A Family Affair: Fall

by Mary Campisi

  By the time I learned of his duplicity, it was already too late. Harry Blacksworth, the man you married, seduced me and ruined my life. And do you know why? Jealousy. He was jealous of his brother, the man who had always protected and defended him.

  But there is more—painfully, much more. Charles discovered I’d had an affair, but he didn’t know the man’s name. I could not destroy my husband with the truth, so I remained silent. When I learned I was pregnant, I didn’t know which brother was the father. When Christine was born with Blacksworth eyes, Charles was convinced she was his. But is she? Who knows?

  Your husband turned me into a woman filled with bitterness and disappointment. I took my last breaths in the care of a paid companion—a stranger. Harry Blacksworth has walked this earth for too many years without a care for others. He stole my marriage and my happiness. He stole my life. Had I not been seduced by him, Charles would have remained faithful to me—his wife. Please get out while you can. Don’t let that man steal your life.

  Sincerely,

  Gloria Blacksworth

  When he finished reading, he folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope as though that might relegate the contents to their previously unread state. Gloria was a liar bent on destroying everyone around her, true to the end. He looked at his wife and opened his heart, willing her to see the pain inside. “I’m so sorry.” He took a step toward her, careful, cautious, and let the grief pour out. “Forgive me. Please.” And then again, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Your own brother?” The words spilled out in a whisper of sound. “He loved you.”

  Harry hung his head, wished he could have spared Greta the disgust of knowing.

  “How could you take advantage of Gloria when she was struggling and vulnerable?”

  His head snapped up. “That’s bullshit. Gloria was never vulnerable a day in her life and I did not seduce her.” He paused, pushed out the truth. “She was more than willing.”

  Greta gasped. Was that a sound of disbelief, or pure disgust? Probably both. “Why did you do it? You could have had any woman you wanted. Why your brother’s wife?”

  He thought of lying, but he couldn’t do it. “I was always the second brother, the playboy. The joke. Charlie was always first, always the best. I resented the hell out of that and wanted to take something that belonged to him.” He fell back to the days of the affair, the bedroom, the years of self-disgust. “So I slept with Gloria, but I never said Charlie had other women and I sure as hell never forced her. She had her own reasons for doing what she did, reasons that were centered on feeling neglected and unwanted.”

  There. He’d told her the truth.

  “You betrayed your brother.” She swiped a hand across her face to stop the tears. “Will you betray me, too?”

  “No. No!” How could she even think that?

  “Does Christine know?”

  He nodded. “I told her. I had to. Gloria wouldn’t stop pressuring Christine to give up the trips to Magdalena and settle down with that asshole, Connor Pendleton. Can you picture her with that guy? He was more interested in her portfolio and her society ties, nothing like Nate. But Gloria wouldn’t give it up, no matter how many times I threatened to tell Chrissie about us. Finally, I saw what I had to do and I did it; I told Chrissie about the affair and the pregnancy. That broke the hold Gloria had on her, gave her the courage to leave. But it also killed their relationship and that made my dear sister-in-law hate me more than she already did.” He held up the envelope. “That’s why she sent this; to destroy me by getting to you.”

  She turned away, hugged her arms across her middle, setting up a shield from his words. From him. “Greta, look at me.” Harry counted the seconds until finally, she inched her gaze to meet his. The betrayal smeared on her face stabbed his soul. He’d done this to her and now he had to find a way to make her understand how much he regretted what had happened, but mostly, how damn much he needed her forgiveness. He sucked in a breath and said, “I’ve regretted what happened for years. Hell, I hated what I’d done, hated myself. It’s one of the reasons I was bent on self-destruction and excess—” he paused, his voice dipped “—until you came along. You gave me hope, made me believe I wasn’t such a worthless piece of nothingness.”

  Greta, the only woman he’d ever truly given his heart to, opened her beautiful lips and whispered, “Maybe I was wrong.”

  Harry shut down after that, curling up until there was nothing left but four simple words that pierced his brain, his heart, his soul, and marked his destiny. There were more words, spoken in a voice that held no anger, no passion, nothing. He heard them, would later recall each syllable, but now, in the moment of such pain, he could not grasp their meaning, or perhaps he refused to do so.

