by Mary Campisi
“But he was getting a divorce. He promised.”
“Leslie.” He squeezed her hand, talked to her in the same tone he’d used when he visited her every day in the psychiatric unit. “Making promises and keeping them are two different things. Most of the time, people really do mean what they say, but they can’t carry it out.”
“He was different. He wasn’t like the others, and it’s not like his wife wanted him.” She eyed him, gaze narrowed. “And I know you’re judging him, but he was a good person.” Her voice rose, filled with conviction. “Good people get caught up in situations that force them to make tough choices. He told me about a man who came to his town from Chicago, kept a secret family for years, visited them every month, became a town hero.” She paused; her eyes grew bright. “He had a child with the woman, a girl with Down syndrome, and he loved her, loved the woman, even though she wasn’t his wife. Was that wrong? Dad would say it was, but he was never tempted like the rest of us.”
No, their father had always been logical, compassionate, and above temptation. He’d made choices that were selfless: caring for a sick wife, remaining a widower long after she died, listening to his parishioners with an open mind and a generous heart. Grant couldn’t debate the morality of being married and keeping a secret family when he couldn’t even keep a relationship going. But maybe that would change, given time and those two things he’d once despised: luck and prayers. “This man, what was his name?”
She smiled like she did when she was a little girl and he shared a candy bar with her. “Brody,” she murmured. “Brody Kinkaid.”
Time to turn practical. “You talked to the police?” How much had she told them? He hoped she’d stopped short of the sex part, though he was certain it hadn’t taken much detective work to figure out that part.
“I told them, but it’s not like in the city where you get interrogated if you cross the street. These policemen didn’t seem to want too many details, other than to determine if illegal drugs or foul play were involved.” She blinked hard. “I would never hurt him. A policeman from Brody’s town showed up, and the other men left the room. He talked to me, said it was a delicate situation, that Brody had a wife and family, and we had to think about them. I wanted to ask him who was going to think about me, the woman he wanted to marry, but I didn’t. Now I almost wish I had. Part of me wants to confront his wife, tell her he found someone who wanted to have his babies and could love him for himself, not for his money or his position.”
“You know that’s not a good idea.” Aside from the pain she’d cause Brody Kinkaid’s wife, Renova was too close to Magdalena. If word got out that his sister was the mystery woman in a married man’s bed, his plans would be over before he had a chance to implement them. People would judge. The woman he needed to prove himself to would judge. That couldn’t happen. Not yet. “You’ll destroy her memory of him. Do you really want to do that?”
She shook her head. “No, let her believe whatever she wants. I just want him back.”
“I know.” He pulled her into his arms, held her close. “I’m sorry.”
“Why does everybody I love leave me? I miss him, Grant. I don’t even know where he’s buried.” She sniffed. “Do you think you could find out for me? Maybe take me there some night? And get a picture of his house, his front yard, the place where he worked? All I have is a T-shirt he left here one night. It still smells like him. I need more; I need pieces of Brody that will make it feel like he’s still with me. Can you get the pictures and take me to the cemetery? Nobody will know. I promise.” She paused, tightened her grip on him, and murmured, “Please.”
What could he say? He could take a few pictures, make a memory or two for her, and some night he’d drive her to the cemetery where her lover was buried. Maybe it would help the healing process. “Sure. Let me do a little digging and I’ll see what I can find. Don’t tell anyone I’m your brother. People won’t be willing to share information if they know we’re related.” For once, he was glad his sister still used her ex-husband’s last name.
“Thank you, Grant. Thank you for helping me.”
He kissed her forehead, wished she were ten years old again. “We’ll get through this. You’ll see.” Family stuck together and battled through pain and heartache, no matter the right and wrong of the situation. It would be tricky to dodge around the small town’s eyes to unearth a past that would most likely look nothing like what Brody Kinkaid had presented to Leslie, but he could do it as long as he kept it all away from Magdalena—his last hope for redemption. “If you know the house address, I’ll swing by when I leave here and check it out.”
His sister’s next words snuffed out the miles between the two towns, forced them together. “Brody didn’t live in Renova. He lived in a town called Magdalena.”
