by Mary Campisi
Harry sighed. “Don’t read it. Pandora’s box and all that. You should burn it.”
“I know.”
“So?” Burn the mother.
“It’s not mine. She sent it to Christine.”
“That thing’s a grenade, ready to blow. You need to get rid of it.”
“I can’t do that without Christine’s permission, and I don’t want to bring it up because she hasn’t mentioned it since I took it.”
“Oh, the old she-forgot-about-it trick? Let me tell you, women don’t forget anything, except when you tell them you’re stopping for a drink or will be home late. That, they forget. The other stuff, the drama, oh no, that’s just in a holding pattern. One night, you’ll be lying in bed and two seconds before you drift off, she’ll cuddle next to you and say, ‘Where’s that notebook my mother sent?’ And then, you are so screwed. You won’t be able to sleep and you’ll be thinking about how you’re going to handle the disaster that’s going to land on your chest.”
“How is destroying property that isn’t mine any better?” Nate sighed and rubbed his jaw. “It’s worse. It reeks of dishonesty.”
“Why can’t it reek of insecurity? You can say you were protecting her, didn’t want to expose her ‘tender sensibilities’ to more of her mother’s past. That would be the truth, wouldn’t it?”
“Come on, Harry, I’m not doing that.”
“You have no idea what’s in that notebook. Look how she made up crap about me seducing her. So sincere, so traumatized, with enough misery to infect us all, and don’t think she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. You can’t challenge a dead woman. Once her words get in your head, they burrow and eat away, making you question things you know are true. You want to deal with that, because I sure as hell don’t.”
***
Ben was into the second half of his run when a black truck pulled off the side of the road, sending gravel and dust spewing a few feet from him. The door flung open and Brody Kinkaid hopped out and barreled toward him.
“Stay away from my wife.”
The man had six inches and a solid fifty pounds on him, and he could probably hurl Ben into the brush with one hand, but he had to catch him first. Ben grabbed the towel from around his neck, wiped his face, and pretended nonchalance. “Calm down, Brody. Tell me what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is you, sticking your nose where it’s not your business, putting ideas into my wife’s head. My wife—” he jabbed his chest with his finger “—not yours.”
So Bree was standing up for herself and Mr. Muscle Head didn’t like it. “Can you be more specific?”
Brody Kinkaid clenched and unclenched his fists as if he wanted to hit something—probably Ben. “You tell her she should see a doctor, that she needs a little help, maybe some pills.” He took a step closer, his booted foot kicking up dirt. “My wife doesn’t take pills, you got that?”
“Not even if she needs them?” He kept his voice even, his eyes on Brody.
“Bree doesn’t need pills. Why would she need pills? She’s got a good life, a family, a house.” He paused, sputtered, “A front-loader washing machine.”
Oh, that would make any woman happy. Was this guy for real? “She lost her baby.”
“Hey.” Brody’s eyes narrowed, his neck turned red. “That’s private.”
“It’s part of the reason she’s depressed.”
“Depressed? Who said she’s depressed? No wife of mine’s getting tagged as depressed. And don’t think I was going to have her taking those pills either. No way. I got rid of them.”
“Brody. Bree is depressed and part of it has to do with losing the baby.”
“I said that’s private, and besides, once she’s pregnant again, she’ll be fine.”
“Once she’s pregnant again?” Somebody ought to neuter this guy. “She needs time to heal and get back to where she was last year, at Tess and Cash’s wedding. Remember how alive she was, how happy?”
Brody’s mouth flattened, his voice switched to deadpan hostile. “Are you after my wife?”
“Of course not.”
“You want her for yourself.” His nostrils flared, the muscles in his jaw twitched. “That’s what this is all about. Convince her she’s unhappy, pump her with drugs, and try to talk her into leaving me.”
“That’s crazy.” How was he supposed to reason with somebody like this? The man was not only on the lower rung of the IQ ladder; he was jealous and insecure.
“If you weren’t a cop, I’d lay you out right here.”
Ben stared right back at him. “If I weren’t a cop, I’d welcome the challenge.”
