and strips of white cloth. Inside the fence were several rows of what appeared to be tomatoes, zucchini, and peppers. She would not have been able to identify any of these vegetables if she and Lily hadn’t spent last summer planting their own garden. Lily had taught her the names of each plant, helped water and weed, and eventually harvest the bounty.
“Chicken wire and tin pans are a gardener’s secret weapon. Yup.” Angelo scratched his head and squinted at the garden. “No four-legged creature’s gonna steal Pop’s tomatoes. You ever grow anything, Christine?”
Yes, I grow personal portfolios; can I show you what I can do? “Um, last year Lily and I planted a garden.”
“Lily.” He said her name with great affection. “She’ll teach you a thing or two if you open up and pay attention.”
“I know.” Lily had taught her about forgiveness, hope, and unconditional love, but the first time she’d met her half-sister, Christine had seen nothing but a Down Syndrome child.
He switched the subject back to gardening. “I used to tend a football-field-size patch of land. And then those dang ladies of The Bleeding Heart Society cornered me and wouldn’t let me go until I agreed to help them out.”
“That’s the perennial garden club Miriam told me about.” Miriam had given her an earful, starting and finishing with how the members were in everybody’s business, offering suggestions on problems related and unrelated to gardening, whether the advice was solicited or not.
The dark eyes grew wide behind the giant glasses. “Miriam told you about them?” His thin lips pulled into a smile. “Was it a warning to stay away? She’s never been keen on that group, says they’re busybodies, which they are, but in a concerned way.” He rocked back and forth, considered his next words. “Or maybe they have too much time to yammer on and on about other people’s worries. Or they read too many ‘feel-good’ books and think people all deserve a happy ending.”
Curiosity got her. “You don’t seem like a man to get cornered into anything you don’t want to do. Why did you join the group?”
His voice downshifted. “Because of Lucy. She was one of the first members and when she passed, they just couldn’t let her go.” He cleared his throat and settled his gaze on a planter at the foot of the steps. “I couldn’t let her go either, so I joined and it helped ease things a bit. Lucy was a character, always getting mixed up in one thing or another, but with a heart as big as a watermelon. The society says it fosters a ‘passion for perennial gardening’ but what it really does is helps people in need. You know, mends things like broken hearts, shaky marriages, empty bank accounts…It’s made up of a conglomeration of people, all pitch-patch, some descendants of the founders, others brand new to the community. It’s by invite only, so you can’t join just because you want their recipe for corn chowder and a vote on the flower of the month calendar.”
“Can you get me in?” If these people had a say on what happened in their community, they could convince people she was trustworthy even if her education from Wharton and her vice president’s title at Blacksworth & Company could not.
“Maybe. But if you go in there and give them your ‘Hand over your money and I’ll show you what I can do’, they’ll vote you out before the hibiscus tea is served.”
“Oh.” And then, “Do you have a better approach?”
He smiled and tapped his tennis-shoe-covered feet against the deck floor. “Pop Benito always has a move.”
“So, will you help me?”
The smile spread. “I can offer a suggestion or two, make them think they need you. But you’re gonna have to do the real convincing. What’s in your bag of tricks besides a calculator and a business card? Can you raise money for their causes? Sell flowers at the annual garden event? Bake cookies?”
“I …I guess I could. I don’t know about the cookies, but Miriam could help.” She shook her head and said, “But how is this going to make any difference? Baking cookies has nothing to do with dollar cost averaging.”
Angelo Benito tsk-tsked her as though she’d failed the test of a lifetime. “This is about building relationships. You do that, the trust comes, and if the trust comes, they’ll do business with you.” He sighed and said, “Enough of that. Let’s talk about Lily. She’s one of my favorite people, right up there with my own granddaughter. I’ve been gone a long time, but from the stories she used to tell about you, I’ll bet Lily almost flew when she met you. And then you went and became her sister-in-law? Doesn’t get any better than that in her book. I’m sure she’ll tell me all about it when she comes tomorrow. We’ve got a checker tournament, best of seven.” He winked at her. “Winner takes home pizzelles.”
“She’s very good at checkers.” Her thoughts wandered back to what he’d said about The Bleeding Heart Society. Angelo had offered to help her but he’d neglected to provide specifics. How was this all going to work? She was a detail person, not a fly-in-the-dark, see-what-happens-next-Tuesday kind of girl. Surely he had a thought or two about what he planned to say. “About my introduction to the society, how is that going to happen, and when?”
“We’ll have to strategize and that requires my brain to think.” He eyed her and grinned. “I need something to make my brain synapse. Will you go into the kitchen and look on top of the fridge? There’s a shoebox filled with pizzelles. Bring out four; two for me and two for you.”
“Oh, no thank you, Mr. Benito—”
“It’s Pop, or Angelo. No mister. And if we’re gonna work together, you’re gonna learn to eat pizzelles.”