***
“What are we going to do?” Tess sliced a cherry tomato, tossed it in a bowl with the others, and shrugged. “Bree’s walking around like she wants to pin the word saint to that cheating husband of hers. We can’t let her make a fool of herself.”
“How do you plan to stop her when she ignores our calls and refuses our invitations to get together? A cookout would be good for her and the girls, anything to get her out of that house.” Gina frowned, her dark gaze settling on Tess and Christine. “I called her mother and she said if it doesn’t have to do with work, the kids, or immortalizing Brody, Bree doesn’t want to hear about it.”
Christine picked a few silky strands from an ear of corn, set it on a platter with the others. They were having a cookout at the Casherdons’, and of course, Bree and the girls had been invited. Of course, Bree refused, like she’d been doing since Brody’s death. Whenever Christine, Gina, and Tess got together, the subject of helping their friend surfaced, but no one had a solution. How could they help a person who refused to be helped? Bree had become invisible to them, ignoring their offers, insisting she didn’t need anything. Implying she didn’t need them.
There’d been a lot of chatter swirling around town about Brody Kinkaid’s death, slow and steady, rising to the surface, sinking, emerging again in a different form, but still present, still crouching along the perimeters of people’s thoughts. No one dared confront her with questions about the 9-1-1 Mystery Woman or why Brody was in a hotel room nineteen miles away from home. Nate said that’s because it was easier for her to pretend, that if she faced the truth, then what? Christine thought that scenario sounded an awful lot like her mother and all the years of pretending that had turned Gloria Blacksworth into a bitter, vindictive woman, bent on destruction and retribution. She didn’t want that for Bree, wanted her to survive this tragedy and move on, grow stronger. But how? Would Bree end up wondering if all those years together, the dreams, the plans, the hopes, were lies? And would she lie awake contemplating the fact that there could have been others, maybe even women from their community with children in the same school, on the same soccer team, who attended the same church? The knowing would devastate Bree, but the pretending was so much worse because one day, some form of the truth would leak out. It always did.
And then what?
“Christine, what do you think?” Gina leaned against the back of the kitchen chair, hands resting on her very pregnant belly. “Is Bree turning into a whack job?” She paused and her lips twitched before she added, “I mean, more than usual?”
Leave it to Gina to say what they were all thinking. They loved Bree, but she did have some strange ideas that made a person wonder about her. Christine shrugged and said, “I don’t know. We have to let her grieve, but it’s the shutting down and shutting us out I’m worried about.”
“And the freakishness with Brody,” Tess added, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth.
“Ben said he had to go to the cemetery a few days ago because someone spotted her lying on top of Brody’s grave,” Gina said. “They thought she’d done something to herself.”
Tess gasped. “You don’t think she’d try to hurt herself, do you?”
/> “No.” Christine stood, moved the platter of corn to the stove, and turned the burner on High. “She’s not going to do that to those little girls.” She thought of Anna and the child in her own belly. Mothers protected their children, period. But what about a mother tortured by pain, maybe depression? Would she be able to fight the desire to stop the pain any way possible?
Tess swiped her eyes. “I can’t even imagine.”
“She needs to see a counselor and start dealing with this stuff.” Gina eyed both of them. “Deep down, I think she already knows about that scumbag husband of hers.”
“Why would you say that?” Tess stared at her, paring knife in hand. “Did Ben say something that makes you think that?”
Gina’s expression shifted, filled with a pain that said she knew about heartache and betrayal and had done her share of pretending. That was before Ben Reed came along and she took a chance on trust and love. “Ben has a soft spot for Bree, but he said the police don’t know anything more than what they can surmise and what the 9-1-1 woman told them.” She paused, added, “And we all know whatever she said is a bunch of fabricated B.S.”
“Who the heck is this mystery woman?” Tess lowered her voice. “And how can we make sure she and Bree never cross paths?”