Brody spat on the ground, glared, and said, “Don’t come near her again, or I’ll file harassment charges.”
That last comment stayed with Ben the rest of the night and into the morning. Bree was trapped and unless she could find a way to stand up to her husband and tell him “no more babies,” she’d end up miserable and depressed. Why couldn’t the guy be happy with the kids he had? So what if they weren’t boys? Ben had never been a father and didn’t know if he’d ever be one, but he did know he wouldn’t be griping about the sex of the kid. How ungrateful was that? Nate Desantro hadn’t seemed unhappy about his little girl, and he doubted Cash would care if he had a boy or girl. Speaking of, they’d probably start a family soon. Everybody was having kids or getting married. Even Melissa. The thought didn’t ping his brain like it had when he first got here, maybe because he was getting used to the idea, or maybe because he didn’t care so much anymore. He guessed people moved on with their lives and their mistakes, changing what they could, accepting what they couldn’t and forgetting the rest.
When he reached work, Rudy Dean pounced on him before he could pour his first cup of coffee. “Got a live one for you,” he said, his voice a mix of humor and sarcasm. “This is a show you won’t want to miss.” He handed Ben a piece of paper with an address on it. “Domestic disturbance. The husband and wife are at it again. Your turn.”
“Thanks.” Ben poured extra cream in his coffee, took three gulps, and set the mug on the counter. “I’ll check it out.”
Rudy Dean nodded, ran a hand over his crew cut. “Good luck. Hope you had your shots.” His laugh followed Ben out the door, slithered to a stop at the car.
What the hell did that mean? He wished Jeremy had been in so he could ask him about the occupants at this address. The chief sure knew something about them and it didn’t sound good, especially for Ben. He drove to the address that was located on the south side of town, not far from the railroad tracks. The shoebox-sized house sat on a lot cluttered with plaster creations of animals and flowers. Dogs, birds, owls, deer, roses, daffodils, lilies, and flowers Ben couldn’t name sprawled over most of the front lawn and extended to the sides.
He made his way up the driveway and rang the doorbell, curious about what constituted a domestic disturbance in Magdalena. In Philly, he knew, but here? It took three attempts and four minutes for a woman to answer the door.
“Oh. Hello, officer.”
She was short and slender, black-haired with almond-shaped, amber eyes, heavy eyeliner, and red lipstick. Her earlobes dangled with gold hoops; her body squeezed into a black-lace top and pants. Some might call her attractive and maybe twenty years ago, she had been, but a woman in her early sixties trying to look like she was in her thirties was never a comforting sight. “Ma’am, I’m Sergeant Reed. Someone reported an issue.”
“Hah!” She lifted her chin and pointed to the ranch house on the right. “Just because they never make a peep—” she lowered her voice and rolled her eyes “—probably not even in the bedroom, does not mean the rest of the world lives in a semicomatose state.”
References to this woman making “peeps” in the bedroom was not the visual he cared to see. “May I come in?”
“Please do.” She pulled her full lips into a smile and turned, the jingle of earrings matching the sway of her hips. “Would you care for a drink?” Sh
e slid onto a faded floral couch, lifted an opaque glass, and took a sip. “Or you could come back later if you’d prefer.”
Or not. “Actually, Mrs….”
“Marie.” The smile spread, followed by a tip of pink tongue, licking her upper lip.
“Marie.”
“Yes?”
“I want to talk about a call we received. Is your husband here?”
She shrugged and crossed her legs, revealing an expanse of tanned thigh. “Somewhere.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
Big sigh. “Hold on.” The woman stood and made her way across the room toward the steps that led to the second story. “Carmen! Come down here!” She turned and smiled at Ben. “Have a seat, get comfortable.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Ben glanced around the room, noted the heavy draperies, the matching couch and chairs in faded floral, worn at the arms, the couch skirt torn from its base. There were pictures on the wall, posed school photos of a young girl at various ages. He moved closer, studied the dark hair and eyes, pulled in by a familiarity he couldn’t identify.