  I need time.

  I think you should move to the guest room until I can sort this out.

  Maybe I was wrong.

  How could you?

  How will I ever trust you again?

  Your own brother?

  Will you betray me, too?

  Maybe I was wrong...

  Harry spent that night and the next in the guest room, only leaving long enough to grab a few bottles of water and a package of crackers. Who could eat when he’d been ripped apart, guts, heart, lungs, and left to rot in his own stench of misdeeds? He hadn’t showered, hadn’t changed from the slacks and polo he’d worn on that fatal day; hell, he hadn’t even combed his hair. Had he brushed his teeth? He couldn’t remember. He’d stayed in this room, telling the kids they couldn’t come near him because he had the flu. Highly contagious. Yeah, he’d bet Greta wanted him to stay as far away from the kids as possible so his depravity didn’t infect them.

  What if Greta couldn’t forgive him? What would he do? He sat on the edge of the bed, dragged both hands over his face and sighed. What the hell would he do? Hadn’t he avoided real relationships with women because he knew they could end up like this, with him on the edge of losing the person who mattered most? But what he’d shared with Greta—hell, why was he thinking past tense—what he shared with Greta had been worth risking his damn heart and his independence; it had been worth risking everything and he was not going to let Gloria Blacksworth destroy that.

  But how was he going to stop her? Even dead, the woman was lethal. Harry closed his eyes and bent his head. He’d never much believed in prayer, but right now he had a feeling it would take a miracle to save his marriage, and so he prayed.

  The next morning, Harry woke, showered, shaved, put on a clean pair of slacks and a polo, and left the house before anyone was awake. He stopped at Lina’s Café and picked up two coffees to go and two pecan sweet rolls. As Phyllis fixed the coffees, he even managed a smile and a bit of idle chit-chat. Almost normal, if a person didn’t know him.

  But Harry couldn’t fool Pop Benito. The second the old man opened the door, his smile flattened and his bushy brows pulled into a straight line. “Harry? What’s wrong?”

  It all fell out then, the sordid truth about how he betrayed his brother when he slept with his sister-in-law, a woman he didn’t even like. Harry had kept this secret inside for so many years that speaking about it so soon after telling Greta made him hoarse. And then, the other part, even worse than betraying Charlie, was the possibility that Christine could be Harry’s. What if he’d stripped Charlie of the one person who had really mattered in his brother’s life?

  “I’ll say you’re in a pickle.” Pop scratched his head, stared at the vegetable garden he called his “playground,” and added, “Yup, it’s a doozy.”

  “I know.” Harry sat back in the rocker and blew out a long breath. They were sitting on the back deck with a garden surrounded by chicken wire, tin pans, and a fake owl, and for some crazy reason, the sight relaxed him. Maybe because Pop found comfort there…or maybe because it was simple. Or maybe, because Harry had no place else to go.

  “And Nate doesn’t know that Christine might be your child?”

  Harry shook his head. “No. And Chr
istine doesn’t know about her mother’s letter.”

  Pop rubbed his jaw and popped the last piece of pecan sweet roll in his mouth. “This is getting more complicated than unwinding a clematis vine from a fence.” He eyed Harry, shook his head again. “Nate’s not one for doubletalk or hiding the truth, especially if it involves his wife. He’s a different man since he married Christine, more trusting and empathetic than he used to be, but don’t cross him, or it’ll be wiped out faster than an ant in a tub of water. Gone. Not coming back.”

  There was a lesson tucked between Pop’s stories and if Harry picked out the vine and the ant, he understood what Pop meant. “Okay, so Nate’s going to be pissed at Christine for not telling him. I don’t want that on my head. What can I do to help them?”

  “That’s an easy one. As soon as you leave here, head straight over to Christine’s and tell her about the letter so she can tell Nate before people start talking.”

  “Why would people start talking?” Harry paled and tasted bits of pecan sweet roll in the back of his throat. “The town isn’t going to find out about this.” Pause. “Are they?”