They didn’t have time to speculate because the back door opened and Nate entered, carrying Anna in his arms. “Ladies.” He took in their expressions and said, “Looks like I came at a bad time. How about I do an about-face and head back outside?” He glanced at Christine, who nodded. Her husband would rather hand-dig a hundred-foot trench than get anywhere near a conversation dealing with emotions. “Okay then, see you later. Burgers and dogs are going on the grill in ten minutes.”
When the back door closed, Tess said, “We can’t sit by and do nothing. This woman could confront Bree and then what?”
Gina bit into a slice of red pepper, chewed. “Bree refuses to admit there is another woman. I think that’s the real problem, that and this crazy immortalizing of a husband who didn’t respect his family enough to stay faithful.”
“How dare Brody take up with someone when he had a wife and three children at home?” Tess minced a clove of garlic with a knife, her fingers working in quick, jerky movements. “What kind of man does that?”
“A desperate one,” Christine said in a quiet voice, an ache filling her chest.
Tess glanced up, clasped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Christine, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking about what I said.”
“She wasn’t talking about your father,” Gina said, her voice quiet, sympathetic.
“But what he did was no different from what we’re pretty certain Brody did. How are one person’s actions acceptable and the other’s not?” Christine had fought the right and wrong of her father’s secret life since she discovered it. Yes, he had a miserable marriage, a wife who had cheated on him, a life in a city he no longer wanted. But did that make his decision to take a mistress, have a child, and create a life with them okay? Did it set an example for others, maybe for Brody Kinkaid?
“I’m not one to judge,” Tess said, her voice hollowed out with pain.
“Brody’s situation was not like your father’s,” Gina said. “Brody was spoiled and self-centered, and he never got past the mental age of seventeen, even though he was closer to forty. He wanted to father children, but not be a father, and he only wanted to be a husband when it suited him, and then only for what suited him. For all we know, he could have been playing copycat to your father’s behavior.” She blew out a sigh of disgust. “That brain trust would do something like that, travel nineteen miles away, take up with another woman, convince himself he had a right to happiness. Heck, if people loved Charlie Blacksworth, well, they would love Brody Kinkaid, too, especially because he was living in a town that protected its own.”
Christine blinked hard. “Do you really think he would copy my father’s behavior?”
“Of course he would.” This from Tess, who had regained her voice and her anger. “That man never had an original idea in his life.”
“So, what are we going to do?” Christine pictured Brody Kinkaid dancing with his wife at Michael and Elise Androvich’s wedding. It had been the last time she saw him.
Gina’s dark eyes glittered, her voice filled with determination when she said, “We’ve got to find a way to prepare Bree, in case the mystery woman suddenly shows. We have to instill doubt, or at least raise a question or two that makes her wonder about her marriage, because if Bree isn’t ready, she won’t survive.”
Chapter 3
Grant parked outside the modest bungalow in a neighborhood that reminded him of the one where he grew up: swing sets and vegetable gardens covering the backyard, bicycles strewn in the driveway next to second-hand cars. This house had a red hibiscus flag hanging by the front window and a red door with potted geraniums on either side. Cozy, welcoming, humble, none of which could be used to describe the places he’d lived since he became a doctor. Elegant, upscale, expensive, those were terms people tossed out when they identified anything that belonged to Dr. Grant Richot. The first time he spotted a Mercedes, he knew he wanted one. The homes with five and six bathrooms and four-car garages were next. After that came the cross-country jaunts, the custom-tailored clothing, the write-ups in medical journals lauding him as a specialist among specialists. All he’d had to do was what he was good at—compete and win: scholarships, awards, a residency and a fellowship.
He’d always believed anything was possible. Not only that, he believed he deserved all of it: the fame, the fortune, the family. But it hadn’t happened that way. His life had fallen apart when his father died almost two years ago. That’s when he realized he was all alone, and the brilliant future he’d determined should be his would never happen. He’d chosen a path and lost, and no amount of money, recognition, or status would bring him happiness, and certainly not peace. Floundering and indecision were not situations he admitted, even to himself, but that’s what had brought him to Magdalena, that and Maggie Finnegan, the woman he’d tossed aside in pursuit of higher goals.