The footsteps jerked him back, followed by a man’s voice. “I’m not changing my mind, Marie. No means no. What the…”
“Sergeant Reed,” the woman said. “Domestic disturbance call.” She pointed to the right. “I’m sure it’s the Ketrowskis again. Damn busybodies.”
The man combed a hand through his slicked-back hair and nodded at Ben. “Sergeant.” He could pass for a male version of his wife: short, slender, black-haired, almond-shaped brown eyes, but with a pencil mustache. He also wore black, but instead of gold earrings, he’d chosen a gold chain and bracelet.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
The man shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “The wife wants a new ring and I told her no.”
“That is not what happened. You told me if I cleaned the house and cooked you dinner for a week, you’d buy me a new diamond. Look around, Sergeant Reed. Can’t you see the fruits of my hard work? I did it all in good faith that this worthless piece of scum would honor his word and get me that ring.”
Ben glanced at the stacks of magazines on the chair, the coupons and scissors next to the coffee table, the shoes lined up next to the television. And the small mound of jewelry on a corner of the end table. This woman had an odd definition of cleaning.
“Clean is clean, Marie. Like my mother used to do.” His voice ratcheted up two notches. “That’s clean and that’s what I meant.”
She crossed her arms over her middle, plumping her over-large breasts out. “You never specified.”
“Because an idiot could figure it out!”
And they were off, squabbling about food and mothers and what constituted clean and who the real liar was.
Ben stepped between them and said, “Enough. Now settle down, both of you, or I’m taking you in.”
Carmen sidled next to his wife and grasped her hand. “I did want to get you that ring, Sweet Pea. You deserve it, but I ran a little short on cash.”
Sweet Pea patted her husband’s hand and said, “You shouldn’t have told me you’d buy it for me if you didn’t have the money.”
He frowned and muttered, “I thought I did. I thought I could get a loan from Gina.”
Gina? Gina who?
“Huh. She’ll give a dog a loan before she gives us a penny.”
Carmen snorted. “Thinks she’s too good for us.”
“Is Gina a relative?” This could not be Gina Servetti’s family.
Marie’s lips pinched like she’d tasted an extra-sour lemon. “Not according to her. Does family ignore your phone calls? Does family refuse to help you out when you’d in a bind? Huh? And what kind of family doesn’t even tell you when she gets a new car, like we’re going to beg for the old one.”
Carmen picked up right where his wife left off. “She thinks she’s hot stuff because she went away to college and got some fancy degree. Who wants to touch arms and legs and body parts that don’t work right, might never work right. Where’s the glory in that?”
“And those scrubs she wears?” Marie laughed. “Not that she’s got much to show off, but they make her look like a walking sheet.” She shook her head and sighed. “See if she’ll get a man in that get-up.”
They were talking about Gina. Damn them.
“We heard she’s pals with Nate Desantro’s wife, the rich one,” Carmen said. “Probably thinks she’s too high and mighty for us.”
Marie sipped her wine. “Don’t mention that man’s name in this room. He belonged with Natalie and if that woman hadn’t come to town, our niece would be the one in that house, wearing his ring and carrying his babies.”
Natalie Servetti, the woman who almost destroyed Nate and Christine Desantro’s marriage.
“I’m not sure about that,” Carmen said, stroking his thin mustache. “Natalie’s getting a reputation around town and if she isn’t careful, there won’t be a man who’ll have her.”
Marie glared at her husband, pitched her voice three octaves higher than her last sentence. “How can you say such a thing about that lovely girl?”
Carmen shrugged. “Sorry, Sweet Pea, but no man wants what every other man in town has already had. Pure fact, no matter how sweet the honey is.”
“Hmph. Well then we’ll have to have a talk with her, tell her to get busy and find someone.” She slid a long glance Ben’s way, fingered a gold hoop. “How about you, Sergeant Reed? Would you like to meet our niece? Her name’s Natalie, Natalie Servetti.”
