by Mary Campisi
“Okay. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Daily reports.” She rolled her eyes. “And be careful.”
Gina sighed. “Yes. Daily reports and I’ll be careful. Now, are you going to tell me what you were doing with my pasta pot and dish towels?”
He shrugged and smiled. “Making pasta?”
***
Nate found Christine in the backyard pushing Anna on the swing set he’d built this spring. If anyone had told him a few years ago he’d have a swing set in his backyard and plans to build a fort in his notebook, he’d have said that was a sick joke. But everything had changed when Christine walked into his life, and though they had a rough start—okay, impossible start—he thanked God every day for bringing her to him. Christine was his light, and Anna was their joy.
She hadn’t spotted him yet and he took this time to watch his wife and daughter, unobserved. Anna looked more like a Blacksworth with each passing season, her black curls rich and lustrous like her mother’s, her eyes an unforgettable blue. They’d talked about another baby, had actually done a bit more than talking, and if they were lucky, there would be news to share in a month or two. That would thrill Lily who loved being an aunt and told them at least once a month that she needed more nieces and a nephew or two.
Nate made his way down the deck steps, smiling at the sound of his daughter’s laughter. Maybe they’d have another girl, with black curls like her sister’s. Or a boy. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were a family and would build a solid foundation for their children to learn, and love, and grow.
“Hey.” He was a few feet away, a step or two from touching distance. “How are my girls?” When Christine turned, the first thing he noticed were the puffy eyes, the swollen nose. “What’s wrong?” He glanced at Anna, who squealed and waved her hands at him, a smile covering her face. “Is it Anna?” Their baby looked perfect and happy, but children could be taken away in a few breaths. Nate unfastened his daughter from the swing, lifted her into his arms. Her eyes were bright, her skin pink, her tiny fingers strong as they patted his face. “Christine?” He didn’t like the near panic in his voice or the ache in his chest, but he’d realized long ago that loving and fear were intertwined. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She tried for a smile, but her lips quivered and flattened. “Oh, Nate.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
He stiffened. Comments like that put him on alert. They signaled a warning of impending disaster on some level, personal or professional, most of the time involving relationships. Was Christine unhappy with him? Did she think their relationship was in trouble? He breathed faster, harder, but he couldn’t get enough air. She loved him; they were solid. She was nothing like his first wife; their relationship was nothing like what he’d shared with Patrice either, if you could call it sharing. He’d never shared with anyone but Christine, but Patrice had used almost the exact same words when she’d called it quits. He clutched Anna against his chest. They were a family and they were going to remain a family. The vulnerability was the part of loving someone that got to him, that and the painful scenarios that zapped his brain when he thought of losing Christine. “Just tell me, straight out.”
Her voice cracked. “Can we go inside?”
No, damn it, he did not want to go inside. He wanted to hear whatever pain she planned to dole out right here, now, before another second passed. But he had to be patient and fight the ache in his chest that threatened to squeeze the life from him. So, he said, “Sure,” and headed toward the house, side by side, with Anna in his arms—like a family. Nate opened the sliding door and waited for Christine to step inside. He followed her into the living room, placed Anna on the floor with Lola, her stuffed dog, and said, “Okay, we’re inside. What’s going on?”
“Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry.” He wasn’t angry; he was scared.
She moved toward him, clasped his hands, and looked up at him, those blue eyes bright and tear-filled. She was beautiful and perfect, and he had known from the very beginning that she was too good for him, had known in his gut that one day she might figure that out, too. He’d never much believed in luck or good fortune, had counted on will and hard work to earn him scraps of peace, and maybe even a little happiness. Then Christine had come along and turned the unfortunate circumstances of their meeting into good fortune, and how could he consider that anything but luck?
And now he was a few sentences away from losing it all.
Anna squealed and said, “Da Da, Da Da.” Christine scooped her up and kissed her cheek.
“Just tell me.” He braced himself for the blow.
