by Mary Campisi
When they left, Nate eased in closer to his wife and whispered, “Hey. You gave us all a big scare. Don’t do that again, okay?” He traced the line of her jaw, her chin, her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open.
“Nate.”
“Right here.” He worked up a smile, made an effort to sound relaxed. “How do you feel?”
“Tired. And ridiculous. I’ve never passed out in my life.”
“Yeah, well, you gave Mom a scare and not much rattles her.”
“I think what happened was too much time in the sun with Pop, too little food,” she paused and her lips twitched, “and too little common sense.”
He smiled and clasped her hand. “There’s been a lot of that last one going around. Sometimes we need a wakeup call to put things in perspective. Mine came with that phone call a little while ago.” His voice dipped. “I love you and I don’t want to lose you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Her eyes grew bright, rimmed with tears. “Nate, we have to talk. There’s something—”
He placed a finger on her lips to stop the rest of her words. “We’ll talk, but not now.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “I love you. I never want to hurt you and that’s all I’ve done lately.”
He moved closer, his face inches from hers. “We’ll get past this. We’ll talk it out and move forward, better than ever.” He brushed his mouth over hers. “You’ll see.”
She touched his cheek. “I want to come home.”
He grinned. “I’d carry you out of here right now if I thought Mom and Lily wouldn’t come after me. We’ll see what the doctor says and once he gives his okay, I will carry you out of this place. Now rest.” She smiled and closed her eyes while Nate held her hand. These past several weeks were a mess and all he wanted to do now was get Christine back home and take up where they’d left off before the whole Natalie Servetti incident. One of these days, Natalie would have to return to Magdalena and when she did, he’d be waiting for her. It might take time and patience, but he’d get her to admit Gloria Blacksworth was behind this whole thing. And then what? He didn’t know, but that damn woman had almost destroyed his marriage and she’d have to account for that. Some people really were pure miserable. He was still thinking of his mother-in-law and her misdeeds when the drape opened and Dr. Vincent entered. James Vincent was a middle-aged Southerner from North Carolina who had married Mimi Pendergrass’s niece and settled in Magdalena eighteen years ago.
“Hi, Doc. Is she going to be okay?” Christine squeezed his hand, hard, as if she were scared. The furrow between her brows and the pinched lips told him she was scared. Didn’t she know he wouldn’t let anything happen to her?
“Nathan, good to see you.” Dr. Vincent moved to the bed and smiled at Christine. “You’ll be fine, Mrs. Desantro. We’ll run another bag of fluids through before we release you.” He glanced at his chart. “Make sure you eat at regular intervals, stay hydrated, and get rest. Are you taking your vitamins?” When she nodded, he continued, “You’ve got your next appointment scheduled with your doctor?”
“Yes.”
Why was she so hesitant? And what did Dr. Vincent mean by next appointment? When had she had the first and with whom? What was going on? Did it have something to do with Christine’s sudden odd behavior? Nate was puzzling through this, trying to make pieces fit into some sensible order, when Dr. Vincent dropped a boulder on him. “Congratulations to both of you, and give my best to Lily and your mother.” Then he was gone.
“Congratulations to both of us?” Nate turned to Christine who had gone from pale to paste. “What’s he talking about?” People didn’t throw out congratulations unless it was a wedding, or an engagement, or a baby… his brain stuck on the last one. “Christine?”
Her attempt at a smile fizzled. “Surprise. We’re going to have a baby.”
***
Harry made it to Magdalena with only two stops, three if you counted the break for the cop to write the speeding ticket. He thought about hopping in the car and heading out last night after Lily’s phone call, but Greta made him see that wasn’t the best plan. Wake up early, start fresh, she’d said. I don’t like you driving when you’re tired. And slow down. She’d hugged him tight, whispered, I don’t want anything happening to you. So he’d stayed the night, with Greta tucked beside him until 1:00 a.m. when she dressed and went home. He didn’t sleep as well when she wasn’t there, and damn, he hated to admit that, but it was the truth. When you had somebody who really cared about you, what you did, how you felt, hell, what you ate, it made a difference. Who would have thought that he, Harry Blacksworth, would actually like a woman pestering after him? Maybe pestering was too harsh a word; inquiring and expecting an answer might be better.