  “Nah. Not the particulars, but these people are smart. They watch movement and patterns. You’re at Lina’s this morning before 9:30 a.m.—” he pinched a piece of pecan sweet roll from Harry’s plate and popped it in his mouth “—and they start to suspect. Do it three days in a row and they’re wanting to piece the details together. Where did you go after Lina’s? How long did you stay? And by the way, has anyone seen your wife? If so, how did she look? Happy? Sad? Mad?” He snagged another piece of pecan sweet roll. “Seemingly insignificant details, when pieced together, can make up a story worth reading, or interpreting.”

  Harry handed Pop his plate with the half-eaten roll. “You think the town is paying that close attention?”

  Pop smiled and nodded. “They’re always watching. Always thinking. It’s not really nosiness, but more what I like to call interest. And they usually tell me, so I’ll keep my ears open and my eyes on any suspicious activity.”

  “Like?” Despite Harry’s forlorn and hopeless state of mind, the man had him curious.

  “Like, are two busybodies talking to one another? Like, are questions being asked by people who have no business asking? You need to stick to your routine. Don’t change a thing.”

  Harry cleared his throat, tried to ignore the heat creeping from his neck to his cheeks. “I’ve been sleeping in the guest room.”

  “Huh?” And then, “Oh. Well, kids tell stories, can’t help that.”

  “I told them I had the flu and had to stay away.”

  “That should buy you another day, tops. Nothing you can do but pray they don’t land on that subject and start chirping like a robin in spring.” He shook his head. “I remember when my son, Anthony, came home and told my Lucy I’d been holding hands with Ruby Vincina. When I got home, Lucy was waiting for me with a wooden spoon and a tongue that was sharper than two-year-old New York cheddar. She went on past lunchtime, but I had to wait until she finished her tirade before I could tell her I was helping Ruby get a rose thorn out of her finger, and the reason she had it there in the first place was because she was giving the bush to Lucy, seeing as Ruby wanted to thin out her border and Lucy loved roses.”

  “Huh. How about that?” If only Harry’s situation were as simple as a rose bush and a thorn.

  Pop’s expression softened and his voice dipped in memory. “My Lucy said she wasn’t having another woman touching me, not even for twenty rose bushes.”

  “So you worked it out?”

  “Eventually.” He scowled. “I had to sleep on the couch for a week; she said Ruby Vincina had stolen three men from their families and I wasn’t going to be the fourth. Oh, but I had to do some penance and some promising.” He scratched his chin and nodded. “No more homemade pasta from Dolly Regati. No slices of salami from Nesta Tagliona. And absolutely nothing, not even a smile, from Ruby Vincina.”

  Harry pulled himself out of his situation long enough to ask, “Were you a ladies’ man?”

  Pop turned and pinned Harry with eyes that sparkled beneath his glasses, followed by a grin that covered half his face. “I had a way with the ladies. Polite, smooth, sharp dresser.” He tapped his sneakered feet together. “Back in the day, I didn’t go out of the house unless I was in my Sunday best, hair slicked back, hat in my hand, shoes shined. The key to the ladies is taking the time to make them feel special, pay a compliment or two. Not a lie, but an embellishment. Doesn’t hurt anyone and it makes them feel like a beauty queen.”

  “No kidding?” So Pop had been a ladies’ man. And he was giving Harry lessons. If his heart weren’t broken, he might actually laugh.

  “But that all stopped the day my Lucy came to Magdalena. She was visiting her aunt for the summer. I sat three pews behind her in church and stared at that beautiful red hair and when she turned I caught a glimpse of pale skin. Didn’t hear a lick of the sermon, but when she walked out of Mass, I was waiting for her, hat in hand, smile on my face, and a line of sweet words all wound up and waiting.” He swiped his eyes and chuckled. “I didn’t get four words out before she glared at me and said she didn’t like syrup on her pancakes and that’s exactly what I was. Sticky and bellyache sweet.” He shrugged. “She came around.” A spark of mischief flashed in his eyes. “Ended up loving syrup, on her pancakes, French toast, rolls, just about everything.”