She licked her lips, lips he’d tasted so many times, and said, “Uncle Harry might be my father.”
Nate had been prepared for words that might threaten their marriage, the same words that had ended his first marriage. He had not been prepared to hear Harry might be her father. “Come again?”
“Uncle Harry might be my father.”
As bizarre as that sounded, it was a relief, a gigantic, incomprehensible relief. The ache in his chest eased and he blew out a long breath. And then he laughed.
“Nate? Why are you laughing?” Confusion and spurts of anger filtered her words. “This is not funny, not at all.”
He smiled and clasped her face between his hands, placed a soft kiss on her mouth. “I’m not laughing about that. I’m laughing because for the last ten minutes my brain has been conjuring up horrible scenarios, and compared to those, this is nothing.”
She pulled back, looked into his eyes. He was no good at hiding things from his wife, even ridiculous thoughts that had no basis. “Exactly what sort of horrible scenarios are we talking about?”
He shrugged, ignoring the heat creeping from his neck to his cheeks. They’d been through this a time or two before, and while he’d gotten better, the occasional insecurity crept in and threatened to smother his logic. The “Oh, Nate, I don’t even know where to begin” might have been the same words Patrice used to signal the end of their marriage, but Christine was not Patrice. Not even close.
“Nate?”
The tone of her voice said ticked off and he knew why. “Okay, maybe my brain was having those thoughts it’s not supposed to have.” He stroked her cheek. “You know, the ones where I think I’m not good enough to change the oil in your car.”
Her lips twitched. “So, you’ve graduated to changing the oil in my car? Wow. Last time it was taking out my garbage.”
“You know what I mean.” He brushed his thumb over her lips, pulled her closer. “I’m sorry for doubting you, and I’m sorry for making this about me, when it’s not.” He paused, let Anna grab his thumb, and said, “I’ll always be here for you. Now why don’t we sit down and you can tell me why you think Harry might be your father?”
Christine relayed the whole sordid tale, starting and ending with her mother and the accusations of seduction. Right. Nate didn’t believe that any more than he believed Gloria Blacksworth was a helpless victim. That woman was like the cancer that eventually took her life, spilling into people’s lives, destroying their dreams—destroying them. He actually felt sorry for Charles Blacksworth, an emotion he never expected to feel toward a man who had caused him years of resentment and anger. But there it was, lodged in his gut, maybe because Nate had a child and couldn’t imagine her belonging to anyone else. At least Charles never knew. And Harry? Damn, but that was a rough one to accept. How had he sat at his brother’s table, year in, year out, and not self-destructed from guilt and remorse? Was that why he’d been so reckless? Maybe he had been trying to self-destruct with the booze and the women. And maybe Greta had saved him. Well, Nate was not going to let Gloria Blacksworth destroy Harry’s second chance.
“We’ll get it sorted out.” Nate stroked her back, kissed the top of her head, and sighed. “I’ll talk to Harry.”
Christine lifted her head from his chest and looked at him. “You will? Wh
at will you say?”
“I’ll tell him I’m not going to let one miserable woman ruin a whole family.” His voice hardened. “She tried that one already, remember?”
“I know. I thought maybe she’d changed.” She paused, glanced at their daughter who’d crawled off the couch and was busy with a plastic cup and spoon. “She had to have known that hurting Uncle Harry would hurt me, and maybe even hurt us. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this before, but honestly, I don’t like to think about it, and I don’t like to think about the possibility of the man who raised me not being my biological father.”
Nate tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Then don’t think about it. You had a father and you have an uncle, and nobody needs to know any different.”
“What about your mother? Should we tell her?”
“No.” He didn’t even hesitate on that one. “We’re not going to do that to your dad, or Harry. My mother is a very forgiving woman, but I don’t want her looking at Harry differently.” He pulled her closer. “The guy’s paid enough for his past.” He thought of the notebook Gloria had sent after her death. He’d hidden it in the closet to protect Christine from whatever venom might be inside. Now he wondered if there were other accusations involving people who had no idea she wanted to destroy them. Well, it wasn’t going to happen, not if he could help it. He’d read the damn notebook and if Gloria Blacksworth incriminated anyone on those pages, he’d burn the blasted thing.