And speaking of inquiring, what the hell was going on with Chrissie and that damn husband of hers? If Harry weren’t so involved with Greta and her kids, he’d have noticed something was off. She hadn’t been calling much at all and when she did, she sounded kind of puny, like a watered down scotch, no punch. When Lily called him last night, she’d spoken in a rush of worry and agitation that jumbled her words and made her hard to understand. On a good day, he had to concentrate when he talked to her on the phone, but her message last night was clear, even without the words. Something was wrong between Chrissie and Nate and Harry had to fix it. The kid gave him a lot of credit because his knowledge and success with relationships between couples could fit in a shot glass. Still, this was Chrissie they were talking about, and Lily, his two favorite girls. Or maybe they were two of his favorites, with Greta and Lizzie being the other two.
Harry decided to head straight to ND Manufacturing and face off with Nate before he talked to Chrissie. If that husband of hers wasn’t treating her right, Harry had half a mind to give him a right hook. He might only get one punch in before Desantro clobbered him with one of those beefeater fists of his, but Harry’s daily workouts kept him light on his feet and quick. He might get a second punch in if he were lucky. He pulled into the plant, with Lily’s garbled pleas fast-forwarding through his brain. You have to come, Uncle Harry. Fast. Christine just got out of the hospital and she won’t stop crying. Nate won’t talk to her; won’t talk to anybody. Hurry, Uncle Harry.
“I’m looking for Nate Desantro.”
A woman with cat-eye glasses and a look that said “nosy” studied him a second too long. “And may I ask your name?”
Damn abrupt for a receptionist, unless deflecting unwelcome visitors was her job. This one could give Belinda a lesson or two in protecting your boss. Harry got too many calls that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with his old life, starting and ending with a long line of Bridgetts. “Harry Blacksworth. His wife’s uncle.”
You’d have thought he said George Clooney by the way her expression softened and got all cozy. “You’re Harry?” She thrust a chicken-bird hand at him and smiled. “I’m Betty Rafferty. You were one of Charlie’s favorite people; said he admired you for following your own path.”
Path to what? Sin and debauchery? Poor Charlie, he really had been messed up. Harry was not one to be admired. His soul was black and tarnished, but he had a chance to do right by Christine. He shook the woman’s hand and laughed. “About the only path I follow has a fairway in it.” He laughed again. “So, is Nate here?”
She darted a gaze toward a closed door behind her. “He’s in there,” she whispered. “Been there since before I got here and I opened up at 7:00.” The woman leaned over the counter, dropped her voice even lower. “Is something going on? When he starts closing his door and won’t talk to anybody, that’s never a good sign. And now with you here,” she paused, tilted her head as though she were connecting dots to the truth, “well, that concerns me. Is Christine okay?”
Harry zeroed in on her, threw her a warm smile, the one women couldn’t resist, and said in a voice like melted butter, “That’s what I’ve come to find out. Now, he might not talk to you, but he
’ll talk to me. Damn straight on that.”
Betty Rafferty nodded her curly head. “Good. That’s very good. His office is right behind me. Better knock first.”
“Thanks.” Harry made his way past a copier and two limp plants with dusty leaves the size of a person’s hand. Apparently, Betty didn’t have a green thumb. He debated on whether or not to knock, decided against it, and opened the door.
“Betty, I don’t want to…” Nate Desantro looked up from the clutter on his desk. “Harry? What are you doing here?”
Harry stepped inside and closed the door. “Hello, Nate.” He made his way to the desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and zeroed in on the probable cause of Christine’s upset. “What the hell’s going on between you and my niece?” Talk about turning into a ghost. The guy paled beneath a scrub of tan and stubble. He looked like crap, from his messed-up hair and unshaven face to his rumpled T-shirt. But it was his expression—beaten, tired, hopeless—oh, that last one was bad—that made Harry uneasy. This whole thing was about a relationship and even Lizzie knew that wasn’t his bag. But he had to give it a whirl, for Chrissie’s sake. “Well, what’s going on?”