  ***

  When the police chief handed Ben the call of suspicious activity at a house on Bayberry Street, he recognized the street number as Gina’s. Was she home? If so, did she know she could be in danger? He raced to the cruiser, hopped in, and tore down the road. Within minutes, he was outside of Gina’s house. He pulled in the drive, drew his gun, and began to check the perimeter. He’d made it inside the gate leading to the backyard when he heard the noise. Part whimper, part moan. He made his way toward the sound, and when he reached the deck, he spotted a woman curled in a ball on a lawn chair, head bent, shoulders shaking, feet bare.

  Ben holstered his weapon and approached the woman, stopping when he was a few feet away. “Ma’am. Are you all right?” The whimper-moans stopped and the woman lifted her head. Her face was streaked with mascara, her eyes and nose swollen and puffy. “Bree?”

  Bree Kinkaid stared back at him, confusion clouding her face. “Ben? What are you doing here?” She swiped both hands across her face and made a valiant effort to pull herself together, but it was useless. The woman was too disheveled and in too much misery.

  He pulled a chair toward her and sat down, noting the scrapes, blisters, and ground-in dirt on her bare feet. “I got a call that someone was trying to break in, so I came to check it out.”

  A small laugh escaped her lips and for a second, she sounded like the woman he’d met at Cash and Tess’s wedding. “That’s silly. I wasn’t trying to break in. Gina leaves a key in a box under the hydrangea in the front bed, and she said I can come over whenever I need a break.” Another laugh, this one stronger. “But I couldn’t get the darn key to work.” She paused, fished in her shorts pocket, and pulled out the key. “Do you want to try it?”

  “Sure.” He took the key from her and held out his hand. “Why don’t we try it together?” He wasn’t leaving her alone, not in her current state of mind, which was at best, unstable.

  “Okay.” She took his hand and unfolded herself from the chair to stand. He noticed again how thin she was, how un-Breelike, her hair, a tangle of strawberry blond, her shirt stained, her feet blistered and dirty. Had she walked here from her house? Why? And where were her children? Were they responsible for running their mother into the ground, or was there another reason for the exhausted appearance and lackluster attitude?

  Ben took the key and led Bree to the front of the house, noting her unsteady gait, the pressure of her hand on his arm, the quiet sniffs. When they reached the red door, he fitted the key in the lock and turned it. No hassle, no problem. He opened the door and said, “
Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll get you something to drink.”

  She glanced at her feet and said, “Gina won’t like it if I walk on her carpet with dirty feet. I’ll stay in the kitchen.”

  The woman looked like she was about to topple over and sitting on a wooden chair with no cushion was not going to help. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up and then you can curl up on that cozy-looking couch?”

  Her lips pulled into a semblance of a smile. “It is cozy; I’ve fallen asleep on it lots of times.” Her brows pinched together and she looked at him. “Have you ever fallen asleep on Gina’s couch?”

  “What? No, I haven’t.” Why would she ask him that?

  “Just wondered.” She nodded, pushing a tangle of hair off her neck. “You’d make a good couple.” More nodding. “I’ve thought so since the wedding.” Her voice drifted as she made her way to the kitchen chair. “Something about the way you were watching her, with this intense expression on your face.” A trickle of laughter slipped from her lips. “And she was definitely watching you, probably trying to dissect your brain. That’s Gina, only trusts what she can see on a spreadsheet with supporting documentation.” She sighed and eased onto the chair. “Maybe I should have been more like Gina instead of trusting my heart and my messed-up brain to guide me.”

  What to say to that and what to say to her assessment regarding his attraction to Gina Servetti and Gina’s interest in him? Of course, Bree was way off. Hadn’t she just admitted to a messed-up brain? He guessed Bree tended to romanticize people and situations, even when there was absolutely nothing to romanticize—as in whatever she thought she saw or felt with him and Gina.

  Ben found a metal pot in a bottom drawer, filled it with warm water, and grabbed the dish soap. Gina would probably have a fit that he was using her kitchen as a clean-up facility, but he didn’t have much choice. Besides, he planned to have Bree cleaned up and resting before Gina got home. “Is Gina working?” He knelt on the floor and bathed Bree’s right foot, careful not to scrub too hard and open any cuts.