“Nate? What about Greta? She’s the innocent one in this whole mess. Do you think I should go talk to her?”
“No. I’ll do it. She needs to know just how vicious your mother can be, even from the grave.”
***
Harry wandered around for the next two days, trying to give Greta the space she claimed to need. He’d taken Pop’s advice, headed straight to the florist and walked in the house carrying two dozen long-stemmed red roses. He even bought a card filled with words like regret, starting over, and love of my life. Nope. Didn’t do the trick. As a matter of fact, they didn’t do anything but make Greta’s pink lips pull into the ugliest scowl Harry had ever witnessed—and it had been directed at him.
Turned out his wife didn’t want things, she wanted details. Intimate details about his relationship—she refused to say the word affair—with Gloria. When she stated her request in a quiet voice, her gaze fixed on the corner of the kitchen table, Harry had struggled to formulate a response. She was serious. Greta wanted to know all about the affair—yes, damn it, call it what it was—from the first time the idea entered his brain to the second he slipped out of Gloria’s bed for the last time. He’d tried to tell her that answering those questions wouldn’t help them. In fact, it could only cause more damage, more hurt, some of it possibly irreparable. Didn’t matter. Greta said she needed to picture it in her head so she could move past it. According to her, if she didn’t know the details, the imagining would be so much worse.
Now how the hell did she know that? Maybe the details would prove much worse than her imaginings, and once he’d puked out the sordid truth, she’d look at him with disgust and say “I’m sorry, but this is so much worse than I thought it would be. It’s over. I want a divorce.” He couldn’t risk that. Greta and the kids were all that mattered to him and he couldn’t lose them. But if he refused to give her what she wanted, he might as well kiss life as he knew it good-bye.
The indecision is what brought him to O’Reilly’s bar tonight. It was easy to drink among people he didn’t know or care about, people who had their own problems and weren’t interested in his. He finished his second scotch and contemplated a third when a woman climbed on the barstool next to him and slid a smile his way.
“Hello.”
He nodded. She had a sultry voice and a body to match. Long hair, dark eyes, breasts that strained against the fabric of her low-cut blouse in a plea for attention. And curves, lots of curves.
“I’m Natalie.” She extended a tanned arm. “Natalie Servetti.”
“Harry.” He shook her hand; her skin was soft, warm.
“I know who you are.” The smile spread. “Everyone does.”
Harry liked the sound of that. At least everyone didn’t think he was a degenerate. “I guess people talk in small towns.”
“Oh, they do, but can you blame them?” She toyed with the pendant nestled at the top of her cleavage. “You’re a very handsome man, Harry Blacksworth. Who wouldn’t notice you?”
He grinned. Damn straight on that one. His pulse kicked in double time. “Keep talking like that and this head will swell so much it won’t fit through the door.”
“I like the sound of that.” Her gaze slid to his crotch, settled there, moved back to his face. “A lot.”
Hell, he’d been talking about the head between his shoulders, not the other one. But it was the other one that responded. He cleared his throat and looked away, pushed the sexy voice and vanilla scent from his brain. “I’m sure people are more interested in my swimming pool than me.” He was a married man who loved his wife, and even though said wife thought he was a worthless piece of crap right now, he would remain true to her. He would not betray her.
“I’m interested in your swimming pool, Harry.” She rolled his name around on her tongue like she was savoring a special treat. Sexy as hell. That other head perked up, waited. “I’m interested in everything about you. Will you invite me to swim in your pool? I prefer swimming in the nude, with the water lapping over every inch of me.” She laid a hand on his arm, whispered in his ear, “Will you swim with me, Harry?”
