A Family Affair: The Wish: Truth in Lies, Book 9

by Campisi, Mary

  She opened the door to the salon and stepped inside. The place needed a facelift, for sure. Maybe a body lift, too. The walls were covered in a pink and white floral wallpaper, but the design was not any flower Bree had ever seen. Were they patterned after an actual flower, or just someone’s imagination? The paper had started to lift at the seams and in the corners, the white not so white anymore. How many years had this paper hung on these walls? Bree couldn’t say the exact number but she did remember sitting on a booster seat to get her hair trimmed when she was five or six, and the wallpaper had been there then.

  “Hi there.” The young stylist who loved purple smiled at her, the eyeliner and lip color a soft lavender. “May I help you?”

  Bree dragged her gaze from the lavender “beauty mark” on the girl’s right cheek and said, “I know this is spur-of-the-moment and I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping I could get a manicure.”

  The girl nodded, made the purple curls bounce. “Sure. What kind were you interested in? Basic, gel, French, Reverse French?”

  “Oh, nothing fancy. Just the regular one.”

  Another nod that made the purple curls bounce higher than a few seconds ago as the girl studied the book. “Okay, Natalie’s just finishing up, but she can take you in about five minutes.”

  “Natalie?” No, anyone but Natalie Servetti. “Isn’t there,” Bree paused, lowered her voice, “anyone else?”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. “Natalie’s the best. Clients come from three towns over to see her.” The chill in her voice said she knew why Bree didn’t want her, but the next words confirmed it. “It’s the women in this town who refuse to admit her talent or acknowledge that people can and do change.”

  Bree cleared her throat, fought the heat creeping along her neck. This girl wasn’t more than twenty-two, tops. What did she know about life, living, and the rough road of believing in forever? And what would she say if Natalie had slept with her guy?

  “So, do you want me to book you with Natalie or not?”

  Speak of the she-devil! Bree spotted Natalie Servetti approaching the front desk with her client. She saw Bree, nodded, and moved past her. Bree gave a quick glance at her ragged cuticles and chipped nails, waited until Natalie headed back toward her station, and hurried after her. “Excuse me. Natalie? Hold on a sec.” When Bree reached her, she worked up a smile and said, “The girl at the front said you had an opening for a nail appointment.” She thrust out her hands, sighed. “I am in such horrible need of help. Do you think you can do something?”

  Natalie stared at Bree’s hands, remained silent for longer than politeness dictated. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait? Delaney will be here tomorrow at 11:00 a.m.”

  Meaning, Natalie had figured out Bree wasn’t exactly thrilled to get a manicure from her and wouldn’t unless she were desperate. Why did she think that? It was one thing for Bree to talk about someone, but to have that person know? Maybe even hear what she’d been saying? Goodness, that bordered on plain rudeness and Bree prided herself on good manners. She switched her voice to kind and caring mode and said, “I’d like you to give me the manicure.” Pause, an extra breath, and then, “And I apologize if I spoke unkindly.”

  Natalie bit her bottom lip, offered a puny smile. “Sure.” She motioned toward the back of the salon. “I’m this way.”

  Bree followed Natalie to the manicure station, intrigued with the random mirrors in various sizes and shapes that hung on the bright pink walls: round, oval, square, triangular. Dozens of nail polishes lined up side by side on white and gold shelves. So many colors and only so many fingers. She glanced at the lounge chairs and swirling water and decided one day soon she’d treat herself to a pedicure.

  “What color would you like?”

  “Is there any color other than pink?” Bree laughed and glanced at the pink polishes. She counted twelve shades and that was before she got into the flesh-tone variations. “I’ll take the Pink Taffeta.”

  Natalie’s puny smile spread to a real one. “Good choice.”

  Bree could chit-chat with anybody, but it was hard to converse with the town hussy who’d stolen other women’s men. Why, she’d tried to steal Nate Desantro and break up his marriage. Goodness gracious, Bree still remembered the pain this woman had caused—and poor Christine pregnant, too. Had there ever been a worse time for Nate and Christine? How many other men had forgotten they had a woman at home, one who loved them, maybe a child or two? Had Brody been one of those men? She bit her lip. Had he slept with Natalie Servetti and Leslie Richot?