“Have you talked to her?”
What was with all the jaw-twitching and hand-flexing like Nate was trying not to punch something? “No. I want to hear it from you firsthand.”
“She called you?”
“Of course not.” Harry pulled out a chair and sat down. Hell, if he wanted to, he could probably land a few good punches on the guy’s jaw because the mountain man looked deflated and weak, like his strength was oozing out of him, right onto the indoor-outdoor carpeting. “Lily called me. Seems she’s the only one around here with sense enough to let me know about Christine.”
Nate ran a hand through his hair, which made it stick up more than it had a few seconds ago, and sighed. “She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant? Damn.” Harry eyed Nate, tried to gauge his feelings on the subject, and when he came up blank, decided to ask straight out. “That’s a good thing, right? As long as you’re the father, and I assume you are”—that drew a cold stare—“just joking. You’ll make great parents.” How did he know what made a great parent? This was Greta’s territory, not his. “So, congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
Harry rubbed his jaw, considered where to go from here. Oh, what the hell, if the conversation continued like this, it would be midnight before Harry had any answers. “Just tell me what happened. No bullshit. I hate bullshit.”
Maybe he shouldn’t have asked for it all at once, because once Nate opened his mouth, it all poured out like the aftereffects of bad takeout: the ex-girlfriend and the half-naked pictures, Gloria’s suspected involvement, the separate houses, the visit from that ass-wipe Connor Pendleton, and ending with Christine’s emergency room visit and the doctor’s reference to a baby Nate didn’t know existed.
“I’m damn sorry to hear all of this.” Harry loved his niece, but she’d done this guy wrong. What had she been thinking? Nate deserved to know she was carrying his baby and it hadn’t been right that he had to find out from somebody else, even if it was a doctor. You didn’t treat people like that, even if you planned to “fix it” down the road. And he’d bet his Jag that Gloria’s scheming was behind this.
“Yeah, well, there you have it. Don’t fall in love, Harry. It’s a damn train wreck half the time.”
“Don’t I know it. That’s why I avoid trains.” He laughed and thought of Greta. They had a good thing going: no pressure, no timetable, no issues. “Okay, so let’s break it down. You love her. She loves you. How am I doing so far?”
Nate’s lips twitched. “Stating the obvious? That’s genius material.”
That was the closest the guy had come to a smile since Harry entered the room. “Do not underestimate the importance of stating the obvious. Most people don’t because they think it goes without saying, but it does need saying. Like ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I can’t live without you’. You know, that kind of bullshit.”
The man actually smiled at that. “Bullshit? Yeah, I know it and I’ve said it, too.”
“I give you credit. Then you have to consider the next issue, which is trust. She didn’t grow up in a household where anybody asked what was wrong or how to make it right. Freedom of speech was not encouraged or solicited. You had to suck it up and do your duty, and if you were unhappy, well, too damn bad. Go buy a shirt or get a manicure. If that didn’t work, take a trip, see a therapist, buy a car. Whatever got you past the issue, even though it never really got you past it, only buried it deeper. That’s what Chrissie saw and it’s going to take a lot of work, talk, and trust to get past that.”
Nate didn’t speak right away, his gaze focused on the picture of Christine that sat on the corner of his desk. Smiling, happy, in love. “I’m not much better about trust. It’s never come easy to me.”
Harry knew all about that. Trust was a tricky thing. It was one of those all-in kind of deals that made a person squeamish. He’d only trusted a handful of people in his fifty years: Charlie, Christine, Greta. “I’m the last person to give advice on relationships, but maybe my screw-ups help me see what a good relationship should look like. You and Chrissie belong together. Don’t screw it up and end up like me.”
“You mean you aren’t living the life?” Nate rubbed his jaw, studied him until Harry looked away. “What about that German lady? Greta, right?”