Good Lord! He shifted in his seat, tried to still the erection in his trousers, but the woman knew how to get a man going without even touching him. He bet she could rival Bridgett in the bedroom. And the hot tub. And hell yes, the damn pool.
“Why don’t we find a booth and talk about how much fun we could have in your pool?” Her tongue flicked his ear, traced his earlobe. “Or we could go to your car and I can give you a sample.” Her hand found his crotch, cupped him. Her laughter spilled over him, made him harder. “Oh, I see you like the sound of that. Come on, Harry, let’s have some fun.” She took his hand, placed it high on her thigh, and whispered, “I’m not wearing any panties.”
He could have her in less than ten minutes, five if he slapped a twenty on the counter and didn’t wait for change. This woman didn’t know him, didn’t know anything about him other than what she’d heard or maybe read in the newspaper. She was looking for a good time and someone to pay for it. There’d been too many Natalie types in his day: beautiful, sexy, ready and willing to do anything his imagination might require.
But they were nothing like Greta.
Natalie Servetti began to massage his erection, right there on the barstool, with the bartender three feet away, Bob Seger crooning in the background and the Yankees playing on the television.
“Stop.” Harry jerked his hand from her thigh, grabbed her wrist, and stilled her hand. “I can’t.”
“Why?” She nipped his ear. “I know you want to.”
“I’m married,” he blurted out.
“I know.” Another nip and an attempt to continue the massage.
“And I love my wife.”
“Good for you.” She slipped off the stool, pressed her breasts against his side, and stroked his back. “Now why don’t we take a bottle of wine and have our own little party in the back seat of your car? Or, you could come back to my place, stretch out on the bed, and we can really have some fun. Hmm. You look like a man who knows his way around a woman’s body.” She rubbed those breasts against his shoulder, moaned. “And I can guarantee I know my way around a man’s. With my hands, my tongue…” Another moan. “I’ll pleasure you so well you won’t want to get out of bed for a week. Of course—” she kissed the back of his neck, trailed her lips to his cheek “—you shouldn’t take my word for it. If I were you, I’d demand a lick-by-lick demonstration.”
Harry clenched his jaw, tried to erase the wor
ds and the vision of this woman’s supple body doing all sorts of crazy things to him. She knew exactly what to say, how to say it, and even what parts to leave out. Sex with her would blast him off the barstool, several times. But when it was over and the brain between his shoulders started working again, what then? He’d be no different than he was before Greta changed his life. In fact, he’d be far worse because he’d have to live with the knowledge that he’d held heaven in his hand and had thrown it away.
“Natalie.” He turned in his seat and eased away from her. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
She tilted her head to the side, folded her arms over her chest, no doubt to pump up the cleavage, and frowned. “Talk?”
“Sure. You know, one party communicating with the other, having a conversation involving words.” He smiled at her as the head between his shoulders beat down the one between his legs, forcing that one into hiding.
Natalie Servetti inched onto the stool, crossed one glistening, tanned leg over the other, and said in a tone Harry recognized as pissed, “Most of the men I’ve met say I have a very distinct method of communicating that they’ve rarely encountered before.”
No doubt. Bullshit for good sex and a great tongue. He’d heard it all, done it all, too, or damn near close, and now that his thought processes were clicking again, he pegged the woman for what she was—a manipulative user who didn’t care who she hurt in her pursuit of pleasure. “Do they tell you that before or after you’ve had sex with them?”
Oh, she didn’t like that. People hiding from the truth usually didn’t like to see their scars ripped open and left to bleed, especially when those scars were big and ugly. She pinched her lips together and narrowed her gaze on him, like a she-cat about to pounce. “Sex is sex and I’m very good at it.” The nostrils flared, the left side of her jaw twitched. “Nobody’s ever been disappointed.”
Harry nodded. He didn’t doubt her claim. “But do they stay? That’s what I’m asking you.” Now that his brain was working again, he knew he’d heard about this woman before. But where and from whom?