***
Harry yanked his tie into place and grabbed his suit jacket. He had an appointment across town in forty-five minutes and it would take fifty-five minutes to get there. Damn. This being in charge and accountable bullshit was messing with his head and his body. How was a person supposed to get in a decent workout, eat a meal, and take a good crap if he had to fly out the door and into rush traffic? Only to sit there like an imbecile, creeping along until some jerk tried to cut three lanes to the exit? Maybe he should reconsider his start time and his end time. Ten o’clock to two o’clock had always worked in the past, and no outside appointments either. He was the big cheese now; people should come to him. And Belinda could co
ntinue to run to the corner shop and bring him his coffee and oatmeal. Why not? He paid her well; she should sing “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt” if he asked her to.
He’d been in a foul mood for the past twelve days and it had nothing to do with work or appointments or breakfast. It had to do with her: Greta Servensen. Two Sundays had passed with no visit to the tidy bungalow, no lemon meringue pie, no mother cutting him the look with her voodoo eyes, and no kids staring at him as though they couldn’t quite make out why he was there. Hell, he couldn’t fault them on that one. He’d never been able to figure out why he ended up at the Servensens’ dinner table every Sunday like friggin’ clockwork, but he had. And damn, if he hadn’t looked forward to it, especially when the mother was flitting off with her old cronies to some knitting party where they made a bunch of socks and scarves for the needy. Then, he could relax and Greta’s smile would spread and light up his heart. Even the kids, Arnold and Elizabeth, acted happier when the “police” wasn’t in residence. But it didn’t matter now because he’d gotten the boot.
Three hours and a speeding ticket later, Harry slammed the door to his office and tossed his client files on the desk. He eyed the decanter in the corner and glanced at his watch. Before Chrissie left and put him in charge, he would have been on his third scotch and to hell with drinking before noon. But now he had other things to consider, like being a responsible adult whom people depended on for paychecks, insurance, 401K’s. If he were honest about it, which he often wasn’t, he’d admit he liked people needing him. It felt good, especially when he could deliver, which he’d been doing since the day Chrissie handed him her father’s pocket watch and headed to Magdalena for good. He missed Chrissie, wished she’d take a trip here with that husband of hers, Lily too, so they could see what The Windy City was all about. Lily would love seeing the city from the rooftops. And Michigan Avenue? What wasn’t to like about that. Even Nate, hermit that he was, would enjoy a good bowl of penne or a plate of beef carpaccio.
Of course they wouldn’t come, not with Gloria breathing the same city air. The one upside to Chrissie’s move was not being obligated to attend those blasted, ridiculous dinners Gloria insisted on, even after Charlie’s death, as though she were serving two dozen people. It wasn’t as if she actually prepared anything or ate more than a bite here and there. The woman just liked the idea of pretending she was a showcase for family and commitment. And control, couldn’t forget that. Gloria Blacksworth was all about bending people and situations to fit her needs.
But she hadn’t been able to control Chrissie. The girl had escaped and found a life far from the destructive grasp of a manipulative mother. Still, he missed Chrissie. A lot. Harry picked up the phone and punched out her number, relieved she was only a phone call away.
“Hello?”
“How’s my favorite girl?” Harry settled in his chair and kicked his feet onto the edge of the desk.
“Uncle Harry! I was just thinking about you.”
He smiled, his mood lifting as he thought of her in the small office she’d rented, or off with Lily as the child click-clicked her way to new memories with the early birthday present he’d sent her last month: a camera. “And what were you thinking? How sad you are to have abandoned this old fool?”
“Actually, I was wondering if you planned to visit this summer because Lily’s been asking. She wanted to call the other night to tell you about a movie with a talking dog named Harry, but I told her it was too late.”
“She can call whenever she wants. I like talking to her. We understand what it’s like being the youngest kid.”
“Oh, please. And don’t you dare tell her to call whenever she wants, because you have no idea what you’re saying. I once told Lily I’d make her breakfast whenever she wanted, meaning after seven. She woke me up at three in the morning, begging for pancakes.”
Harry pictured that scene and smiled. “Unless you’ve improved, you had a hard time in the kitchen when you were fully awake. I can’t imagine what you’d produce waking up from a dead sleep.”
“Well, it was only toast. The pancakes had to wait a few more hours.” She laughed. “And I’m getting better. Miriam and Nate are very patient teachers.”
Her voice slipped into his heart and pulled it apart. He really missed her, and talking on the phone actually made it worse. Still, it wasn’t about him or what he wanted. It was about Christine and her life. “You sound happy, kid.”
“I am.” She sighed. “A little aggravated with some narrow-minded thinking in this town, but I’ve figured a way around it.”
“No doubt.”
“So, will you come visit? I miss you.”