Harry shrugged. “She’s a nice woman and what the hell she’s doing with me, I’ll never know. Still, we’re talking about you and my niece. Here’s what you’re going to do: go home, shower, and shave so you look half human, grab some flowers, and stop by your mother’s at 4:00 p.m.”
“What am I doing, going to the prom?”
“You’re taking your wife home. To your house. And your bed. And it’s happening at 4:00 o’clock sharp.”
“You think she’ll agree?”
There was a hell of a lot of hope pinned to that question, and Harry had the answer. “Oh, she’ll agree, don’t you worry about that.”
Relief flooded Nate’s face. Maybe he’d just needed someone to point him in the necessary direction. “Okay then.” Nate stood and extended a hand. “Thanks, Harry. I really appreciate it.”
“Damn straight.” Harry shook his hand and said, “I need a drink; this was damn harder than I thought it would be.”
Nate opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle. “Jack, okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Make it a double.”
A half hour later, Harry pulled into Miriam Desantro’s driveway. He’d called Greta on the way over to tell her about his conversation with Nate. She gushed all over him with praise and made him promise to call after he spoke with Christine. Maybe he did know a thing or two about relationships, even if he gleaned the insight from his failed attempts.
“Uncle Harry!” Lily ran barefoot from the house, her black hair flying, small body barreling toward him. She threw her arms around his waist and squeezed tight. “I knew you’d come!”
“Of course I’d come for my two best girls.” He kissed the top of her head, hugged her. She was innocence and hope wrapped up in a little girl. Lizzie and Arnold would love her, so would Greta. Maybe one day he’d bring them here.
Lily eased back and looked at him through her thick glasses. She’d gotten new ones since the last time he saw her. These were square-framed and red and provided a great contrast to her black hair and blue eyes—Blacksworth hair, Blacksworth eyes. “Mom’s in the house making you manicotti.” She lifted a finger to her lips. “Christine’s out back.”
“Let’s go say hello to your mom first and then I’ll see Christine.” She grabbed his hand and swung it up and down as he followed her toward the front porch and the chimes dangling on either side of the steps.
“Mom, look who’s here,” Lily called out as they headed for the kitchen. Harry pictured Charlie in the living room, among the pottery and artwork, reading quietly
and sipping some natural-herb tea.
“Harry. Hello.” Miriam smiled at him from her spot at the kitchen table, a manicotti in one hand, a spoonful of cheese mixture in the other. She wore a navy T-shirt and dangly stone earrings. Her face was bare of makeup, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Fresh, clean, honest, the exact opposite of Gloria.
He hugged her and kissed her cheek. “Another of my favorites. I know I’m staying for dinner.”
“Thank you for coming,” she said in a quiet voice. She glanced at Lily, who still held Harry’s hand and asked, “Did you see my son?”
“Matter of fact, I did.” He gave her a thumbs-up. “He’ll be here at four. How about you fix a dish of that to go?”
“Oh, I see.” The faintest of smiles slipped over her face.
He nodded. “Exactly.”
“Mom, what do you see? And what is exactly, Uncle Harry?”
“A secret.” Harry bent down and got eye level with Lily. “Christine’s going home today.”
A few minutes later, Harry made his way down the back steps, carrying two glasses of iced tea. Christine sat in a wooden rocker, hands folded over her stomach, sunglasses blocking the sun’s glare. He came up behind her and said, “Well, if this isn’t loafing, I don’t know what is.”
She jerked around and sprang from her chair. “Uncle Harry! What are you doing here?”
“Hold on, hold on.” He set the glasses on the table and opened his arms. She fell into his embrace, buried her head against his chest, and thrust her arms around his waist, much like Lily had a short while ago. Harry patted her back and kissed the top of her head. “That bad, huh?”
“Oh, Uncle Harry.” She sniffed into his chest. “I’ve made such a mess of things.”
“So I hear.” He stroked her back, welcomed the tears dampening his shirt. “Lily called me last night, all in a dither about you and that husband of yours.”
Christine pulled away, wiped a tear. “Lily called you?”