Chapter 11
Gina dumped the bucket of sudsy water into the utility tub. Kitchen floor, cleaned. One more chore to cross off the ever-growing list she’d created since the “incident” with Ben Reed. As soon as she finished one job, she added two more: organize linen closet, pay bills, vacuum car, clean basement, weed garden, steam-clean carpeting, tackle reading list. If she kept busy, the incident didn’t seep into her subconscious and permeate her brain until it was saturated with that night.
How had it happened? Surely, she hadn’t intended the kissing or the touching, hadn’t wanted it. Had she? Why would she? Hadn’t she vowed years ago to never let a man betray her again? The only way to do that was to shut down the possibility for man-woman emotions and physical need. And hadn’t she succeeded all these years? Why now, with the one person who unsettled her, had she let her guard slip? She crossed off “wash kitchen floor” from the list and tossed in a load of laundry. Stay busy, stay busy. But even as she pushed Ben’s Reed’s face away, she felt his touch, the pressure of his lips, the sweetness of his tongue. She cursed and slammed the washing machine lid closed.
Next, she’d gather the art materials for tomorrow morning’s pressed-flower session with Lily Desantro. They were making Christmas gifts for Lily’s family that, according to her, had to be wrapped and hidden away before the first frost.
When the doorbell rang minutes later, she dropped the glue bottle and scissors on the floor and darted a gaze toward the door. Was it Ben? Would he come here after what happened two nights ago? Act like it was no big deal? Isn’t that what he’d told her about the kiss at the wedding rehearsal? Or would he want to talk about it, dissect and discuss the kiss, the touch, the moans? Would he want to repeat it?
Would she?
The doorbell rang again, but this time a voice followed it. “Gina, open up. I have to talk to you.” Yes, that voice was definitely male, definitely Ben Reed. She ran a hand through her hair, cleared her throat, and made her way to the front door. Calm, stay calm. She forced a blank expression on her face and pulled open the door.
He was just too darn good-looking and the heck of it was, the man knew it. Ben Reed stood there, tall, muscled, tanned. “Can I come in?”
She should tell him no, tell him Friday nights were cleaning nights and she didn’t like distractions. Gina opened her mouth to shoo him away, but the wrong words fell out. “Sure.” He nodded and stepped inside, his fresh scent s
wirling past her, sucking her in, filling her. Gina closed the door and turned toward him, planning her next words, but before she could say anything, he spoke.
“I met your parents today.”
That was the last thing she’d expected. She’d rather he mention the other night and the kissing-touching frenzy. Anything but talk of Carmen and Marie Servetti. A sound fell from her lips—a moan perhaps, or a whimper. Maybe a cry. She couldn’t tell as she pulled away, curled up, pretended she was invisible.
“I’m sorry.”
She blinked hard, stared at the edge of the counter. He’d seen her family, spoken with them. Now he knew about them, knew there was no more hiding.
“Gina?” He touched her arm. “Talk to me.”
There was concern in his voice, and sympathy, because of her sad excuses for parents? Had they talked about her, told him how disappointed they were that their only daughter could not follow the Servetti protocol and snag a man? Gina wouldn’t go so far as to say husband because that prerequisite had faded long ago. The Servettis believed in security through coupledom and children, and while a formal license was preferred, it was not mandatory. No doubt, her parents had listed her education and profession as liabilities when compared to her cousin’s beauty and sexuality. Of course, the subject of money probably surfaced as well, with snide comments on how Gina had more than enough and yet could not find it in her uncharitable soul to share any with her dear parents.
“Gina?”
“What?” She stared at him, blinked back tears she refused to shed. Years ago, she’d not been able to stop the tears; every unkind comment, every snub had pierced her heart and stolen a piece of her confidence until nothing was left but a shaky self-esteem that could only be soothed with carbs, sugars, and fats. Lots of them. She believed it would be different once she left for college and for a time, it was. Until the betrayal. That’s when she shut down and barricaded her heart from ever getting hurt again.
Ben clasped her hand and said, “Let’s sit down. We need to talk.”
“I don’t think so.”
He touched her cheek, so tender, so caring. “Yeah, we do.”