“Me too.” He hesitated, figured what the hell and said, “Any chance you might consider a trip here?” He’d been really good about not asking, but this thing with Greta had him off his game and vulnerable, though he’d be damned if he’d ever admit it. Christine waited so long to answer he almost asked again, but before he could, she spoke.
“I’m not ready.”
That meant, I’m not ready to face my mother. “She try to contact you?” When Chrissie first left, she told him that her mother called five and six times a day, then five and six times a week, then letters, and who knew what Gloria’s current modus operandi was? He’d bet she had the private investigator tailing Chrissie. That would be Gloria’s style, all wrapped up and served to her in a monthly report.
“No, she hasn’t tried. And you?”
“Nope.” Thank God for that. “Okay, now that I completely ruined this conversation, I might as well toss it in the garbage and light a match. Are you ever going to be ready?”
***
Gloria Blacksworth sipped her coffee and flipped the page of the magazine. She’d stopped reading the newspaper years ago, too much doom and gloom, and all before lunch. Who needed that when there was enough tragedy in a person’s life to fill a Dumpster? She bit into her toast, rye with cherry jam, spread thin. The new girl had almost figured out Gloria’s food specifications. She was not quite as adept as Greta Servensen, but then she wasn’t eyeing Harry Blacksworth either. Since Greta’s forced departure, there’d been four cooks. Why was a cook so hard to find? The requirements were not that complicated or unattainable, were they? One must possess a general knowledge of kitchen appliances, have an aptitude for baking, and know how to prepare a good roast. One could certainly refer to a book for guidance, couldn’t one? And a cook must understand politeness, modesty, and what constituted an overall geniality. Was that so very difficult? Apparently locating such a person was a monumental task and one that should not be treated lightly. The first cook after Greta had thought it acceptable to try on jewelry found in the master bedroom, as long as she didn’t leave the premises with it. The second had the disgusting habit of sampling everything she made, to the point of presenting a meal that had been decreased by half. The third asked if the young woman in the picture on the mantel was Gloria’s daughter. Of course it was, but that was not the point. Gloria did not need a reminder of the hole in her heart, especially when delivered by a servant.
This new one was a quick learner. She was twenty-three or -four, young enough to serve as a brutal reminder that Gloria’s skin wasn’t as firm and supple as it had once been, her hair unable to achieve the color and luster of a younger version without hours of treatment, and her eyes were no longer those of a hopeful twenty-something. Age and living had trounced Gloria, sat on her with such heaviness she’d not been able to spring back as quickly or as well as she’d once done.
No matter, the girl displayed respectfulness, punctuality, and adequate culinary skills—ha! How sad that the term adequate would be applied to Gloria’s vocabulary. Her name was Elissa Cerdi, but it was easier to think of her as merely “the cook” unless it was necessary to address her directly.
“Mrs. Blacksworth?” The cook stood a few feet away, arms at her side, a cautious smile on her face. “I need to run to the store to pick up a few things for tonight’s di
nner. Would you mind if I left now?”
“Aren’t you supposed to prepare for the week to minimize trips?” Greta had never left her post and run willy-nilly all over town in search of food items. She’d made lists, been organized, and efficient. And Harry Blacksworth had ruined it all. Damn that man.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we were low on strawberries. If you don’t want me to leave, I can substitute the frozen ones.” The girl’s voice softened. “My grandmother used to do that, said it worked in a pinch if money was short.”
“Well. Money isn’t short and frozen isn’t fresh, is it?”
The girl blushed. “No, Mrs. Blacksworth.”
Gloria sighed. “Go if you must, but don’t get lost and check the menu for the rest of the week. I don’t want you coming to me tomorrow because you’ve run out of lemons.”
“Yes, Mrs. Blacksworth.” She nodded, backed up toward the kitchen. “Thank you. I’ll be back in a jiff.”
I’ll be back in a jiff. Christine had used that phrase when she was a teen and wanted to convince her parents to let her take off to this place or that, citing her leaving would barely be noticed because she’d return so quickly, they wouldn’t even miss her. I’ll be back in a jiff. Gloria’s breath caught in her throat, sucked out by the cook’s words and the horrible realization that Christine would not be back in a jiff. She would not be back at all.
“Mrs. Blacksworth?” The girl inched toward her. “Are you unwell?”
Yes, yes dammit, I’m bleeding inside, my heart torn apart and left in shreds. Gloria cleared her throat and sat up straight. “I’m fine.” As fine as a mother could be when she had a daughter who shunned her. How could a child pretend a parent didn’t exist? Gloria sniffed. How indeed? Did Christine merely transfer the title of “mother” to that Desantro woman? Did that woman enjoy special dinners with Christine, even a Mother’s Day card as Gloria once had? The thought of Christine attempting to replace her birth mother with her father’s mistress was unconscionable and disgusting. But the truth lay in the empty seat next to her. It had been months since she’d seen or heard from her daughter, and it would be many more before she did—if at all.