  “Bree?”

  Of course, he had. The no-good, two-timing beast had probably called her his “one and only,” too, and she just bet he’d recited that dang poem to her. Sleeping around like there was no tomorrow and to heck with the rest of the world. Didn’t anybody honor commitments anymore? Didn’t anybody want a commitment? Did they just want to have sex and live in the moment, sleep with strangers— She gasped. Sleeping with strangers…she was no better than that cheating dead husband of hers.

  “Bree.” Natalie touched her arm. “Are you okay?”

  Those silly tears had to start at this exact moment. Bree sniffed and shook her head, but that didn’t stop the dang flood slipping down her cheeks. Natalie grabbed a tissue and blotted away. “I’m such a ninny,” Bree said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Except she did know. What if she were no better than Brody? What if she were as irresponsible as he was? What if Adam had lied to her and he was married with children, a home in the suburbs, and a dog? Bree sniffed again, coughed. “I thought I knew what my whole life looked like. I planned it all out: the husband, the kids, the house, the perfect life. Look at me.” She dragged her gaze to Natalie’s. “I don’t recognize a single speck of it anymore. Heck, I don’t even recognize myself.”

  “Oh, Bree.” Natalie patted her hand. “I am so very sorry this happened to you. I always thought you and Brody were the perfect couple and from what I could tell, he adored you.” She paused, her voice dipping. “Right up until he turned plain stupid.”

  That made Bree smile. “Yeah, plain stupid is right. Makes me wonder if it was his first and only time or if there were a string of women and I was too dang naïve to see it.”

  “No!”

  Bree slid her a glance. “You don’t think so?”

  Natalie shook her dark head. “I absolutely do not.” She stumbled over her next words. “You can always spot a married man who stops being married the second he leaves the house. Brody wasn’t that kind of guy, at least not that I ever knew of…and I knew a lot of that type.”

  She hadn’t slept with Brody. At least Bree could find peace in that. “Thank you for telling me that.”

  Natalie was the one who teared up now. “I have a lot of regrets and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to right the wrongs I’ve done. I doubt I’ll ever forgive myself for the hurt I caused others, the marriages I ruined. But on my life, I never slept with Brody and other than that Leslie woman he took up with, there was never any rumor about him running around.”

  Bree made a face. “Let’s give the man a star for only cheating with one woman.” Natalie stared at her, eyes wide, lips pinched like she didn’t know what to expect next. And then Bree threw back her head and laughed, a bold, hard, reckless laugh that filled the air and cleared her head. Natalie joined in, her soft, tinkling laughter no match for Bree’s howls. They caught a few looks from the other women in the salon, but they ignored them because for this one moment, Bree had found a kindred soul.

  For the next several minutes, Natalie worked on Bree’s nails, trimming, buffing, and shaping. They talked about the town, the comings and goings of people they both knew, ones they liked, and ones they disliked, too. Funny, they shared the same opinions on quite a few of the townspeople.

  “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “A favor? What kind of favor?” After Brody died, Bree had stopped agreeing before she knew the question. That Bree,
the naïve, innocent, trusting one, had jumped in the grave with her dead husband.

  “I know you’re good friends with Christine Desantro.” Natalie cleared her throat, looked away a second, then met Bree’s gaze. “Would you please tell her how very sorry I am for what I did?” Her eyes grew bright, her voice thick. “It was wrong on so many levels, but I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was hurt Nate for leaving me.” Her voice cracked. “For not loving me.”

  Bree leaned forward, whispered, “You were in love with Nate Desantro? You mean it wasn’t just about…you know…”

  “Sex?”

  “Uh-huh.” Who would have thought she’d be having a conversation with Nate’s old hook-up about hook-ups? Oh, this was definitely not right, but now that Bree had the information door open, she couldn’t just close it, could she? There was more to find out and it was up to her to do it. Besides, when would she ever have a chance like this again? Never. “So, you actually loved Nate?”