Was she home, preparing dinner, doing laundry or whatever tasks constituted a routine lifestyle? He wouldn’t know. It wasn’t that the women he’d attached himself to hadn’t been interested in domestication because several had concocted elaborate meals, picked up his dry cleaning; a few had even made an attempt or two at grocery shopping. He was the one who shied away from the idea of playing house because with the meals and the errands came the expectation of something greater, bigger. More. He’d had that with Jennifer, had finally taken the risk and fallen in love. What good had that done? She’d been snatched from him on their honeymoon, the victim of a car accident that left her dead and damaged the nerves in his right hand, stealing his ability to operate, stealing his dreams and the life he was supposed to have.
And then there’d been Audra Valentine Wheyton, the widow of one brother, in love with another. Grant should never have entertained the idea that they could be a couple, grieve together and bring each other happiness. He’d wanted to be a father to her fatherless child. But as in all things since the accident that stole Grant’s wife and profession, Jack Wheyton, his nemesis, beat him out. It wasn’t really a fair race, not if he believed his sister’s tale that Jack and Audra shared a past. What did it matter now? They’d married and last he heard, she’d had a baby boy, named him Christian after her dead husband.
Maggie had offered him love and a family, but he’d smothered whatever they might have had because it didn’t fit into his agenda; she didn’t fit into the order and schedule of the life he’d planned. He’d been too young; there’d been too many opportunities to explore before he settled down, chose a partner. In his ignorance and arrogance, he’d believed there would be an unlimited supply of women with equal or better qualifications than Maggie Finnegan. He’d treated his life as though it were a grand science project, to be dissected, studied under a microscope, diagnosed, and treated. And why not?
That approach had worked for him his whole life and he’d believed a partner would be no different. Except it was.
And now he was in Magdalena, hoping to understand how he’d gotten so off course, chosen the wrong path that left him empty, and given up the only woman who could have changed that. He tucked his damaged hand inside his jacket pocket, opened the car door, and made his way toward the woman he’d cast aside.
***
Maggie didn’t hear the doorbell until the second ring. Her friend and coworker, Gina Reed, had promised to send her husband by with a clump of hostas that she claimed would make the perfect addition to the bed in front of Maggie’s house. Ben wasn’t supposed to be here for another hour or two, but this would give her time to get the hostas in the soil before the meatloaf was done. She swiped her hands on the dishtowel and made her way to the foyer, anxious to talk to Ben about the surprise shower she and a few others at work had planned for Gina this Saturday. His job was to get her to Harry’s Folly by noon and do it without his wife asking thirty questions, which would be a job indeed, considering Gina’s inquisitive nature. What if he said Harry Blacksworth wanted her to try a new dish and knew she was the only person in town who would not sugar coat the truth? Oh, she liked that idea. Maggie opened the door, anxious to tell Ben she’d found a way to get his wife to the restaurant without arousing suspicion.
The man standing on her front stoop, however, was not Ben Reed but a nightmare from a past she’d tried to forget.
“Hello, Maggie. It’s been a long time.”
He still had the same smooth voice with a hint of sensuality tossed in that made a woman cling to his words, want to hear more. It didn’t matter what he said, as long as the words spilled out like warm caramel, covering their senses, tempting, tantalizing, irresistible.
Grant Richot was more handsome than he’d been eleven years ago, if that were possible. Every woman with an ounce of estrogen in her body noticed him. How could they not, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and slow smile? Charm poured from him like a chocolate fountain, sweet, steady, addicting. Maggie hated to admit it, but she’d been pulled in by the looks, the lean body, the gaze that said he knew what she wanted even if she didn’t. Of course he did, but anything past a physical need like an emotion or a commitment? Absolutely not. She’d learned that one stark December morning and the pain of knowing had seared itself on her soul. “What are you doing here?” She stepped outside, pulled the front door closed, shutting out her life so he couldn’t peer inside. People who tossed aside relationships with such nonchalance did not have the right to inquire about anything or anyone. Grant Richot studied her, those blue eyes assessing the sudden flush on her face and neck, the uneven breathing pattern, the pinched lips. He could assess all he wanted; he’d never get inside her head or her heart again.