  Natalie’s expression turned soft, caring. “With my whole heart. He never felt the same way and he didn’t pretend to, but I thought he might change his mind one day. Of course, the second Christine hit town, it was all over, and he was the only one who couldn’t see it.”

  A tiny part of Bree almost felt sorry for Natalie, but she smothered it with her next words. “You really hurt Nate and Christine, and she was pregnant.”

  “I know. I couldn’t help myself, not when Christine’s mother made it sound so easy. She said I’d be doing both of them a favor, that Nate would need someone to help him through the breakup.” Those dark eyes glittered. “She said I’d be that someone and he’d see how much he needed me.”

  “Damn that woman.” Bree started to ball her hands into fists, stopped. No wonder she didn’t get manicures—she couldn’t keep her hands still long enough to get them! “You know she played you, right? The stories I’ve heard about her are pure miserable. How could she treat her own daughter like she was a handbag or a pair of shoes and not a person? I never understood parents like that, I truly did not.”

  “Those kinds of parents think they know what’s right for their child and they refuse to listen to anyone, especially the child.” Natalie lifted a slender shoulder, looked away. “My mother’s not much different than Christine’s.”

  “Goodness, that’s horrible.” Bree had heard tales about Lydia Servetti and her strong-arm ways with her family. They said she ruled the roost and her husband had about as much say as their dog, Yippy.

  “She doesn’t mind that I have a reputation; she says it’s better to have something other people want than nothing they want.” Natalie wiped her cheeks with a tissue. “Who says that to their daughter?”

  “You mean like it’s better that a man wants to have sex with you even if he doesn’t give a fig about you, than to have no man want to have sex with you? Is that what you’re saying?” Bree scrunched up her nose, tried to make sense of what she’d just heard.

  “Exactly. How sick is that?”

  “Sick,” Bree whispered, swelling with a newfound compassion toward the woman she’d called slut, whore, witch, and every other unflattering name that came to mind. No wonder she’d turned out the way she did, what with the mother egging her on and the father trying to stay out of the line of fire. Bree sighed, patted Natalie’s hand. Too many people cared more about what to put on the baby shower registry and coordinating the room theme than they did about the actual child. Caring was in a mother’s genes, or it should be, but caring for and about a child didn’t fit nice and neat into an eight-hour schedule, or even a ten-hour one. It was 24-7 and didn’t stop when the child graduated from high school. Some went on to college or the military, and it didn’t stop then either. Nor did the worrying. According to Bree’s late Grandma Imogene, the caring and worrying didn’t stop until you closed your eyes for the last time. But what if you had parents who didn’t care or if they did, they cared about the wrong things? Then you ended up with a mess and totally messed up. Bree patted Natalie’s hand again, gave it a squeeze. “You’ve got to get away from your mother. Can you move out?”

  “I’m trying.” Natalie’s voice softened, her expression shifted as if she were miles away, in another world, maybe another life.

  “Good. So, you’ve got a plan.”

  “I do.”

  Natalie spoke the words with the commitment of a woman reciting marriage vows. Oh, no. What was she up to now? “Natalie? You’re over Nate, right? You’re not going to try to get him back…are you?” The shock on the other woman’s face gave Bree her answer. “I’m sorry, but I had to ask because you had that dreamy look about you that says in-love-and-committed.”

  “I am in love.” Pause. “His name’s Robert.”

  6

  “Hello, Mother.” Robert kissed his mother’s rouged cheek and straightened. “I picked up more blueberries.”

  “I didn’t care for the last ones. Too tart.” She made a face and puckered her lips. “Next time stick with bananas. There’s nothing wrong with routine and staying with what you know works. I always told your father a cup of coffee should taste like a cup of coffee, not a flower or a piece of candy.” More lip puckering. “Obviously, he didn’t listen, and that’s why I’m still breathing and he isn’t.”

  Robert ignored the comment; there would be more before the hour-long visit ended, and they would escalate in sound, intensity, and mean-spiritedness. His mother had never forgiven his father for taking off with their neighbor, Blanche Wainwright, the librarian-turned-mistress. Robert had been a junior in college when his father called to tell him he was heading west in a rented motor home with Mrs. Wainwright. At first Robert thought his mother, father, and Mrs. Wainwright were traveling together because even though that made little sense, it made no sense to think his father and the widowed neighbor were heading west without his mother. But that’s exactly what happened, and when Bernard Trimble died of a heart attack six years later while competing in a golf tournament, Robert’s mother did not cry or console her son. She merely said, A fool is a fool to the grave.

  How could he expose Natalie to his mother’s sharp tongue? Marjorie Trimble would take one look at her and though she couldn’t see well, she’d still be able to make out the dark hair and curvy figure. Mrs. Wainwright had both.

  “I invited Jeanine Harris to dinner next Wednesday.” His mother tipped her head, studied him from behind thick glasses. “She’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

  He’d gone to school with Jeanine, had been infatuated with her ability to solve quadratic equations, but that was years ago. Before Natalie. “I’m not available.” And if he were, he still wouldn’t be available. He loved Natalie. They belonged together and as soon as he figured out a way to introduce her to his mother, he was going to ask Natalie to marry him. But the timing had to be right; his mother had to be in a receptive mood, and that was tricky.

  “I thought you didn’t work late on Wednesdays.” She sighed, poked around in the bag he’d brought, picked out a blueberry. “What kind of boss makes his employees work every night?”

  “I’m the boss, Mother, and I don’t work every night. Just some nights.”

  “Well then.” Another sigh. “What night are you free? Jeanine seems very excited to spend time with you. Who wouldn’t want to, with your smarts and your looks?”

  “I have a decent head on my shoulders, but I’m not going to make it in a calendar and I’m okay with that.” Robert ran a hand through his thinning hair. Smarts, yes. Looks, no. Some days he still wondered why Natalie was with him. She was so beautiful, so caring…so in love with him. And he was not going to let his mother’s nagging about Jeanine Harris intimidate him or ruin his chances with Natalie. He’d succumbed to his mother’s pressures too many times in the past, worried she might be unhappy, sad, apathetic, all of the aforementioned. One more “must-have” and all would be well, but the lists never stopped. As soon as he corrected one issue for her, she thought of ten more that made her miserab
le. Finally, he’d realized the list would never end. She would never be happy, and maybe that’s why his father had left; maybe the man had needed to find one small slice of peace in the years he had left.

  “Don’t shortchange yourself,” his mother said, pushing back her chair to stand. She grabbed the cane she’d used these past several months since her balance had gone “wobbly,” as she put it. “Mildred can’t take me to church in the morning, said she has to visit her granddaughter. Will you take me?”

  “I’ve got plans tomorrow.” He and Natalie took a run every Sunday morning and then had coffee and bagel sandwiches at the local deli. Even if they ran earlier, the drive to his mother’s took fifty minutes and the only service she’d attend was at 10:00 a.m.

  “Plans?” She leaned on her cane, her bony fingers clutching the handle. “Plans that are more important than seeing your mother? And what about church?” Marjorie Trimble could lay guilt on a person better than anybody, and faster, too. “Or do you not need the Lord anymore since you’re all grown up?”

  Robert shook his head. “No, of course not. I mean, of course I do.” When was the last time he’d been to church? He couldn’t say, but that didn’t mean he didn’t think about God, but apparently his mother believed He was only found in church.

  “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow at 9:35 a.m. We’ll have breakfast after services.”

  She straightened and worked her mouth into a smile, which seemed a difficult task, maybe because she did it so rarely. Robert stood there, trying to find a way out of tomorrow’s visit, knowing he wouldn’t be able to do it. He’d have to forgo his run and breakfast with Natalie and follow his mother’s wishes, as he’d been doing since he was a boy. His father had found a way to escape and while it might not have been right or moral, Robert didn’t blame him because one day soon, one way or another, he planned to escape, too.